Page 44 of The Laird's Bride
It shivered through her in a wave of warmth, and his words, well, they wrapped right around her heart. She gazed misty-eyed at the dark head bent over her hand. This dear, dear man. She loved him so much, it was fair bursting out of her.
Aye, she wanted him to love her, but you couldn't make someone love you. It happened or it didn't. And if he thought her extraordinary, and a gift, could that not be enough? Her father had been full of fine words and high-flying sentiments—he could fair break your heart with words, Da—but most men were not much for the words. It was actions with them, and she couldna fault Cameron's actions.
She thought of the way his hands had slipped over her skin in the bath, gentle and caressing and strong, melting her bones and turning her innards to honey. And he wanted her—that was clear—but he'd kept to his promise, turned his back to spare her blushes and stepped away, even though she could tell it half killed him. That promise was half killing her, as well.
What was she waiting for? The moment had come. Forget the poetry, the pretty words she'd yearned for, forget the fortnight she'd asked of him; she'd no' deny this darling man a minute longer.
She curled her hand around his jaw and raised his head. "Cameron, I know we've only known each other a short time, and you'll probably think it's foolish of me, and premature, but I think I'm falling in love with you."
She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth
Chapter Nineteen
She loved him? Cameron wanted to shout it from the battlements. His chest felt full and heavy. He struggled to find words to respond, but his heart was too full. He found himself saying gruffly, "It's neither foolish nor premature, Jeannie, but a proper thing in a bride." Sounding like an ancient gray-beard, not a man whose heart was fit to bursting.
He knew she loved poetry, but there were no pretty words in him, just . . . feelings, too fierce and joyous and new to name. So all he could do was haul her into his arms and kiss her.
She slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing his skin with small, work-roughened hands, finer to him than any lady's soft, pampered hands. And all the time kissing, kissing him hungrily, eagerly, as if she couldn't get enough of him.
He unfastened her dressing gown and slipped it off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor with a soft hush. Outside the rain was drumming on the roof and battering the window.
He felt her legs tremble and sag. His pulse leapt at this evidence of her arousal, but he reined himself in, and eased her over to the bed. He deepened the kiss, running his hands over her slender, lissome body, caressing her through the soft, fine fabric of her night rail.
She lay back on the bed, pulling him with her, and he couldn't resist, though he knew he should, but oh, she was so sweet, so eager and loving . . . He lay on top of her, kissing, caressing, feeling the agony of her softness positioned between his thighs, his bare thighs—and bare everything else beneath the kilt. The only barrier stopping them from joining was the frail gossamer of her night-rail and the heavy fabric of the kilt.
She pressed herself against him like a small eager cat, writhing in innocent eroticism, her limbs embracing him. She tasted of firelight and honey and rain and salt and sweet, warm woman. His sweet, warm woman, his Jeannie.
His kilt was riding up and as she moved she brushed against him. Cameron groaned. He was hard and throbbing and it was all he could do not to shove her nightgown up and take her.
But he'd given her his word.
She brushed against him again. Dammit, he was ready to spill. He pulled away abruptly and put some space between them. He sat on the edge of the bed, panting, trying to lash into obedience the wild horses of his control.
"Cameron?" She touched him tentatively on the shoulder.
He didn't reply. What the hell had happened? He was as out of control as a young boy with his first woman.
"Cameron?" She trailed her hand softly down his spine.
He shuddered and arched beneath her touch. "Don't do that!" There was a short, hurt silence and he added in a quieter voice, "It's all right, lass. Just . . . don't touch me."
"Do you no' like me touching you?"
"I like it fine." Too fine.
"Then why?"
Och, the innocence of her. He closed his eyes a moment, then turned to explain. "Because it's stretching my control to its limits, that's why."
Her eyes dropped to where his sporran usually sat. "Your control?" There was almost a purr to the way she said it.
"Aye, touch me again and I'll be in danger of breaking my promise to you. And I don't break my word."
"I see." She tucked her legs beneath her, and knelt on the bed, watching him with those wide, considering blue eyes. It fair killed him the way she looked at him, and him not able to act on it.
The only sound in the room then was the crackling of the fire and Cameron's own heavy breathing. He tried to concentrate on pure thoughts, but the scent of her skin, of roses and warm, aroused woman teased his nostrils. Coals shifted in the fireplace and all he could think of was the way she would look clad in nothing but firelight. He gritted his teeth, willing his rampant body to obedience.
"What if I want you to?" The words came soft, wrapped in darkness.
