Deciding a drink wouldn’t hurt—nor would warming himself back up by the fire in the parlor—he accepted the offer and settled himself in an armchair with a glass of fine whisky and a week-old Edinburgh newspaper. He must have dozed off because he woke with a jolt sometime later. Running his hands through his hair, he groggily rose from his chair and made his way upstairs.
The room was mostly dark, only the dim light of the fire saved the chamber from complete darkness. He made out the vague shape of her lying in the bed. As still as stone. Although he knew she wasn’t stone.
She had a fierceness to her, without a doubt. But there was a softer side to her, too. He’d seen it. Watched her as she interacted with the crofter’s wife. There had been something in her eyes . . . compassion that he rarely saw in the drawing rooms of London. She’d been dealt a difficult life, to be sure, but she still possessed a tender heart and cared about others.
He’d never really considered how privileged he was . . . never counted himself particularly fortunate, but she made him think about that. She made him feel like a churlish, ungrateful wretch.
He approached the bed, his eyes acclimating to the near darkness. Peering down at the outline of her body, he identified that she slept with her back to him, her hair a loose and flowing trail winding over the lighter counterpane.
Inhaling, he caught the clean, soapy scent of her. She might be still as stone, but she was no inanimate lump. She was flesh and blood—a living, breathing female for whom he was responsible.
The idea pinched at the center of his chest and he couldn’t fathom why. He was accustomed to having servants. Why should the addition of one more give him pause? His lips twisted wryly. He supposed she was different from the rest. He had never shared a bed three nights straight with any of them. That made her a little different, indeed.
He moved away from the bed to stand before the fire. Holding out his hands, he let the warmth penetrate. A small sound from the bed drew his attention. She stirred and he held his breath for some reason, not releasing it until she settled back down, falling to stillness.
He removed his clothing, garment by garment, draping them over the back of a chair. Moving back to the bed, he stopped at the edge. His hands twitched at his sides as he stood there, hesitating. Damn. They really needed to stop sleeping in the same bed.
Their first night together he had simply climbed into bed with her, giving it little thought. Then, she was nothing more than a woman he had bought at auction. Someone he’d taken pity on and helped through a difficult time.
Now she was something more.
No longer a stranger.
In the matter of days, it was no longer so simple to dismiss her from his mind.
Scowling, he pulled back the covers on his side of the bed and slid in beside her, determined to not let this affect him.
When he left London alone it was because he wanted to be alone—and yet here he was. With her. Decidedly not alone.
But that wasn’t the real problem. The problem was that he liked her. He was enjoying her. Enjoying not being alone. Bloody hell. He was enjoying being with his new housekeeper.
The sooner they reached Kilmarkie House the better.
Chapter 14
The dove was unaccustomed to being touched.
The cage bars were narrow and made it difficult to be reached.
She didn’t know what woke her, but it wasn’t a nightmare. Not this time.
She lifted her head with a tiny gasp. It was still night outside. Dark air peeped around the edges of the curtains and pressed against the narrow strip of visible glass.
The fire in the hearth had burned low but there was enough of a glow to make out the shape of the window and a framed landscape hanging on the wall beside it. A single cow marked the landscape, facing the viewer, wearing an expression that was much too shrewd for a cow.
Despite the waning fire, she was warm and snug beneath the covers. She contemplated rolling over, but she was aware of a weight draped over her, pinning her in place on the bed.
Her heart raced as she grew more and more aware of what that weight was: an arm around her waist and a leg draped over her thigh.
She was wrapped up in a man. A big man.
Even after these last two nights of sharing a bed it was a shocking and alien sensation.
She twisted her neck to risk a peek behind her.
It was indeed Marcus Weatherton, dead to the world. He slept soundly, his lips parted, emitting a slight snore. She hadn’t noticed he snored before. It only made him all the more human to her.
Some of her unease faded. Of course, he slept. He wasn’t falling on her like a slavering beast. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t even aware of her existence in the bed next to him.
She looked down at the bare arm wrapped around her. She inhaled a ragged breath and willed her composure to remain in place. After a moment, she lowered her fingers to his skin, warm and lightly roped with sinew just beneath the flesh. He might be hugging her like a pillow, but he was unaware that he was doing so. It was quite safe. A harmless snuggle.
Then why were her nerves all tangled? They were not man and wife. There would be no consummating of marriage vows. By now she knew that.
Her fingers relaxed on his arm, easing, tracing idly.
She could not help wondering if this was what it would be like every night to sleep with and be held by a man who loved her. Her parents had been a love match. Once upon a time she had assumed she would marry for love just as they had. Before Papa died and life became about what was necessary.
Her eyelids grew heavy again. She trailed her fingers up and down his arm, pretending, believing in the fantasy for a moment that she had that.
He released a sigh. She felt it against the back of her head, ruffling her hair.
Suddenly she was pulled closer, her back dragged up against his hard chest. She swallowed a squeak. Her eyes flared wide and she stilled her touching of his arm.
She shifted slightly, trying to put some space between them, but that didn’t work either. He pulled her back against him.
The heat of his chest radiated through the cotton of her gown. How much clothing was he wearing? Or rather . . . how little? Had he reverted to his tradition of sleeping naked?
That great leg of his still draped over her. It bore down on her thigh like a tree trunk, pinning her.
And then she felt it. An increasing hardness against her bottom. It stirred and grew, nudging into her backside until she had a fairly good idea she was feeling the swell of his manhood. She sucked in a breath.
She understood the mechanics of sex. She’d lived too long on a farm not to know such things.
He was asleep. Completely unaware of his body’s reaction. She could wake him and he’d withdraw, no doubt with an apology.
Only she was awake.
She knew what was happening. She was wholly, achingly aware and the sensations seizing her body were hard to ignore. Heady and enticing. Her skin hummed very much like it had the night before when he touched her palms, his fingertips feather soft. Only this was . . . more. More intense. More breath-robbing. Her flesh felt tight, as though it didn’t fit over her bones.
She wanted to lean into him and explore these new sensations a bit longer. Her limbs felt languid and heavy, her lower stomach tight, pulsing. And between her legs something unfamiliar pulled there. Different and frightening but no less exciting.
She surrendered to it.
Holding herself still, she enjoyed the drape of his body over hers far more than she should. So heavy and male. She inhaled. Oh, he smelled so good. She closed her eyes in the semidarkness in one long agonizing blink. It was wanton, she knew. Guilt flashed through her until a voice rose up inside her in swift defense. Wasn’t this the thing she had been longing for? A new life? New experiences?
Besides, she wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t even moving.
She was just lying here. No harm in that.
His hand shifted. Those fingers that had brushed her palm and arm so intimately the night before covered her breast now. Heat shot through her from her breast to the throbbing at her center.