Page 49 of A Rogue in Twilight
That simple truth gave him pause. “But many write about a subject they are knowledgeable about, even if they do not necessarily agree.”
“Just as one may make a marriage without love, if there is an obligation?” She examined another book.
He inclined his head. “Is that the trouble, Miss MacArthur?”
“Marriage needs love.”
“Not everyone would agree with that, though it is a pretty notion.”
“A pretty notion.” She flipped the pages of a book. “Are you sure you want my assistance with your book? We might have to mutually agree on the subject.”
“What?” He was distracted by the lovely curve of the back of her neck, small and vulnerable just where her glossy dark hair was rolled in a braid; he was distracted by the delicate shell of her ear. And he was preoccupied by her response and her questions. She wanted to know how he felt. That was fair, though he was not entirely certain. This was moving fast, and overt sentiment went strongly against his nature.
“Miss MacArthur,” he said. “I care. I do.”
She kept her back to him, studying open pages. “Do you?”
He touched her shoulder, then traced a finger along the back of her neck. She turned quickly, sweetly, into his arms.
The kiss happened naturally, familiar now, tenderness without ruse or agreement. He knew the risks, knew he was losing his heart, his very soul here and now. He wanted to lose those to her. Brushing his lips over her cheek, her earlobe, he remembered the fierce passion of the night before that had so overtaken him. Drawing back, he set her a little apart, reluctant again to let the depth of his feelings show. He was not used to this.
“What if we were engaged briefly? You could break it off when you want. If you want,” he added.
“It is a wicked bargain.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “Never make a bargain with the fairy ilk.”
He went still, reminded of his grandmother’s demand. “Are you of the fairy ilk?”
“Who knows?” She looped her arms around his neck. He could not resist her, felt a spinning within so compelling that he pulled her close, kissed her. He felt like a man drowning, and she his capricious, beautiful rope.
He drew back. “Any more of that, my lass, and we should forego an engagement and marry quick.”
“If we both agreed.”
“You drive a tough bargain,” he murmured, and took her face in his hands to kiss her, feeling her arch against him, feeling her sigh on his lips.
The door to the study pushed open then, and at the creak of the door, James looked up to see Osgar enter with the terriers trotting after. He had forgotten the hounds had been there and had wandered off. He scratched the wolfhound’s great gray head as the dog pushed between them.
“Enter the fairy hound to rescue his mistress.”
“He wants to remind me to leave before anything else happens here.” Then she closed her eyes. “But we will not be alone for long.”
“The MacKimmies will not be here until later today. Perhaps tomorrow with the bad roads.”
She shook her head, her back to the window, silhouetted in the light. “Someone is coming to the house. A girl. There is a coach not far behind. And I feel that my grandfather is already returning. He will be home tonight, sooner than I thought.”
“The lass with the Sight knows all,” James said, bewildered.
“She does, sometimes.”
He glanced through the window at a view that spanned eastward, and saw gray drizzle and mist floating in long clusters over hills purple with heather.
Then, far off, he saw a small figure, a woman walking along the ridge of a hill. Moments later, a coach rounded the base of a hill, coming slowly along the muddy track.
“Someone is coming,” she said. “I told you.”
Puzzled, James shook his head. “Even if you had the eyes of a hawk, you could not have seen them coming. Your back was turned to the window.”
“Now will you believe me, James MacCarran?” she asked quietly. “I know things. I am not what you think I am, nor am I much suited to life in the city.”
