Page 48 of A Rogue in Twilight
Touching her felt like heaven. He lifted her chin with a finger. She smelled wonderful, cool rain and warm woman. Lavender too, somehow. It was comforting—and exhilarating.
She smiled. “I wonder if my father painted her. Grandda never said. I do not know what she looked like, nor do I know her kin. Their marriage was brief. She died with my birth. And he left. Died. I do not know much about it.”
“If that is her, she was a beauty, and you favor her.”
“This is like a gift, something of my parents to keep. Thank you!” She rose and kissed his cheek.
He sucked in a breath and set both hands at her waist, then pulled her toward him for a new kiss that she returned willingly. Heat pulsed through him, a desire for more, for this comfort and ease and excitement.
She sighed and slid her hand along his collar, touched his jaw—and leaned away. “I must go,” she whispered, looking up. He could lose himself in those eyes, silvery and magical somehow.
“You need not rush.” He brushed back her hair, kissed her brow.
“But I must,” she murmured. Caught in his arms, she did not break his hold, resting her head for moment on his chest. “If the roads allow, I should go home. Grandda and our housekeeper will be worried if I do not return soon. I apologize for being so much trouble. Please do not feel obligated. You know—about marriage.”
“I would feel better about this if we did marry. To be honest, it might be convenient for both of us, and much to our liking.”
“Liking?” She sounded disappointed.
He should have phrased it differently, should have said what his mind had begun to whisper.Love.It was a revelation, but still forming.
She moved away from the fireplace and her father’s painting. “You have work to do and must have other plans. I am in the way here.”
“You are not.” He suddenly remembered. “I am expecting guests in a few days. My aunt is coming up with some others to tour the Highlands. They will stop here.”
“Will your sister come up as well?”
“She is, and our younger brother too. Miss Sinclair also. You may remember her.”
“Oh. The one who set her cap for you.” She glanced at him.
“I give her no encouragement.”
“But she is lovely, and a wealthy heiress, I heard it said, and so a part of Edinburgh society. She would be an ideal wife for a viscount.”
“So would you.” He tipped his head. “It seems we are both eager to avoid other engagements. What if I asked you again to marry me?”
She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “You are persistent.”
“I am,” he said firmly. “I do not regret having an obligation to ask.”
She stepped back. “But I am keeping you from your work. Is there a gig or cart that will do on the roads?”
Rebuffed again, though not sure why, he was unwilling to give up. “Very well. We will leave it for now. There is an old gig in the stable. I will fit it up with one of the horses.”
He had felt they were on the edge of real agreement, felt his life about to change for the better. But things had whirled again without warning. She was a fickle thing—or else there was something that frightened her.
“Tell me. Is there some reason you are so reluctant to marry?”
“Why would you think that? It is just not—necessary.” She moved along, fingers tracing over the spines of books. “Are you doing some research for your grandmother’s book about fairy lore? Is it something you must do here, or in Edinburgh?”
Deflected again. “It is a condition of her will that I finish the book. Some research and annotations are needed. I have found books here that will be helpful.”
She pulled a book, opened it, slid it back. “But you do not believe in fairies.”
“Not particularly, but it makes no difference to the work. Her book is a thorough compilation of stories and personal accounts. I will add more, and then if it is published, readers can decide for themselves what they believe.”
“The author as well. One must believe wholeheartedly in what one does.”
