Page 62 of A Rogue in Twilight
He closed his eyes. Only his sister ever called him that boyhood name. On Elspeth’s lips, it felt intimate, fitting, with the ring of love to it.Love.He needed to tell her so.
“Come away,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”
“This is a dream, aye? Not even your fairy whisky can prove to me that I’ve seen fairy magic.” His heart thumped like a drum. Leaning down, he nuzzled his lips over her cheek, traced to her lips, and kissed her again.
Her lips opened for him and she sighed against his mouth. “This is real, and so is that in the cottage,” she whispered. “Let yourself trust what you see.”
Kissing her again, he drew back and pulled her into his embrace. Trusting did not come easily to him, yet Elspeth MacArthur challenged him, drew him, challenged him again. She had a kind of magic about her, a captivating charm he had never encountered before. She pushed him to think beyond what he had had always known.
“I trust that I saw a man weaving like a lunatic. And I trust I have a lovely lass in my arms. And I trust that I am falling in love with her.”
His heart pounded to say it.
She drew back. “Is it so?”
“I think so. Does it change your mind?”
“I might be falling too. But it only makes things—more complicated.”
“I think it could simplify things.” He brushed his hand over her soft hair, down her cheek, touched her lower lip. Then he kissed her again, touching the merest tip of his tongue to hers. She opened her mouth a little, inviting him.
This was real. This was reassuring, breath and flesh and passion certain in his body. He needed her that way, and he wanted to spend his life with her.
Yet she was the most alluring and stubborn creature he had ever met.
She pressed against him now, lips urgent, lush, and soft under his. She pulled back and looked up. “What is real now,” she whispered, “are your feelings for me, and mine for you.”
Again she echoed his thoughts. “You are a conundrum.”
“Come away,” she said, and drew him through shadows and fog.
As they approached her weaving cottage, its windows dark, she pulled him toward the shadows along the side wall. There she set her back against the stone and lifted her arms to his shoulders. He tugged her to him at the small of her back, tautand slim and sweet against him. Swathed in darkness and quiet, he kissed her again, deep and fervent, slow and tender.
A sort of wildness entered him, heart thudding, body craving. He cautioned himself to slow, consider, and he did—until she pulled him hard against her, kissing him with opened lips and moist, curious tongue. He was full, hard, aching for her, and her fervor equaled his now. He followed the craving as far as she would allow, standing in the lee of the stone wall, lost in needful kisses and touches.
She tossed the plaid she wore around them, a warm, soft shield, and he bunched her night rail under his palms, her body slender and heated beneath the fabric. His body quickened all through like fire as she ran eager hands along his shoulders, then under his coat, fingers tugging at his shirt, then warm over his skin. Her touch teased, tantalized as he pressed her against the wall, his hunger driving him now. He was changing in the moment, opening to her, trusting her with his desire, his vulnerability. Unsettling to lose that accustomed reserve, but he had to be truthful and honest with her, with what he felt.
His reliable, dull, carefully constructed life had been shifting ever since he met her months ago, culminating in the here and now. What had seemed fanciful and impossible to his logical mind was shifting too, and the feelings he had strictly guarded were opening too. Why did he feel such love for her, so quickly? Impulse was unlike him. But the certainty that he loved her felt true.
He surrendered to the moment, her permission clear, her fervor rising in pace with his. She felt solid and real in his arms, willing and ready. Questions of magic and fairies faded. This was all that mattered just now, this need, this love.
Yet he was a thinker, a scientist, a questioner, not used to surrendering to the body or the heart. He hesitated.
She did too, her breath ragged as his. “What?”
“What are we doing, my lass?”
“Whatever it is, I like it. Come with me,” she whispered. Taking his hand, she led him around the corner to the cottage door, and pulled at the latch. He lifted her in his arms, pushed the door open, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind them.
The small dark room smelled of wood and wool, smelled of peace and order. He set her down, and she drew him to a dark corner with shelves and baskets of plaid cloth. She drew out a blanket and tossed it to the floor, tugging him down to his knees with her.
“What do you want, love,” he murmured.
“What we will,” she said.
“There are consequences,” he murmured.
“Could be,” she whispered. “We will think of it later. Come to me.”
