The Highlander’s Accidental Wife (Queen’s Edict #3)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

“Yes,” Helena breathed, even as Damien’s callused thumb swept a beguiling line up and down her neck.

Delicious ripples ran up her spine, and she tried not to imagine what it might be like to feel that touch somewhere—anywhere else.

“You can try and pretend that it’s a lark, but I know the truth now.”

“Hm, we shall see,” Damien murmured. “I am a selfish bastard in many other ways, Lena. Give it time. Still, I will try to be a decent husband to ye. I can do that much.” His grin curved up his cheek. “Like now, I should tell ye that a Lady of Morighe never kneels—nae even to her Laird. But I like the look of ye gazin’ up at me, and those lips…” His thumb traced her lower lip, and she sucked in a breath. “Ye should stand up now, Milady, before I start gettin’ ideas.”

Eyes wide, realizing what he meant, Helena scrambled up and walked away, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. She’d heard of such things, even seen a rather suggestive woodcut in her stepbrother’s rooms. And now, of course, it made sense that married people took carnal pleasures in such things, for when folks were man and wife…

“What are ye thinkin’ of, I wonder?”

Damien let out a wicked chuckle, and she took a deep breath before turning. Her husband-to-be had silently risen and now stood at the sideboard, pouring himself another drink.

“Go on, then. I’m verra curious.”

His blue eye twinkled at her over his glass as he drank, and her mouth went dry. She could not tell him! Even if he’d guessed.

“Wh-What a husband and wife—” she blurted out, and he all but ripped the glass away from his mouth, staring at her. “What they should like to read. Together.”

Damien’s grin was a slow, sinful thing, and he leaned against the wall, shrugging one shoulder. “I cannae say, but I can make inquiries.” His blue eye danced, and Helena cursed her foolish answer. “The libraries of Morighe are in need of an update, but perhaps there are some that should be kept in the bedchamber of the Laird and Lady.”

“Wait,” Helena said and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Are there books like that? In addition to…?”

Damien stood straight and put down his glass, even though it was still full. “To what?” he echoed, and Helena moved toward the door. “Nay, Helena, ye may nae flee now. Finish that sentence.”

“I-I meant, in addition to what one should put in a library,” Helena got out, with no idea of what she was saying. She felt almost dizzy, the room felt too warm, and her chest felt tight even though she was not wearing any stays. “Like Banrose.”

“Aye, Banrose,” Damien said and prowled toward her, even as she moved back toward the fireplace, though she did not trust herself to sit. Or stand. She had not felt like she had so many limbs since her debut. “Our library isnae as fine, to be sure, but the bastards had quite a head start on our clan.” He cocked his head as she moved behind her chair, pretending to lean on it and idly warm her hands by the fire. “With yer help, I believe we can rival it. Buy what ye want, ye hear me?”

“I hear you,” Helena said and breathed out as he sat again.

“There is a condition, though,” Damien added and gestured to the chair. Helena came and sat, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me what ye need yer one year for.” He held up a hand. “Listen to me. Nae why. I already agreed. This is curiosity—we have that in common, lass.”

Her instinct was to shrink back, to hide, to cut him with a caustic comment and prevent him from returning. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked at the fire.

Why is this so hard?

“I haven’t told anyone,” she whispered.

“Nae even Emma?”

Lifting her head, Helena gave a slow shake of her head. “No. It’s too—too close to my heart for me to speak of, I think.” She swallowed. “I want to finish a translation that my mother started.”

Damien sat back and gazed at her as though he were drinking in every word. When he did not speak, Helena grasped her elbows and sat forward, glancing toward the door as though her father might burst in and scold her.

“It’s just us, lass,” Damien said, and her eyes flicked back to him. “Go on. Yer maither was a translator, then?”

Helena gave a slow shake of her head. “I’m not sure. She loved languages, though, and I have her gift. I’m a quick study. Give me a year or two, and I shall know Gaelic, I warn you.”

Damien let out a bark of laughter. “I look forward to it.”

She gave him a quick smile and then turned inward, thinking of the shadowed library, the locked door that she had picked, and the small room within. All the papers, the dried-up quills, the dust and disarray. Her mother’s small study, hidden and forgotten, until she stumbled upon it. She’d had to move fast and clean it out, for if the servants or her father had gotten wind of it, they would have burned everything.

She told this to Damien, who frowned. “Burn? Why?”

“My mother’s memory is a burr under the saddle for my father,” she said. “He loved her in his own way, but it was a smothering, dictatorial, and pedantic relationship. It seemed she could do nothing right but be beautiful. However, after Sophia’s birth, she struggled and grew too thin, too lackluster, as he often said. She simply… was not the same.”

“How terrible, to nae help her through it,” Damien murmured. “And that isnae love, lass.”

Helena let out a rough laugh. “Unfortunately, I think it often is.”

“Nay,” Damien said in an intense voice, though it was soft. “I ken what true affection looks like. I saw it every day between me faither and maither. ‘Twas nae skin deep, but soul deep. They looked at each other as though they were a sky full of falling stars over a still ocean, stealin’ kisses in corners, always defendin’ each other, though lovin’ a bit of a row and a jest—” He broke off, seemingly catching himself, and Helena swore there was a faint flush on his cheeks. “Yer faither is a right arse. And if he could get his head out of it, then perhaps he could’ve loved yer maither the way she deserved.”

Helena pressed her hands against her chest, and she suddenly felt the weight of the Scottish poetry book against her leg, in her pocket.

He reads poetry, I think . A Scottish warrior would.

“Perhaps. He did always say he loved her, but I suppose I never saw proof of it, like you say.”

“And that she hid her work from him, lass,” Damien said softly. “I ken that ye ken—I see it in yer eyes.”

Helena’s throat tightened, and she gazed at the fire. The silence stretched between them for several moments, and then he spoke again.

“Was it a play?”

“ Iphigenia en Tauris ,” she answered and looked at him. His eyebrows were raised. “Yes. Not yet fully translated into English. It’s exciting.”

“I should like to read that,” he said. “Verra much.”

“I have some of her translated poetry, too,” Helena said, all eagerness, even as something akin to frantic wings beat against her breastbone. “And some of her own writing. The scraps left. She was so different from the woman I remember. As if she was a different person, then she became my father’s wife, and that was…” she trailed off as misery rose, and her breathing grew shallow.

Again, tiredness hit her, and she cursed herself for speaking so to a laird. He would not appreciate the insinuation that becoming his wife would consume her, would be a tragedy, a loss?—

“Ye arenae yer maither, lass,” Damien said, and she stood up. He gazed up at her for a moment. “Ye willnae lose yerself. I am nae the kind of man who needs to cannibalize those around him for power or amusement.”

“You say that now,” Helena blurted out, then gasped and inclined her head. “Apologies, I am too tired for this conversation. I’ll go now, as you asked.” But Damien was there, catching her arms. “Please, let me go. I know I spoke out of turn?—”

“Ye did nay such thing,” Damien said in a fierce tone. “Speak how ye like.” She sensed his gaze on her. “I dinnae like this side of ye, lass. I ken that ye are tired, and I apologize for wakin’ ye, but at the same time, I am glad. Ye got me to listen, so now listen to me.” He gave her a small shake, and she looked up. “Yer faither is a petty tyrant, and I imagine he could be cruel in cunning ways that made ye blame yerself, hide yerself—as yer poor maither did.”

Helena tried to speak but could not, but she slowly lifted her eyes to his.

“That is the last thing I want,” Damien murmured. “Speak yer mind. Always.” To her surprise, his lips met her forehead, then he laughed in her ear and said, “Ye shall never have to hide. In fact, I shall demand the opposite.”

Overcome, Helena gave in to the urge and clutched at his shirt, pressing herself against him and her cheek into his shoulder. For a moment, she let herself have this comfort, and then she made to pull away. Only, Damien wrapped his arms around her and laughed in her ear again.

“Och, I think I’ve earned a proper hug, lass.” He tightened his arms around her as she made to pull away. “Go on, then.”

Her breath seemed to shake as she let go of his shirt. One hand slid up, curious, over the hard ridges of muscle and hooked around his neck. The other, she slid around his back. Her eyes closed as their bodies pressed together, and she inhaled his scent, then let her cheek rest on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Helena murmured and turned her head, gazing at his strong, corded neck, his ear, and his dark hair.

“Mm, ye are welcome, lass,” he rumbled in her ear.

Helena struggled not to arch into him or tighten her grip. She did not want this to end.

“But I think ye are mistakin’ me gestures for selflessness again.” Then, his lips were at her ear, and he whispered, “Or are ye tryin’ to seduce me this time?”

Now Helena jerked back, and Damien let her go, only to seize her waist. She braced her hands on his shoulders, noting that the agony and distance on his face were completely gone, as though they had never been there. As though the storm was no longer raging outside, even as she saw a flash of lightning out the window.

No. Amusement and sin simmered in Damien’s gaze now, and then a playful, dangerous smirk appeared. Helena pressed her legs together and shook her head. Only, she wasn’t sure who or what she was saying no to.

Damien’s wicked thumbs began to brush back and forth, tracing her hipbones, and even the thick dressing gown couldn’t stop her from almost whimpering. Pleasure made her knees go weak and her fingers curl into his shirt. What if she leaned forward and kissed that bare skin, felt the brush of his chest hair against her cheek?

“What are ye thinkin’ of, I wonder,” Damien intoned, and her gaze flew up. His blue eye smoldered. “Here I am, admirin’ yer dream to translate the Greek Drama, finish what yer maither started, and yet…”

“What?” Helena nearly gasped as his hands squeezed.

“Yet I wonder if perhaps ye dinnae need yer year. If this is yer war on the north, Sassenach . Torturin’ me, seducin’ me into losin’ me mind.” He gave a mock mournful shake of his head. “Ye are English—ye play so dirty and sink so low.” His gaze glinted. “Right down to yer knees.”