Chapter Seven #3
When he whirled to look at her, she instinctively flinched, huddling away from him.
He cursed, and she trembled. Despite her best intentions to be brave and resolute, she tensed, cringing inside when he grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a slight shaking.
Moira realized that she was not afraid of the pain he might inflict, but that he would be the one to inflict it.
She desperately wanted him to be different.
“Sweet Mary, lass, dinnae cringe from me.”
“Ye are angry.”
“Nay, I am not angry. But what matter if I was? Think, my wee timid Moira. What have ye done that would give me the right to be angry at you?”
She frowned as she stared at him, then said, “Naught. I have done naught.” She relaxed a little, her fear easing as annoyance crept over her. “So why are ye angry, then?”
“Weel, I am not angry. ’Tis something else that causes my dark mood. That woman’s clothes will fit ye?”
His gaze left her face. She frowned a little over how abruptly he had changed the subject.
When she felt him move his hands over her bare shoulders in a light caress, she began to lean toward him.
A moment later she noticed that he was staring intently at where the blanket was cinched beneath her arms and lightly tucked around her breasts.
There was a look on his face she had come to recognize well over the last week.
Tavig’s desire was running hot. A searing memory of the passionate embraces they had shared while in their prison tore through her mind.
She felt her desire for him sweeping through her.
Tavig wanted her—badly. Moira found the knowledge intoxicating.
She wanted him now as desperately as she had when they had been held captive, facing the often gruesome death meted out to condemned witches.
Suddenly Moira knew that clinging to her innocence might be the right thing to do, the wisest thing to do, but she no longer wanted to be right or wise.
She no longer wanted to hold herself in righteous purity for a marriage that might never come or would be arranged without any consideration for her feelings.
She wanted Tavig, she wanted to know the fullness of the passion his kisses stirred within her.
And she no longer cared if she would have to pay some penalty later for giving in to that greed.
“Tavig?” She briefly touched his thick hair, causing him to look at her.
Tavig cursed softly, abruptly releasing her. “Sorry, lass. I willnae do anything ye dinnae want, so ye need not look so worried.” He sat down and yanked off his boots. “We had best get some sleep, lass.”
She frowned and remained kneeling by their meager bed as he stripped down to his hose. “But I thought—”
“Thought what? That I hungered for ye? Aye, I have since I first set eyes on ye. And right now, seeing ye sitting there wearing naught but a thin blanket, the firelight kissing your bonnie shoulders, I am twisted up inside with hunger for you. But ye need not fret. Aye, I willnae stop trying to woo ye into my arms, but I willnae try to take what I want. So lie ye down and let us get some twice-cursed sleep,” he grumbled as he sprawled on his back.
Moira almost smiled when she heard the sulkiness in his voice.
He was behaving honorably, but he was not enjoying it at all.
She then frowned, wondering how she could let him know he did not have to be a gentleman any longer.
It would require a boldness she was not sure she could muster.
There was the lurking fear that by acting boldly, she could make him think poorly of her or, worse, discover she had misjudged the depth of his desire for her.
She took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve and, in a soft, somewhat timid voice, said, “Mayhap ye need not woo me so gently anymore.” A soft cry of surprise escaped her when, in one clean, swift move, he was kneeling in front her.
“What did ye just say? I want to be sure I heard ye correctly, lass.”
Although she could feel a blush burning in her cheeks, she repeated, “I said mayhap ye need not woo me so gently now.”
His hands unsteady, he reached out to draw her thick braid forward over her shoulder and began to unravel it. “There will be no turning back, dearling. I cannae return what I will take from ye if we become lovers.”
“I ken it. I have decided I”—She cleared her throat—“I want ye to have it as I have no wish to die still clutching my purity and, if I wed, I willnae have a choice in whom I give it to.” When he did nothing more than unbraid her hair and comb his fingers through it, she grew uneasy, unsure of herself. “Why do ye hesitate?”
“Ye have so much fear in ye, loving. I need to be verra sure ye ken what ye ask for, because I dinnae wish to move too swiftly or step wrong. Then I would do naught but add to your fears.”
Moira was not sure how much more she could do to convince him that she knew exactly what she wanted.
She had said aye. She had confessed to wanting him.
She had declared that she did not wish to cling to her purity any longer.
What else could she say? Then instinct told her that words would not be enough.
She had to act. Astounded at her boldness, she slowly unhitched the blanket, allowing it to fall in a heap around her hips.