Page 77 of The Guardian's Bride
“It has lavender in it. But even if you smelled like rose soap and wore flowers and ribbons in your hair, you would still be a most virile and manly rogue.”
“I trust that is a compliment,” he drawled, and sipped again. “This should fix any weakness in me.” He drank and set the jug down.
“I see no weakness in you. Well, sometimes your jests can be thin.”
“Now that hurts.” He beckoned. “Come here.”
As she stepped forward, he widened his knees to bring her close, so that she stood a breath away. She began to stroke his temples gently, then combed her fingers through his tousled curls, flexing and pressing to ease the headache away. Aedan closed his eyes, silent, hands resting on her hipbones, thumbs circling.
“Feels good,” he murmured. His gaze met hers, keen and lingering, an intangible touch that thrilled through her as much as his hands on her.
She leaned toward him and nudged her nose to his in invitation. His hands tightened, fingers stretching over her lower back to snug her closer, and answered tenderly, the caress of his lips so luscious that the sensation sank to her knees so that she leaned against the mattress. His lips tasted, drank of hers, and she opened to him as he leaned back, propped on an elbow, bringing her with him. She went willingly, lifted in his big hands to rest partly on his bare chest, her hands on his smooth shoulders. Gliding her fingers over his chest, feeling the soft cushion of hair and the thumping heart beneath, she pressed against him, his natural response rigid beneath her hip even with layers of cloth between them.
With a low groan, he rolled to his side with her, kissing as they went, hands roaming, hers sliding over his rib cage, smooth and warm and thick with muscle, his pulse pounding beneath her touch. She leaned into the depth of the feather-stuffed mattress covered in plaid, the wool a slight tickle against her cheek. As Aedan moved a hand to cover her bodice, she shifted toward him with a little moan to give him access to her body, to her heart.
She sighed against his coaxing lips, the slip of his tongue, and her body pulsed against his nude torso as she glided her hand along his back. The cloth of her gown and shift hampered her—she tugged at the knotted ribbons along the side openings to loosen the cage of laces. His hand found hers on the ribbons and tugged too. Then his fingers slipped inside, over the linen shift beneath, fingertips finding her breast, teasing the nipple so gently that she sucked in her breath and moaned again.
“Lass,” he said, his lips separating from hers as he whispered. “We—”
“Hush you,” she whispered, and her hand slid down his back to pull at the waist of his trews. “Just hush. I think we both want this.”
“You know I do, but if you—”
“I do, now hush,” she said, roused and sure as she surged over him. She felt the certainty of what she wanted within as if she had always known she would find him. The childhood wish, the healing wish, the steadiness he brought her, the calm she gave him in return—suddenly seemed to merge, and she knew this was deeply good.
Now he kissed her again and his hand cupped her breast under fabric, warmth and passion spinning wild through her as his thumb rolled her nipple, and she arched back with a little cry.
“So much cloth,” he murmured, his lips tracing down her throat, fingers tugging at the edge of the dark blue bodice to kiss along her collarbone. A whirlwind of heat, of need and sensation, drove her to press against him. As he pulled at the cloth, frustration outdid need—she sat up and yanked the gown up and over her head to toss it aside.
“Lass, when you decide something, it is a glorious thing to behold.”
She laughed and lay back, feeling free, savoring cool air over her nearly bared body under the shift, feeling more entirely herself than she ever had before in the cavern of the curtained bed, in the warm circle of his arms as he lay back with her. He kissed her again, deep and slow, then traced his mouth down her throat again and down, his fingers easily drawing aside the loose neck of her shift. As his lips found her breast, she gasped, letting her body plead for what she wanted so very much now, with him.
Thoughts whirled above her body’s urging like swifts in flight, never landing, far away—she knew herself, knew her tendency to think and reason, but she would not allow it to douse the heat within her or cool this precious fire.
She pulled him to her, urging him to roll with her, moving her hips against his. He groaned deep, the sound lost against her lips. As he slid a hand under the shift, along her leg, thumbtracing the inside of her thigh, fingers reaching over the curve of her slender hip, she ached for his fingers tips to seek that clefted part of her none had touched or known since the month of her wedding, long ago, lost in time. Knowing what would come, she paused, brow to his shoulder, gasping a little, wanting this so much now, yet needing to breathe in a moment of clarity.
He kissed her temple, his bristly cheek grit and velvet. “What is it, love?” he murmured, his voice soft thunder, resonant and beloved. “Enough?”
“A moment—” She lifted her face, kissed him. “Not yet enough, my love,” she whispered, then tugged at his trews, which came out of the way quickly. He pressed against her, hot and hard and tender. Decision, as he had said, felt glorious.
Then his hands and his will and his lips found her fully, touch and love and freedom all blending as she arched against him, feeling a lush whirlpool take her over, spin thoughts away from her as breath and body took over. And then he shifted and she opened to him, widening her legs, arching and tilting as her body allowed him to slip within, merging, feeling overtaking thought—for that was what she needed most, wanted most. Feeling a blend of soul and craving and grace, too, she rose with him, coaxed him deeper into her, certain in her very core that they belonged together, surging with him now as if they had never been apart, ever, in their lives.
“Rowena,” Aedan saidlater, against the silky press of her hair along his cheek.
The candle had nearly gutted out, the steam had left the jug, the chill of evening settled in the air. He woke tucked with Rowena under the plaid, snug and satisfied, feeling such satiation in body, heart, and soul that it felt profound there in the dark.
The low-burning candle told him they had slept for a few hours. Glancing down, he saw Rowena’s dark eyelashes flutter and open. “Mmm?” she asked. “Morning?”
“Still dark. But if you are awake, I want to show you something.”
She circled her hips against him. “What?”
“Before you came up here and sweetly distracted me—”
“I only came up here to bring you a posset,” she replied in a sleepy voice. “Then we both got distracted.”
“Ah, true. But I need to tend to something before we leave for Dunfermline.” Tossing the blanket aside, he sat up.
