Page 70 of A Rogue in Moonlight
Stepping over the dogs curled snoring at her feet, she replaced the book on the shelf and searched through other titles. With a delighted gasp, she recognized a slim volume as one of her grandmother’s own books,Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland. Remembering the book from childhood, she sat in the red wing chair to read.
She had brought the glass with a little whisky and honey left, and swallowed its comforting liquid heat as she read about fairies and pookahs. As she set the glass down, the dogs woke, leaping to their feet, woofing loudly.
Startled, Fiona missed the table, and the glass tilted and crashed to the floor. As the dogs tumbled eagerly out of the room, loping down the stone step, she heard booted footsteps somewhere below and a deep voice greeting the animals. Heart hammering, she stood and went to the library door to hear a deep, resonant male voice calmly addressing the dogs.
Dougal MacGregor.
His voice faded as he walked away with the dogs, perhaps to the kitchen. Not eager to be caught improperly dressed, raiding the library, with broken glass and whisky on the carpet, she hastened topick up the shards and mop the spill, picking up the glass bits. But she had nothing to contain them, and had to set them down again. Looking for something to help clean up the mess, she pulled open drawers in a side cupboard, finding only paper, ink, and brass seals. Turning, she gasped.
Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. He regarded her silently as he ate a spoonful. His hair was damp, curling along his brow and framing the strong column of his neck. He wore shirtsleeves and a wrapped plaid with knee stockings, without shoes. He smiled.
“You changed your clothes,” she blurted.
“So did you,” he said, lifting a brow.
Fiona pulled the robe closer. “I bathed and changed to be rid of the smoke.”
“As did I. Thank you for leaving the bathwater. You look very nice in my things, Miss MacCarran.” He took another spoonful of soup. “This is excellent,” he went on. “Too good to be Maisie’s work. Most of her soups are mush by the time we eat. She tries, bless the lass, and but for her, we are left to our own attempts. Did you make this?”
“I added some to what she prepared just to extend it. I am glad you like it.”
“Cooking is a rare and welcome skill here at Kinloch House. Ever since Hamish’s wife Jean stormed off and left, we have longed for good food.”
“Stormed off?”
He shrugged. “Now and then she and Hamish go round about his smuggling. She wants him safe at home making legitimate whisky. I cannot blame her for it.” He smiled. “But Hamish loves the free trade as much as he loves Jeanie. She will be back, so we hope. I thought you would be asleep by now,” he added.
“I could not sleep and came in here to read. But I must apologizefor breaking a glass.” She pointed toward the shards on the floor, and pulled the robe tighter when it gapped open. “Maisie gave me some whisky. I hope the glass is not an irreplaceable piece. I could not find a cloth to clean the carpet—”
“It is a small thing and no matter,” he murmured, coming into the room. He set down the bowl and unfolded a cloth that he held beneath it. “Let me help.”
“I can do it. Thank you.” Fiona took the cloth and knelt to wipe the carpet and pick up the shards. She realized her hands were shaking—his unexpected arrival, his nearness, whatever magic radiated from him, flustered her. When a sharp point of glass stuck her fingertip, she winced.
Dougal reached down for her hand, turning it in his to examine her bleeding finger. “That needs a bandage.”
“It will heal,” she said, rising to her feet, her hand in his. As he bent and she stood, their heads knocked audibly. “Oh!” She touched her forehead, embarrassed.
“Let me see.” He brushed his thumb over her brow, sending shivers through her that erased the ache and caused other sensations. His fingers slid down to cup her cheek, lingered, traced to her shoulder.
Slowly, Fiona touched his forehead where he had bumped it against her. His dark hair felt cool and silken under her fingers, still damp. He smelled clean, she thought, a warm mingling of soap and his own natural masculine scent. She closed her eyes, sighed, opened them. He stood watching her, silent.
She reached up to trace her fingers gently over his brow and down to his jaw, its lean shape roughened by beard growth. The texture was bristly yet soft, his skin warm beneath the prickle, so masculine and intimate. She thrilled to touch him with such freedom, while he watched her in silence as she cupped his bearded cheek, surprised by her own boldness.
In the candlelight, his eyes were green and beautiful, edged inblack lashes under black brows. She leaned close to the breathing warmth of his body, and he bent down, leaning with her in a shared and natural curve.
She longed for the heart-melting kiss he could give her, the chance of that drawing her nearer still. Logic fell away. He was a scoundrel, and she was a guest in his house, only partially clothed, and should not be here, doing this.
Yet the blood in her veins pulsed, and the urge in her body was subtle, then stronger. She caught her breath against it, summoned resistance. But it would not come. He inclined toward her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, his breath soft upon her lips. When his nose nudged at hers, she tilted her head back, desire swirling deep in her body. She forgot the sting of the cut finger, her aching head, forgot embarrassment and uncertainty. She forgot who she was, why she was here, lost awareness of her scant garments, or that she was inviting this man in a tender way, her hand lingering along his jaw, her gaze locked in his.
But he drew a breath and pulled back. “Your finger must need tending.”
Gathering her wits, she nodded, glancing down at her clenched fist to see her wounded finger still bleeding a little. “I suppose it does,” she admitted.
Dougal went to a narrow cupboard that was held a few small bottles of whisky and some glasses, and opened a drawer to remove a folded napkin from a stack of linens. He tore a strip of fabric. “Give me your hand, lass.”
She might have given him anything just then, he’d need only ask. Sighing, she opened her hand in his offered palm and he wrapped her finger gently with the cloth. Simple enough and soon done, but even that touch sent shivers through her.
“I am sorry about the glass,” she said. “I should not have had it in here.”
