Page 38 of The Highlander's Virgin Widow
He walked into the bathing chamber, where a fresh bath waited for him.
The cold sensation traveled from his feet to his head as he gently lowered himself into the water. Soon, his body was completely submerged, but his head and the upper part of his chest stayed above. He leaned back against the edge and closed his eyes.
Think about anything else. Anything except her.
Her.
And just like that, the memories returned. Everything grew vivid, and he could stillfeelandseeit. The scent of herbs in the apothecary, the taste of her, the way she had arched into him.
Why could he not stop thinking about her? Whyher?
It did not matter. He had already informed her about the cèilidh. He had also promised to help her find a husband, and he planned to stick to that promise, no matter how long it took.
It was better for them, and now was not the time to overcomplicate things.
How about one night together?
The thought had crept into his unsuspecting mind rather bizarrely, and now he could not stop mulling it over. What if he spent one night with her? Part of him wondered if she would refuse.
She cannae, can she?
He could feel it in the way she had kissed him back. He could picture her face. Her dark brown hair and how her warm hazel eyes had stared back at him. He could practically see the flush that had crept across her face right after the kiss.
Something about her face stirred something inside him. Something he felt under the water.
For the love of God.
Now was not the time to get aroused.
As if God listened to his prayers and wanted to make life even more difficult for him, a knock sounded at the door.
“Who is it?”
His eyes scanned the room, looking for something. A pillow, a piece of wood—something he could use to cover himself.
“Rory,” a voice called back from the other side of the door.
“Damn it,” he whispered and rose from the water.
But instead of ebbing, his arousal grew even more. And the last thing he needed was a confrontation with his man-at-arms.
He grabbed his bedsheet and covered the space between his navel and knees. Droplets of water followed his footsteps as he hurried to the door and gently pulled it open, one hand tightly gripping the knob and the other holding the bedsheet firmly in place.
Rory, who seemed to catch on with the water dripping down his body, opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to come out.
“Stand here for longer and we might just witness the sunrise,” Evander prompted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I apologize, M’Laird. I came to offer ye a bathing oil. I understand the maid had cleared the ones in the bathing chamber, and I ken how particular ye are about the?—”
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The bathing oil, of course.”
“Aye, of course,” Rory muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment.
He handed the vial to Evander, who had to release the doorknob to grab it.
