Page 46 of Lyon of Scotland
As for heraldry art, he could not ask her to do that in his office when she was capable of much more. He wanted her to fly free with her art and not be restrained.
Closing the leather folio, he rolled to her back, sliding an arm under her pillow. In the dark, her body sank against him, warm weight and soft curves, and powerful temptation. But this was not the time—he had to know that she was ready to take that extra leap with him.
Brushing a hand over her hair, he caught the faint scent of lavender and vanilla. She sighed without waking. For now, desire would have to wait.
Hannah opened hereyes in the dark, seeing just an edge of silvery light at the window. Warm and cozy, she felt relaxed and clear, the last of the fog leaving her brain. The room was chilly, but she felt a lovely heat at her back.
He lay close, sleeping with soft, low snores. His arm lay beneath her pillow and his hand curled against the wall beside hers. She felt keenly aware of his body. And somehow sharing the bed with him felt natural, as if they had always done this, always rested together with a sense of peace and belonging.
Simply, Strathburn was her dream come to vivid life, more solid than she could ever have imagined. Given her situation, another man might have walked away from her dilemma—or worse, taken what he wanted when she was vulnerable and thenleft her to fend for herself. But this man, the real Strathburn, had integrity and grit, strength and substance. She had been naïve, too trusting of Whitworth, so it had not been easy to trust Strathburn in London at first. That had changed, fed by the love that had flourished in her imagination even before she came to know him better.
Too aware of his body beside hers, unable to sleep, she nudged her hand to his, craving more closeness. His effect on her was like a magnet to iron, distracting and compelling. It had always been that way. From the beginning, she had felt a bit daft over him but had kept it to herself, certain that aloof Lord Strathburn was well out of her reach.
Here and now, she lay there and felt breathless with her desire to be near him, with him, part of him, and wanting him to be part of her. She had fallen gradually in love, tumbling from smitten to fairytale dreams, finally accepting he would never be hers—but now fate had revived the dream and infused it with purpose.
She felt his breath sift her hair, felt his body grow warmer, firmer, and the tenor of his breath changed as he became alert. Her breath quickened, her body quivered, aware.
Gray light washed the wall in front of her. Dawn was coming, time was passing. “Strathburn,” she whispered. Silence. Then he inhaled, shifted.
“Alasdair,” he whispered at her ear, his voice like whisky and honey driving through to her core. “Dare.”
She smiled to herself. “I like Alasdair too.”
“And I like Hannah.” Her name was soft and airy on his lips. His fingers traced along her arm, a stream of heat and excitement through her cotton night rail.
The misty, silvery hour before dawn held magic, and she wanted to capture that magic with him again. She had tasted hints of it in London, and craved it now, before daylightand reality could sweep her dreams away, before life became manners and expectations, shoulds and should nots.
The luscious, hot tension between them gathered, desire hovering unspoken between them. Suddenly she turned in his arms, and he caught her to him, his chest hard against her softness, his heartbeat steady where hers quickened.
As he moved to kiss her, she leaned in, returning it slowly, suddenly shy. With a sharp indrawn breath, he pulled her snug against him, sliding his hand to cradle the back of her head. Now he kissed her full and deep, fingers slipping into her hair, his other hand spreading across her lower back.
“Lass, what do you—” Whatever he meant to say vanished as she surged toward him to renew the kiss, letting her lips, her body say what she could not.I always wanted to be with you, I am yours, I am so grateful. I love you.
“What do you want, here and now?” he finished, lips brushing her cheek.
“I want what you want,” she whispered.
“Shall we toss discretion to the wind, then?” he murmured.
“I think we already did that in London.” And she kissed him, bolder with each moment, even bolder yet as he laughed and closed his arms around her and rolled a bit, bringing her over him in a tangle of blankets, the bed creaking beneath them.
“Ah, perhaps we did,” he answered, and traced her throat with lips and a delicate tongue, skimming down to her chest, pushing back the gauzy fabric of her night rail. She arched her back, lost in the feeling as he dipped to the soft valley between her breasts.
“Oh! London,” she went on, and gave another quick gasp as his hand slipped under the fabric, cupped her breast, his lips teasing that way too. “Was that real?”
“It was. So is this.” His words were soft, muffled. She caught her breath, her nipples pearling and tingling under his lips. Thought was slipping away. She mewled, gasped.
“Love, tell me you want this,” he whispered.Love.She melted further.
“I do,” she said, and his fingers slid lower, pausing so that she ached, hungered for more. Her body knew, and her heart filled. As he lifted his head to kiss her again, she cupped her hands on his face for a moment, thinking only that he was beautiful, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The promise of all the dreams flowed in, and her body thrummed, heart pounded, yearning urged her as she met his kiss deeply, pressing her body against his, pulling him against her.
With a low groan, he rolled her onto her back and took her into his arms, one hand caressing the length of her now, shoulder to breast to hip and thigh and up again, slowly as he kissed her. She curled against him, then opened to him, arching, inviting. She had never wanted anything so much as this moment, with him, its power building from long ago, fired by his touch. He felt it too—she sensed the surge that went through his body where their hips met now. His kisses traced down and she offered the angle of her throat, the curve of her body toward him as his lips caressed and his lowered hand rucked up the fabric of her nightgown.
Nimble and tender, his fingers explored, sliding, teasing, and her body grew eager, edging on desperate, his kisses hot and deep. She tugged impatiently at his shirt to soothe her hands over his chest, pushing his rumpled kilt aside to find him beneath, hard and ready. He groaned against her lips, shifted to cover her, fabrics pushed away, cool air on hot skin, breaths deep, hearts pounding. As he found her, fitted to her, the merge overtaking her, a burst of passion erasing thought, vanishingtime and the moment. All she ever wanted was here, part of him as he was part of her.
Then she shared with him long breaths, and a soft gasp of relief as they drew apart. And though reality slipped in with dawn and chilled air, she knew nothing could part her soul from his now.
“Well, good morning,” Dare murmured with a soft laugh, pressing his brow to hers. His breath had slowed, his body so relaxed he hardly wanted to move, but he drew her close, wrapped her in his embrace in the tumult of her nightgown, his shirt, the blankets and pillows. “Lovely, aye?”
