Chapter 8 #2
Emma tossed her hair back, narrowing her eyes.
She wished the simmering inside her would cool down so that she could think straight.
At the very least, he ought not to look at her that way.
It was hard to put a finger on what was bothering her so much about his direct stare, but it certainly was bothering her.
“All right. Let me tell ye what I think ye want, and ye can correct me if I am wrong.”
“Fine.”
“Ye want to bring me to this event and introduce me as the woman ye are courting. I’ll meet yer family and deal with all of that—sounds like a pain in the backside for me, by the way—while ye drink yerself silly and flirt with other women, free to enjoy yerself.
Then, at the end of the night, maybe I’ll be drunk and bored enough to go for a roll in the hay, or in a nearby field, maybe, with ye to round off the evening. Is that right?”
Thomas pursed his lips. “Except for the rolling part at the end, aye. That’s more or less what I had in mind.”
She snorted. “And, as I said before, the answer is nay.”
Moving forward, she made to walk past him, but he kept his arm across, blocking her way. Oh, it would be the work of a split second to duck under his arm, but for some reason that Emma could not fathom, she turned around and looked him in the eye instead.
“Move,” she demanded.
They were too close now, that was for sure.
The swell of Thomas’s bicep was only a few inches from Emma’s nose, and he was looking at her with that same hungry expression that had already sent shivers down her spine countless times.
His presence seemed to fill up her senses, and it was frustrating and wonderful all at once.
“This isnae a discussion, Butterfly,” he said, his voice husky. “I suppose ye could call it an order.”
“Oh, do ye usually have to order yer subjects to spend time with ye? Honestly, that makes sense to me.”
That was possibly too far, but his shadowed face split into a grin.
“Only the ones with smart mouths,” he shot back.
Then, he leaned forward and kissed her.
It happened in an instant, so fast that Emma didn’t have time to understand what had happened or why.
All she could understand was that Thomas’s fingertips were whispering along the line of her jaw, gently but firmly tilting up her chin towards him.
His lips were on hers, soft and tasting of ale and something sweet that she couldn’t identify.
The stubble on his skin grazed hers ever so slightly, and the scent of freshly-cut grass and sweet ale was almost overwhelming.
He was kissing her.
Laird Thomas MacPherson was kissing her, Emma the healer, a nobody from nowhere, and the idea of that was almost as intoxicating as the reality of the fact.
Aside from a few drunken, disgusting kisses men had stolen at the pub, she had never been kissed before. This was nothing like any of those awful experiences.
Thomas was gentle but just firm enough to stop the kiss from melting away to nothing.
He pulled her close, their bodies fitting together as if they were meant to be that close, and the simmering, coiling thing in her body increased and rejoiced.
She wanted something, and while the details of what that something might be were hazy, she was sure that she could find it here.
His palm rested flat against her back, warm and reassuring. The touch began to slip down and sideways, cupping the side of her ribs. Another half-inch and his fingers would begin to skim the swell of her breasts.
Much to her own surprise, Emma wanted him to touch her.
What would it feel like? Perhaps…
Then, just as quickly as the kiss had begun, it ended.
Thomas broke away, backpedaling from the doorway so that he stood in the light of the main chamber.
Emma sucked in a breath, feeling that she hadn’t breathed for at least ten minutes. Her lips felt strange and tingly, in a good way. Thomas’s eyes were wide, and for once, there was no trace of his usual complacent smirk on his lips.
“I shouldnae have done that,” he said.
It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over her face. She felt too hot and ridiculously silly all at once, and her legs were like jelly.
Of course he was shocked at himself. What laird would lower himself to kiss a healer? Pretty, chirpy maids were one thing, but a healer with green-stained fingers and mud-stained skirts?
Emma cleared her throat, smoothing out her apron, searching for something to say. Should she tell him that it didn’t matter? That she wouldn’t tell anyone? What did he want from her?
Thomas dropped his gaze, shaking his head furiously. “I promised…” he began, then broke off. “I’ll go. Thank ye for…” Trailing off again, he held up his nettle-stung arm, which was shiny with salve, and made a dash for the door.
She stayed where she was, blinking and trying to absorb what had just happened. The door opened and closed with a slam that reverberated around the room. The noise woke Delphine, who started in her armchair and blinked blearily around.
“Oh, did I doze off? Silly of me, eh? I’ll not sleep tonight. Did Laird MacPherson already leave, then?”