Page 29 of The Laird's Bride
But he'd promised her a courtship before any bedding. A fortnight to wait, dammit.
Her gaze dropped briefly below the belt-line, then skittered away. Blushing, she moistened her lips.
Cameron groaned and leaned forward to capture them. His mouth had barely touched hers when there was a knock on the door and a voice called, "Laird, are you in there?"
Cameron groaned, a very different groan this time, and rose to his feet, cursing under his breath. He strode across the room and pulled open the door. "Yes?"
A servant stood there holding out a blue bundle. "Cook said you left this beside the pump when you had your wash."
Cameron tucked the shawl under his arm. "Anything else?"
"No, Laird."
"Tell Cook—oh, never mind." He closed the door, and turned to find her standing in front of the window, gazing out as if transfixed by the view. But she was breathing fast, as if she'd been running. And though he could only see her profile, her color was heightened.
He smiled to himself and pulled a clean shirt from the chest of drawers. The interruption was probably for the best. He'd come home early in order to get some courting done.
He pulled on the shirt and as he tucked it in, he glanced around the room, wondering how to broach the subject. Perplexed he wrinkled his brow. The room looked the same, only . . . it wasn't. And now he came to think of it, there was a distinct smell of beeswax.
"What have you done to this room?"
She jumped and turned around. "Nothing. I only had it cleaned. Properly." She sounded defensive.
He gave the room another swift examination. "Looks good. Smells good, too."
She smiled and gave a brisk little nod. "So much for men not noticing."
"Not noticing what?"
"Whether a room is clean or dirty."
He frowned. "Who said we didn't?"
"It doesn't matter. What was it that Cook sent up?"
"Oh, nothing much." He was only too aware that his gift was paltry compared with his uncle's. "I thought you might like to go for a walk by the sea tonight, before we dine."
"I would, thank you. But what has that to do with—oh." She broke off as he handed her a bundle.
"I got you this. Thought you might need something. The breeze off the sea can be quite chilly." And where, he wondered, were the gracious manners his uncle—both his uncles—had tried to drum into him? And the charm with which he'd been able to approach women in the past.
Small and unassuming though she was, something in her quiet composure—or was it the look in those wide blue eyes?—whatever, it brought out the great awkward lummox in him.
She shook out the shawl. "Oh, Cameron, it's beautiful." She wrapped it around her shoulders and turned to look at her reflection in the looking glass.
Cameron gave a satisfied nod. "I thought so. It matches perfectly."
"Matches?" She turned and gave him a puzzled look. "But it's quite a different blue from that of my dress—not that I mind, of course, but—"
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face the looking glass again. "Not your dress, your eyes. Bridget was trying to push a pink shawl on me, or white for a bride, but I wanted this one because I knew it would match your bonny blue eyes. And it does. Perfectly."
Their eyes met in the looking glass, and under his appalled gaze, her eyes slowly filled with tears.
Not again. Cameron was frantic to stop them. "What is it? Do you not like it? Don't worry, I'll get rid of it, get you another." He went to peel the shawl from her shoulders.
Her hands closed over his. "Don't you dare."
"But—"
