Page 79 of Laird of Secrets
“What is it?”
“The wee colored lights, just there, on the stair behind you.”
He turned and saw them, the ones who flitted in that form. Sometimes they appeared at dawn or dusk, other times when something of significance was about to happen. Why were they here again, so often lately? He shook his head to clear his vision. They did not vanish. He turned back. “They mean no harm.”
“You do see them! I thought you did, earlier tonight. Are they the fairy ilk?”
“So my father used to say. I have seen the lights many times. There, now, I have told you another secret of mine.”
“You have many secrets.” She stood very still, watching him.
“As do you. When the wee lights appear, they only mean to protect us.”
“From what, here in this place?”
“You, from the laird? Or the laird from you,” he mused.
She smiled, radiant, the smile he craved to see, impish and lovely. He savored it, returned it. “Are you and I the only ones who see them?”
“My father saw them. You must have a fine bit of fairy blood, to see the lights of Kinloch. That long-ago fairy of the bejeweled cup—she has blessed you, lass.”
“I wonder,” she said slowly, “if something special happens between us whenever we are together, since we can both see this phenomena.”
“You are a scientific and practical thinker, my girl, even with something magical. And I think you could be right.” His heart, his breath, quickened.
“Kinloch,” she said, holding out her hand. “I do not want to be alone tonight.”
He watched her for a moment. Then he took her fingers in his.
* * *
The room was small and cozy, with the humble elegance that permeated the house. A four-poster bed filled the space, carved wooden posts, dark green curtains, a mattress draped with a pale coverlet. Near a window stood a small table and two stiff carved chairs on a patterned rug thin with age, and nearby, a large chest bound with leather straps.
Fiona turned, seeing that Dougal leaned against the door as if he was not certain he should enter. He held the candle and watched her. Shadows and light sculpted the planes of his face, highlighting the green eyes, the strong jaw, the sensuous lips that had met hers so sweetly. Her heart thudded, and she felt shy. Yet she had invited this boldly. He had not forced it on her; he indeed he seemed wary.
She felt as if a sort of spell had been cast over her, for the decision was made in her mind, and did not trouble her. Instead, it seemed the open path, the way she must go, wanted to go.
"You are safe here,” he said then. “I want you to know that.”
“I know.”
“Well, then. Goodnight, lass.” He set the candle on a table and stepped back.
“Dougal,” she said. “Do not send me away from the glen. I want to be here. I want to be with you.”
He began to answer—then crossed to her in two long strides, took her face in his hands, touched his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender and fierce all at once; she felt her knees weaken, moaned, grasped hold of his shoulders as his lips caressed hers. He turned to bring her to the bed, sitting with her on its edge, the mattress sinking gently beneath them.
She cupped his cheek, the angle of his jaw, his beard’s texture like soft sand. Sliding her hand to the open throat of his linen shirt, she touched warm skin, sensed the hard beat of his pulse. Groaning low, he sank back with her, pulling her to him. Even through layers of linen and wool, she felt the hard urgency of his body against hers.
As she trailed her hands over his shirt and plaid, he traced kisses along her cheek, her throat, small, exquisite, cherishing kisses, and then she found his mouth with her own and opened to his gentle tongue. She pressed against him, her hand flat over his chest, feeling his pounding heart. He stretched out with her on the coverlet now, mattress sinking, as she felt his solid strength, her body fitting easily to his as he kissed her again, his breath warming down along her arched throat.
She shaped her hands over his wide shoulders, needing more, wanting more from him, and as he kissed her she urged him to fierceness, catching her breath as his hand slipped over her breast, caging softly over her shirt, then tracing downward. She arched in anticipation, his fingers exquisite, his lips pliant. Trembling slightly, she gave in to the bliss of touch. She did not want to think, did not want to reason what should and should not be. She only wanted his hands upon her, his lips on hers, his body hard against hers, warm curves and hollows finding their seductive fit.
He explored delicately over her, and her body pulsed, ready, though she knew she should stop him, she let this continue, aching for secret touches now, arching and inviting, compelled by the wildness he was rousing in her.
Then he drew back, even as her heart slammed. He rested his brow against her own, went still, his body hard with a keen tension, his embrace tightening.
“Not this way,” he rasped. “Not with the whisky in you. Not with so many questions, and no agreement between us. I want you—dear God, lass, I do—but not this way.” Pushing up on an elbow, he got up, stood in the shadows. “Rest,” he said, stepping back. “You need to rest.”
