Page 103 of A Rogue in Firelight
“I only brought tea, thinking you might be hungry. But you must be tired. I should go.” She turned.
“Stay.” Reaching over her head, he shut the door. “Will you stay?”
“I could pour.”
“Please pour, my lass.”
She went to the table. Her dark blue dressing gown, prim, plain, poufy, enveloped her throat to foot, its hem dragging as she moved. Pouring tea, she added cream. Her hair fell in a tousled golden mass, her cheeks were pale, purple shadowed her eyes, and she had made tea for him before dawn. His heart warmed.
“You have not slept.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup.
“I was worried.” Her lashes lifted, her eyes the color of the clouds crowding the sky. “But I am glad you are home now.”
“I left in a hurry last night. I apologize.” He sipped. The tea was hot, good.
She shook her head. “MacNie said you rode to Invermorie with Aleck Muir and Donal. It must have been important.”
“It was.” If he wanted her in his life—Lord, he did—he owed her more honesty. “Aleck came to say that Geordie had been hurt. They were looking for the whisky we had stored away, but it was missing. And someone attacked the lad.”
She gasped. “Is he hurt badly?”
“He will recover. Mairi is taking care of him.”
“Who did this? Did they also take the whisky?”
“Possibly.”
She nodded, brow creased with concern. Dear God, Ronan thought—she was so lovely, standing beside him here in a closed bedroom, as if it was no breach of protocol at all. As if she belonged here, a natural part of his life.
“You mean to go out again,” she said.
“The store must be found.” Taking a deeper sip, revived, he set down the cup.
“This is Thursday,” she reminded him. “Corbie will be here later.”
The name sullied the air. “I had forgotten.”
“MacNie will fetch him this afternoon.” She began to butterfly her fingers in that way she had, delicate knuckles pale, fingers weaving. He realized she had stopped doing that lately. She had been calmer, more certain, these weeks. Now the anxiousness had returned.
For that reason alone, disturbing his lass, he had a grudge to settle with Corbie.
“He and Papa will want to know if we did what was asked. We have no time left.”
“No more time to ensure the gentleman passes muster?” he drawled.
“To be together.” She took a step toward him.
He opened his arms as if that, too, was a natural thing to do here in his bed chamber. He pulled her close, wrapping her in warmth better than any voluminous gown could do. Pressing his cheek to her hair, he held her. Just that.
But when she lifted her head, he sensed the invitation, touched his lips to hers gently at first—you are safe, he wanted to tell her, saying it instead with his lips, his embrace.You are loved.He so wanted to say it, his heart surging, body surging with each kiss.So loved.Yet he could not say it, was not sure he had the right to, not yet.
Then she looped her arms around his neck with a soft little cry, pressing closer, matching kisses with fervor, inviting, exploring. Morning thunder boomed again outside the window, a fresh torrent of rain driving against the glass panes. Ronan felt a storm break within him, yet still he held back.
“I was going to leave a note,” she whispered against his lips. “With the tea. But I had no paper or pencil. And you opened the door.”
“I did,” he murmured, and kissed the corner of her lip, her soft cheek, her lips again. “What would you have written?”
“Dearest Ronan, here is your tea,” she whispered against his mouth.
