She drew the bed linens up to her chin and peered at him.
He’d removed his coat and uncuffed his shirt, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. He appeared to be barefoot, shed of his socks and boots. He wore only that open--necked shirt and his kilt, loosely belted and slung low on his hips.
“Are you ready?” His voice was darker than the shadows.
“I’m not certain,” she answered. “But I don’t think I’ll grow any readier.”
“If you’re fatigued, we could wait for the morning.”
“No, I . . . I think I should rather have it over with tonight.” Given any more time to think and worry, she might lose her nerve entirely.
“Well, then.”
He licked his fingertips, then extinguished the candles one by one, until the only light in the room came from the flickering red--and--amber fire in the hearth.
The bed dipped with his weight.
Maddie lay very still beneath the coverlet. Her heart was beating faster than a bird’s. She felt hot everywhere.
“There’s this.” She reached for the jar her aunt had given her. “Aunt Thea gave it to me. It’s some sort of cream or salve, I think. She said you’d know what to do with it.”
He took the jar, unscrewed the cap, and gave the contents a sniff.
“Aye. I know what to do with it.” He capped the jar and flung it away. It rolled into a darkened corner.
“But—-”
“I ken better than to let your aunt’s remedies anywhere near me,” he said. “I remember too well how her sleeping tonic fared. Your letter said you had a blistering rash for weeks.”
Maddie bit her lip and drew the coverlet tight about her shoulders. He remembered that? Even she’d forgotten about the sleeping tonic. But he was right, she’d been covered in itchy red bumps for weeks.
It was disconcerting how much he knew about her without knowing her at all. And when it came to knowing the real Logan MacKenzie, she was completely in the dark. In this situation, every advantage was his. He had knowledge, experience, control.
“Drink this instead.” He handed her a small flask.
“Is it medicine?”
“It’s Highland medicine. Good Scotch whisky.”
She gingerly lifted the flask to her lips.
“Toss it back. The burn is worse if you sip.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tossed her head back and tipped the flask, sending a bolt of liquid fire down her throat. Coughing, she handed it back.
“If the deed’s done right,” he said, “there willna be any need for any creams or salves.” His hand encircled her calf through the bed linens. “And I mean to do this right. You’ll enjoy it.”
She swallowed hard. “Oh.”
“Even so, it’s likely to pinch a bit when I—-”
“Right.”
“But it will be quick from there, much as it pains my pride to say it. That’s the usual way when a man’s gone without company for a time.”
Without the candles, the firelight cast him in murky silhouette.
She would have felt better if she could see him plain. No doubt he’d intended the darkness to be comforting, but Maddie was used to looking at natural creatures in an unfiltered, direct way. Observing where their pieces joined, learning how they moved and worked. Perhaps if she’d been given the same chance to survey his body—-even a furtive glimpse or two as he’d undressed—-her racing pulse would have calmed.
But it was too late now. The candles were out. And even if they could be relit, she didn’t know to ask for such a thing.
To her, he was merely shadow. Shadow with hands and heat and a deep, entrancing baritone.
“Don’t be afraid.” His hand drifted down her body, blazing a path of unprecedented sensation. “I know you’ve wondered about this. How a man fits with a woman. How it feels to be joined. I can show you everything. I’ll make it good. Verra good.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said.
“You can. There’s nothing easier. If this were difficult, humanity would have died out long ago.”
“I think you underestimate my capacity for taking normal human interaction and making it awkward.”
She inched away, putting space between them.
“Try to understand,” she said. “You’ve been reading my letters for years. You know so much about me, and I don’t have even the slightest understanding of you. Where you come from, how you’ve lived your life . . . to me, you’re little more than a stranger.”
“I’m your husband now.”
“Yes, but we’ve no history together. No shared memories.”
“We have seven years of actual history. And we do have memories.”
“Such as . . . ?”
He shrugged. “Remember when we first met and you fell on your arse? Remember when we strolled beside the water and spoke of marriage? Remember the time I kissed you so hard, you felt it in your toes?”
“No,” she replied defensively. “I only felt it so far as my ankles.”
He gripped her waist. “Well, then. I’ll have to try harder this time.”
He leaned in.