Page 45 of The Finest Scottish Fate

“Thank you, Mary. We’ll be sure to send word if we want anything more. I’m sure there’s plenty.” Evie closed the door and turned back to him. Renewed determination flashed in her eyes, warning that her doubts remained. “So you’re telling me you completely accepted the magical stuff just because of that?”

“I nay wished to at first, but I found myself unable to forget ye.” He crossed the room and joined her, gently taking her by the hand and tugging her closer. “Ye filled my dreams at night and my thoughts during the day. If ye’d not been real, if ye’d not come to me, I would have become naught but a shell of a man.” He trailed his touch along her jawline, then slid his fingertips up into her hair. “Am I so easy for ye to deny, m’love? For ye to forget?”

“I could never forget you,” she admitted, staring up at him with her lips parted. “You were the only thing in all this craziness that tempted me to toss caution to the wind and jump off that cliff.” She softly laughed. “And then I did it by accident—but maybe subconsciously on purpose. Since I was too big a coward to just come out and do it.”

“Ye were not a coward, m’love.” He nibbled a kiss across her mouth, unable to resist the temptation of its sweetness. “Ye were merely cautious.” And he needed to be cautious as well—not push her too quickly, no matter how direly he needed her. “Come.” He opened the door to his solar and nodded at the feast the servants had spread upon the large, round table that usually held his maps and journals. “A bit of bread and wine would not go amiss. Our first meal as husband and wife, aye?”

“Husband and wife,” she repeated in a breathless whisper. “Definitely need bread and wine.”

Chapter Eleven

With every sharing of a bit of bread or passing of a cup, Drummond’s fingers brushed hers, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from squeaking like a startled mouse or shuddering uncontrollably with the need to divest herself of her virginity—immediately, if not sooner.

This was ridiculous. She’d dated before. Never had sex, but she’d had a few hot-and-heavy encounters that had come close until she’d realized the guys were not what she wanted, and she’d cut things off before anyone got too carried away.

But she wanted this. Badly. Even though they’d just met. Even though this was the fourteenth century, and her presence here still made her mind screech with the impossibility of it all. She almost snorted. They’d just met? That bit of information was no longer relevant. They were already freaking married. Another sip of wine helped her to breathe normally, if only to keep from choking on the ruby-red liquid in the cup.

“Why do you call this room a solar instead of a sitting room?” she asked, just to have something to say and maintain a level of calm that was proving extremely elusive.

He shifted a slow, lazy gaze to the far wall, which was composed entirely of windows. The glazed panes were large and clear, unlike the small, thick panes in the bedroom windows. “When the Highlands bless us with sunny days rather than storms, this room fills with light. ’Tis a welcome escape from the political shadows of the great hall below.” He turned back to her with a smile. “And it is private. Solus. Latin for alone.” The sultriness of his deep voice and that Scottish burr of his hypnotized her. “This is our place, where none are allowed to interrupt us or intrude, lest we invite them to do so.”

“I see.” The thing was, she really didn’t care why it was called a solar or sitting room. She was so nervous, she didn’t know what else to say. She rose from her seat and crossed the room to the windows. This wall faced the sea, unlike the windows in her bedchamber that faced the rolling glen. “It’s hard to tell where the sea stops and the sky begins. It’s all so dark out there except when the lightning flashes off the waves.”

Drummond’s warmth, his scent of wild, rain-swept lands and spices that reminded her of mouthwatering cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, swirled around her as he joined her at the window. She almost laughed. He did indeed smell good enough to eat. At that double entendre, she pressed her fingers across her lips. Maybe she’d had enough wine for a while.

“I brought ye more wine.” His smile seemed a little too knowing as he handed her the pewter goblet. With a tip of his head, he nodded at the view as he pushed open one of the windows. With his nearly black hair and dark eyes, he was just as mysterious as the night. “I never tire of it. Can ye not feel the ancient rhythm of life itself whilst listening to the wind and the waves?”

The cold, damp air washed across her, but she welcomed it. The wine and the company were keeping her plenty warm. And there was something in the wind besides icy rain and the briny tang of the sea. An eerie weightlessness, an impossible-to-ignore sensation that she was exactly where she was supposed to be, carried her along like a leaf caught in a whirlwind.

After a long, deep drink of the sweet beverage, she set the cup aside. Licking her lips, she noticed a telltale numbness. She had definitely had enough for a while. “So we’re married?” she asked as if she hadn’t already asked it before.

“Aye.”

She nodded and picked up her cup again for another drink. Tonight, there was no such thing as too much wine. “Where do we sleep? In my bedroom or…uhm…yours?”

The way he looked at her… Definitely smoldering. No. Not smoldering. Full-on blaze.

“We will sleep wherever ye wish, m’love. These rooms are ours to do with as we will.”

“Are the doors locked?”

“Griogair will not allow anyone to enter unless I tell him we are expecting them. Not even the maids.”

“What if Morganna returns?” She drained her cup and set it aside again.

“She can sleep in the servants’ quarters on this floor.” Drummond set aside his own glass, took her hands in his, and gently eased her closer. Then he leaned in and trailed a line of delightful nibbles along the curve of her neck and shoulder.

She shivered and struggled to catch her breath. Every time he touched her, and most especially whenever he kissed her, a powerful surge of this is what I have needed shot through her. She pressed closer still, molding herself against the hard lines of his muscular body. When his arms tightened around her, she felt safer than ever before—and somehow complete. Like she’d finally found the one thing she’d always been missing. She wrapped a leg around his and pulled herself higher against him. He was her mountain to climb.

He swept her up, then settled them both on the long, cushioned bench in front of the wall of windows, draping her across the top of him. After a deep, scorching kiss that made her head whirl, she tugged and fumbled with the ties and cloth-covered buttons of the formfitting jacket he’d worn for the feast. It had shown off the breadth of his chest, and she’d noticed that Lady Merelys seemed to appreciate it. A surge of jealousy made her yank on the buttons harder. “Are we going to have to cut you out of this thing?”

“Nay, lass.” His warm laughter poured over her, making her want him even more. “Let me shed the doublet, and then I’ll help ye with the ties of yer kirtle.” He lifted her and set her to one side, then undid the buttons with ease. Apparently, he knew the secret of getting the silly things to turn loose a lot faster than she did.

He shed it and tossed it aside, then helped her stand and turned her facing away from him. As he unlaced the back ties of the kirtle, he swept her hair to one side and nuzzled lingering kisses along her nape. “So verra sweet. Like the finest honey.”

Eyes closed, she smiled, luxuriating in his attention. “Don’t tell the bees. They’ll get jealous.”

“The bees will love ye because ye are the mistress of the keep.”