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She reached up, cradling his face, mirroring how he touched her.
The air in his lungs rushed out. He shifted his head for just a moment so that his warm bottom lip dragged across the pad of her thumb. Her fingers flexed, caressing his smooth jaw.
“Perhaps I’ll shock you as well,” she replied. “I didn’t call on you to behave like I’m at the British Museum and you’re an exhibit. Iwantto touch you.”
Her hands moved down and rounded over his biceps. Her gaze followed her touch, and after some experimental stroking, she ran her nails over him through his shirt.
His mouth was lowering to hers when her hands tightened around his arms, stilling him.
“I have to tell you something.”
James considered ignoring her statement and closing the small gap between their mouths. Hadn’t they exchanged enough words?
But he straightened, looking into her eyes. His breath caught at the emotions and anticipation he saw; she looked eager and afraid all at once.
“I took matters into my own hands. I prepared my body for you.” When he frowned, confused, she continued. “I made use of a phallus from the apothecary. I’m not a maiden anymore.”
He shook his head, almost disbelieving. What had this fierce woman put herself through?
He lowered his forehead to hers. “Did you—did it hurt?”
She shrugged.
He’d imagined their first time together many times these past weeks, even though he told himself it wouldn’t happen. He hadn’t relished her virginity, but he honored it—he’d arouse her, make sure they took their time, and when the moment came, he’d be with her through any discomfort.
“Och, Clara. You needn’t have been alone for it!”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
He shook his head grimly. “Brave, wee fool.” His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, and one side of his mouth quirked up. “Let us hope that when morning comes, circumstances will permit something more than ‘it wasn’t so bad.’”
She laughed lightly, drawing his gaze to her mouth. She sobered. “I’m not scared now. That part is behind me.”
“I’ll still take care with you, lass.”
He slipped his hands to the back of her head, seeking the sterling silver comb. He remembered the grape design from the night in her parlor; it too, had featured in his imagination when he visualized this moment.
He pulled it out gently, not wanting to scrape her scalp. As soon as it was free, he set it on the table.
The urge to toss the comb into the pile of objects on the carpet had called to him, but he imagined the possession was a favorite. His fingertips massaged into her hair and scalp for a moment, hindered by hairpins. Could he trust his cloddish fingers to remove them?
“Pull out the pins, Clara.” His voice was so gravelly it sounded like a gruff order. He cleared his throat. “Will you take your hair down for me?”
James held her gaze while she undertook the task. As the pile of U-shaped wire pins grew next to her comb, so too did the visible quiver in her hands. After she struggled with one of the last pins, he captured her hands and brought them to his chest.
He left one of his hands covering hers and raised the other for her to see. She gave a husky laugh when she saw his tremor, looking up at him with surprise.
“You may not be scared anymore, but I am.” He wasn’t ashamed to make the quiet admission, not if it helped ease her own nerves.
“I won’t hurt you,” said Clara. “I’ll take care with you.”
James couldn’t laugh at her promise, not when it was so earnestly offered. He swallowed and reached up to extricate the last hairpins.
Breathing hard, he loosened her thick tresses, moving them over her shoulders. His fingertips traced the soft waves down over her breasts.
Then he started again at her forehead, tenderly tracing her temples, and down her hair, over her clavicle, her ribs. He spread his fingers into her hair, gently raking over her nipples through her dress.
She whimpered, eyelids heavy as she swayed towards him. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and the scent of roses wafted up from it.
