From the way her lashes slit her eyes to the way her chest strained against her bodice, she was alluring. Her lips were lush, auburn hair framing her face like God’s gentle hands cradling her.
Adair was tempted to touch her. He wanted to feel the skin her hair brushed. He wanted to cup her face the way God had framed it.
Swallowing, he turned away. He could not welcome such thoughts. She was only his fake betrothed, and that was all she would ever be.
Very early the next morning, Adair looked up and found Emily standing at the door to his study.
“I didnae expect to come upon ye so early in the morning.”
She was obviously surprised. Her eyes were a fraction wider, and her hand refused to drop from the doorknob.
“Yet here ye are, in me study, where I’m sure to be found.”
The servants had yet to light the torches in the hallway. The only source of light was the lantern in her hand. More reason why she should not be wandering around so early.
He wanted to chide her. She was strange, frustratingly so, and she managed to pique his curiosity every time their paths crossed.
What was so important that she had to be up and about so early? And why had she come to his study?
She blinked. “I didnae expect to find it occupied.”
It shouldn’t have been.
He had not slept well last night. In the late hours, when spirits in search of who wronged them roamed the streets, he had tossed and turned. At some point, he had just kept his eyes open and stared into the darkness, counting squares his tired mind imagined, wishing one would concuss him till midday.
It was all her fault. While men slept, fought, and fucked, he convulsed, plagued by a certain lass whose window he could not stop himself from staring at.
The only time a woman was allowed to haunt a man’s sleep was when the man was tupping the woman, whether in real life or make-believe. Otherwise, there was only one dreadful conclusion.
It was that conclusion he sought to chase away before it took root in his mind.
He had not imagined Emily even one stocking unclad. She was clothed all the way to her neck, a garment even she was not puritan enough to own. He could not animate the image of her in her nightdress—a reality he had lived through. Hell, he was not sure if he could think past her face.
He begged, squeezed his eyes shut, suspended his resolve not to view her in such light to envision an exposed knee, an ankle even, but to no avail. All he could think about was the woman herself.
After hours of unsuccessful dreaming, he found himself in his study, underdressed, partly cold, partly jaded. He intended to rest his head for a moment, absorb the scent of starched papers, enjoy the burn of some rich scotch, and then steal away to his room before the castle awoke.
To his surprise, she found him there.
She was dressed in nothing but a chemise and a robe, with the strings untied and her hair tousled. It was obvious she had just crawled out of bed, too. But what was her goal? And how similar was her plan to his?
“What did ye intend to do here?” he asked.
She stepped into the room, and the walls seemed to shrink. When she placed the lantern atop his desk, he took a whiff of her scent.
Strawberry.
How could he not have dreamed of bedding this woman?
His length throbbed in agreement.
Great. Strawberries were now a trigger. He would have to ban the fruit from his table from now on.
She slowly stepped around the desk and stopped in front of him. She was ghostly, but not the type going about scallywagging. Pirates would only catch a glimpse of her once through dense fog, perched on a rock, her long hair her only cover, and they would spend the rest of their lives searching for such a beauty.
“I wished to express me gratitude, me Laird.”Good God! Are her hands really this small?“For the comb.”
His hands swallowed hers and the fold of fabric wedged between them. He wanted to pull her down, sit her on his lap, and play with her fingers as she explained the gift.
