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He massaged the warmth back into her toes, wondering how far up her shapely legs his fingers might wander before she rebuked him. “Nay, what I mean is, we were destined to meet, Eala. Now I’ve found ye, I dinna intend to let ye go.”
* * *
A tap at the door saved Eala from hiking up her skirts and inviting Ambrose to have his way with her. Just having his powerful hands knead her bare feet was arousing. Imagine if…
She’d been sorely tempted to stretch out her leg and stroke a toe along the swelling evident at Ambrose’s groin.
As if he knew what she was planning, he winked, kissed her toes, pulled the hem of her skirt over her feet and rose to unlock the door.
“Ollie, sir, come to fix the fire,” a tall lad of about thirteen summers explained.
The minutes dragged by while the scruffy, red-haired youth got the fire going. She was certain he must be able to feel the tension in the small room. It was as if the air crackled with the invisible alchemy between her and Ambrose. He stood by the hearth, ostensibly watching Ollie, but his gaze kept straying to her.
The longing in his eyes made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world. She was no longer the bedraggled wretch who hadn’t slept or eaten for two days, and who’d watched a man wrestle with unspeakable agony.
Guilt constricted her throat. She’d barely given a thought to Evan since leaving the bothy.
She wasn’t such a decent woman after all.
Sustenance
As soon as Ollie left, Ambrose sat in the vacant chair and reached over to lift the hem of Eala’s gown. “Warm yerself while we wait for our dinner.”
She stretched out her feet to the fledgling flames. “They’re nay as frozen now. Yer hands worked miracles,” she said, wiggling her toes.
Ambrose flexed his fingers, itching to bring her other pleasures with his hands. “Ye’ll feel even better once we eat.”
She stared into the fire. He got the feeling the events of the past while were beginning to catch up to her. “Poor Evan,” she murmured. “He’ll never be warm again.”
He took her hand. “Sit with me.”
She came willingly and nestled into his lap, her tears damp on his neck.
“Ye told me earlier I shouldna blame myself for what happened to Evan,” he said softly. “Ye are even less culpable. Most women would have stayed home and nay ventured out on the moor to visit a wounded rebel.”
He decided not to mention she’d made the sacrifice for a man she didn’t love. “How did the two of ye come to be betrothed?” he asked.
“My father arranged it. He was thinking of the advantages to him of a connection with Evan’s father. He’s powerful in the wool trade as well as being Lord Provost of Perth.”
His heart went out to her. All the women in his family had been lucky enough to marry men they loved. His parents would never force him to marry against his wishes. “I canna imagine being wed to someone ye dinna love.”
She retrieved a kerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, calmed by the hint of lavender that lingered. The episode in the chapel at Scone seemed a lifetime ago. “My father insisted most women are married to men they dinna love, and I ken ’tis true, but I’ve always wished…”
He took the kerchief and dabbed away the last of her tears. “Maybe, yer wish will come true.”
* * *
Dozing in Ambrose’s arms in front of a comforting fire, Eala began to believe dreams might come true. A rap at the door startled her awake.
“Sustenance,” he declared.
Eala slid off his lap and regained the second chair so he could unlock the door.
Ollie reappeared, no cleaner than when he left, accompanied by a maidservant. They placed the heavy trays they carried on a flimsy table in a corner of the room. “Savory onion pie, fried chicken, parsnips…” the lad grimaced at the latter…“and bread pudding, as well as The Black Swan’s finest brown ale.”
Ambrose fished in his waistcoat pocket and handed a coin to each of them. “Smells good. My thanks.”
“Sir,” Ollie replied, grinning from ear to ear.
