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“What?”
“What did you say, my lord?”
“I merely wondered whether, as my wife and, I gather, the mother of my future heir, you might not find yourself more gainfully occupied with duties that only you could properly fulfil. I would advise that you allow Elspeth and Betsy to continue as they are.”
“Your wife? So, you would consider it? Even though I have no dowry, no powerful family to pledge their aid and support?”
“I daresay you might contrive to convince me of the merits of such a selfless sacrifice on my part.”
Was that laughter in his low tone? Was he teasing, or, or… “Sir, please, I am not sure…”
“Then stop wringing your hands and get yourself over here now. Lay your fingers on my face, Roselyn. I want you to see me, to know what I am thinking just as I can read you, as clearly as I can discern the next day’s weather from the evening sky.”
“Can you really do that?”
“Roselyn, here. Now.” His tone had hardened, it was time to obey.
Roselyn scrambled across the mattress to reach him. He took her hands in his and guided them to his face. “See me,” he murmured. “Know what I want, what I need.”
Her nimble fingers fluttered across his features. She observed the curve of his full lips as they lifted in a smile, the firm set of his jaw angled toward her. He closed his eyes as she stroked his eyelids, his unfurrowed brow.
“You are not angry.”
“No, I am not.”
“You do not mind, about the baby?”
“Madam, you have never struck me as a fool. Why did you think I might? I like bairns well enough.”
“I was unsure. I…”
He took her hand in his and turned the palm up, then kissed the centre of it. “Have you seen enough? Are you convinced yet?”
“I am convinced that you are teasing me, my lord.”
“Good. And I am convinced that you will make an excellent Lady of Duncleit. Even if I was uncertain, I can be sure Elspeth would soon set me right on the matter. She holds you in high regard, my little Sassenach.”
“You call me that often. At first you meant it as an insult.”
“It is Gaelic, my mother tongue, and it means Saxon, though as I told ye afore, in the Highlands we use the word to refer to any lowlander or one from the borders, such as ye.”
“Is it an insult?” she asked warily.
“Not when applied to you, lass.” He rolled her swiftly onto her back and kissed her.
Roselyn wrapped her arms around the solid width of his shoulders. Could it be true, that this fine and handsome laird would be her husband? It was not so long ago that she had feared herself doomed to a loveless match with the likes of Sir John of Hexham. She welcomed his hot, questing tongue, sucked greedily on it as she returned his kiss.
“Ah, my demanding little English,” he murmured. “I do believe you require a decent fucking to quiet you down.”
Roselyn was quite convinced he was right, at least about the decent fucking. She mewled in frustrated disappointment as he eased his weight from her.
“Are you quite well, my love?”
Roselyn had believed she was, though she was starting to harbour doubts. Unassuaged lust could be somewhat debilitating, she was finding. Could he not just deliver on his promise? “Blair, are you still teasing me? I wish that you would not.”
He buried his face in her hair then trailed kisses along her shoulder which was still decently concealed within her prim nightdress. “And I wish that you would not come to our bed wearing quite so much. I meant, wi’ the bairn. Do you have any ill effects I should be knowin’ about?”
“I do not believe so, not exactly, but…” She hesitated, could she tell him? She had come this far, after all. “My breasts are very tender of late. I wonder if perhaps you might be a little less—exacting—than usual?”
