Page 19 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Hattie had returned and swung the cooking pot onto the hearth. She began ladling the meaty stew into bowls despite their protests. “There’s plenty to spare, and you must be hungry,” she said firmly. “And this is very good if I do say so myself.”

Taking two bowls with her, she left them to their meal and the fire. Donal agreed, the stew was good. He hadn’t realized how famished he was and soon polished off his portion. Agatha too seemed to appreciate the warm, hearty meal.

“Do you think we should go soon?” she asked him, looking toward the window, and chewing her lip.

Donal followed her gaze. It was very dull outside and before he even opened his mouth to answer, more rain was falling, pelting against the glass in a manner he wasn’t keen on venturing out into. Yes, he knew they could get home in it, uncomfortable as that would be, but he didn’t want Agatha drenched again. What if she caught a chill? What if she became really ill? The thought sobered him.

“We will wait a wee while longer,” he said firmly.

She nodded and seemed grateful to leave the decision to him. They sat together in cozy silence, and soon her eyelashes were fluttering and despite the uncomfortably straight chair, she was struggling to stay awake. Donal watched her head loll about with amusement, but the truth was he was tired too. Surely a short doze would not matter? It couldn’t be much after two o’clock and the picnickers were probably still dancing. He assured himself that no one would have noticed they were gone.

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

Chapter Eleven

When Agatha awoke, she did not know where she was. The dim room was unfamiliar, the only light the fire in the hearth that had burned down low. Her neck was stiff from the uncomfortable chair she was sitting in while the cloth her dress was made of felt coarse and was making her skin itch. As she moved, a strand of her hair caught, and when she reached up, she could tell it was a tangled mess.

She remembered then. The rowboat and the rain shower, the awkward journey to her friend Susan’s house only to find she was not at home, and then the kindly housekeeper who had allowed them to stay.

What about the picnic? How late was it?

She half rose, her body stiff from sleeping in the hard chair, and looked about her. Donal was by her side, still asleep. His mouth was slightly open and as she watched he gave a soft snore. Should she wake him? The slight scruff on his jaw was as dark as his hair and his lashes, and she had the urge to reach out and run her fingers over it. Richard was always perfectly shaved and groomed, and it was a novelty to see a man who was not perfect. Except he was, Agatha decided. To her, at least.

Those thoughts were not helpful, and Agatha leaned in closer and whispered loudly, “Donal? Donal, wake up!”

His eyes rolled beneath their lids, and his lashes flickered. “Agatha?” he slurred. “Beautiful Agatha.”

At that, her heart gave a jolt. He thought she was beautiful? She swallowed down her surprised pleasure—there wasn’t time now to consider what his words might mean. She tried again to rouse him. “Donal, we need to go. It is late.”

This time he did wake, although when he opened his eyes, he stared at her as if he weren’t sure she was real. “Sometimes I dream about you,” he said, the words sounding as if he was still half asleep.

Good lord! Agatha wondered if her heart could take any more. “Then I hope they are pleasant dreams,” she managed somewhat shakily.

He smiled a wicked smile. “Verra pleasant,” he said, his voice deepening in a way that made her skin tingle all over her body.

She found she was now standing very close to him and she wanted to get even closer. Her breath hitched as he reached up one hand, sliding it around her nape beneath her untidy hair, and drew her down. She wasn’t unwilling, so he didn’t have to try very hard, and the next moment their lips brushed together and clung.

“Agatha,” he said with a groan, and deepened the kiss as she opened to him.

He tasted of man, of Donal, and she pressed in against him, trying to get as close as possible. He shifted and she felt his hands grasp her firmly about the waist, and then he lifted her onto his lap. Now she was straddling him. All of this without their kiss being interrupted.

When she had to take a gasping breath, she nuzzled against his throat, absorbing his scent and the taste of his skin. Some part of her brain was yelling at her that they needed to go back to the picnic, that it was late, that their absence had surely been noticed. She ignored it. Because nothing was as important as what was happening right now between Donal and her.

When she lifted her head again, she saw that he had noticed her gaping bodice, and the fact that her breasts were on perfect display. She supposed she should have been upset but she wasn’t. She wanted him to look. Was he going to . . .? Oh, yes, he was! Donal ran his fingertip across the tops of the creamy mounds, and when he looked up to meet her eyes, only inches away from his, she saw that the normally deep blue was dark and turbulent.

“Will you allow me to explore?” he said in a hoarse voice. “I promise I will stop if you say no, Agatha.”

“I don’t think I have ever wanted anything more,” Agatha told him shakily.

With a heartfelt sigh, he bent his head and put his mouth to her skin. She shivered from the heated sensation and reached to hold him in place as he tasted her with his tongue. Her fingers threaded through his soft, dark hair. He tugged down the coarse cloth of her dress farther, and his mouth closed over the hard bud of a nipple. His mouth was warm as he began to lick and suck. Agatha’s senses leaped wildly.

This was beyond anything she could have imagined. There was an ache between her thighs, echoing the pleasurable throbbing of her breasts. She pressed down on his thighs, wriggling with the sort of urgency she had not dreamed existed. Now he had moved on to administer to her other breast, giving it the same delightful treatment.

“I like that,” she told him breathily, although she was sure he already knew that.

“So do I,” he murmured, lifting his mouth from its delightful work. “You’re making me hard.” He sounded as breathless as her.

Was she? Was he hard? His body was certainly hard, and she ran her hands over the muscles in his arms and his wide shoulders. But that was not what he meant. Agatha pressed down on him again, and he groaned. She could feel him in the notch between her thighs, the solid shape of his shaft in the loose breeches. It seemed to rear up toward her, growing impossibly hard. He began to rock against her as if he couldn’t help himself and she responded by pushing down, increasing the friction between her legs, in her most intimate place.