Chapter 16
Thomas hauled her down the corridor, heading further into the depths of the building.
Emma had the vague feeling that she ought to be afraid, or at least distrustful, but the feeling wasn’t coming.
She only felt breathless, nervous, as if something were coming her way, and she couldn’t wait to meet it.
He headed down a narrow, dark corridor, choosing the third door on the left with no hesitation. That brought them into an office, a place laden with books and papers, with a couch in the corner that somebody appeared to have been sleeping in.
Emma finally came to her senses and wrenched her hand out of his grip.
“Get yer hands off me,” she hissed. “What do ye mean by dragging me about like this?”
“Well, would ye have come here if I asked?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’m going.”
She turned to the door, not entirely sure whether she meant to walk out of it or not.
“Stay. Please.”
Emma swallowed reflexively, stopping dead in her tracks.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught Thomas looking at her, a strange, hungry expression in his eyes.
He was leaning back against the desk, arms crossed across his chest, making the muscles of his shoulders and chest bulge against his shirt.
She wished she hadn’t noticed that, as it made the odd, hungry ache in her stomach clench harder.
“What is it?” she asked, crossing her arms too. “Ye are the one who insisted I come to this party. Why should I not make some friends?”
He snorted. “Ye think that boy wanted to be yer friend?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Don’t be foolish. He was flirting with ye, and ye were flirting back.”
“Ye think having a conversation is flirting, then? God help ye, how do ye go through life thinking that everyone is in love with ye? Actually… actually, that might make sense.”
Thomas suppressed a smile. “Fine. Ye were allowing him to flirt with ye, then.”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “So what if I was? I am a single woman, and I can do what I like. So, I ask ye again, if I was letting him flirt with me, so what?”
“So what? What do ye mean, so what? Ye cannot let a man flirt with ye while ye are here with me.”
“And why not?”
The question crackled in the air between them like a challenge. Thomas narrowed his eyes, their expressions and body language mirroring. He took a step closer, bringing them within arm’s reach of each other.
Emma should have stepped back to keep the space between them.
She didn’t.
“Ye cannot let other men flirt with ye, Emma Gallagher,” he enunciated carefully, “because ye are mine. Mine, and mine alone.”
She absorbed this for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“I am not yers, Laird MacPherson. I am my own and nobody else’s. I’d thank ye to remember that.”
Thomas was silent for a moment.
Well, perhaps not a moment. Their whole conversation had taken no more than a minute or two, sharp retorts rapped out between them. The silence could only have lasted a few seconds at most, but they seemed to stretch out forever.
In that breathless pause, Emma became aware of the muffled, distant hum of music, chatter, and laughter, with the sharp noise of clinking glasses and tankards cutting through the buzz.
The floorboards below her feet were warm, the heat of countless bodies below seeping up through the cracks.
There was a single candle sitting on a bookcase in the corner of the room, and it did a poor job of lighting the space.
Shadows jumped over Thomas’s face and form, highlighting curves and swells of muscle and the well-shaped planes of his face.
Desire clenched her insides as if she’d swallowed a snake. This was the first time she’d been able to put a name to the hungry, dark feeling inside her that swirled violently whenever Thomas was around and refused to be quiet.
She swallowed hard, making a clicking noise in the quiet.
He lunged forward without warning, and she grabbed him halfway.
She was never sure which one of them instigated a kiss, only that his lips met hers hard enough to push them against her teeth, and it was too much and not quite enough all at once.
His body, firm with muscle and emanating heat, pressed against hers, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, digging in her fingers.
They broke apart to suck in a breath, their eyes wide.
In the flickering candlelight, Thomas’s eyes were shadowed, hiding their expression.
This excited Emma far more than it should, and desire fizzled in her gut again.
His arms were wrapped tightly around her, one arm resting around the curve of her waist, the other palm splayed hotly against her back, between her shoulder blades.
She felt him lift his hand, his rough knuckles trailing across her cheek, impossibly soft.
“I am afraid ye cannot do exactly what ye like,” Thomas said softly, “because ye are mine, lassie.”
The words were like hot spears through Emma’s stomach.
In a good way, of course.
“How can ye say that sort of thing?” she replied, her voice embarrassingly raspy. “What about Astrid?”
Faint confusion knitted his brow. “Who?”
“Astrid. That beautiful barmaid downstairs. Ye must remember her.”
“I don’t. Ye want to know the truth, Emma? I’ve not laid a hand or eye on another woman since I met ye.”
That couldn’t be true. Emma’s breath hitched in her throat. Surely this was just something he said to women he wanted to bed. Surely it was a ploy to make them feel special, wanted, needed…
And yet, there wasn’t a lie in Thomas’s eyes. If there was, she couldn’t see it.
He kissed her again, more softly this time, although his arms tightened around her. The pressure was delicious, and she wound her own arms tighter around his shoulders, her fingers skimming up his spine to rest in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.
“Let me show ye what I mean when I say ye are mine,” Thomas spoke in her ear, his voice low enough to be a growl.
He swept her up as if she weighed nothing at all, and for a moment, the world blurred before her already dizzy gaze.
Something hard and square solidified beneath her, and she realized with a jolt of surprise that he’d placed her on the desk.
Her arms automatically reached out behind her, supporting her weight on her elbows.
Thomas leaned over her, and she automatically hooked her knee over his hip to keep her balance.
His lips moved from her lips to her cheek, sliding effortlessly down to her neck. The skin there was sensitive, and Emma sucked in a breath, closing her eyes against the sensation. She was vaguely aware that her skirts had fallen and crumpled around her knees, but she didn’t care. Not one bit.
Desire was pooling in her gut, intensifying with every caress, kiss, and touch he gave her. She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted, only that she wanted something, and if he stopped touching her, she would die, instantly, right here on this desk which probably belonged to Dominic.
His hand slipped underneath the folds of her skirts, his palm hot and careful against the bare skin of her thigh. Emma sucked in a breath, her eyes flying open.
“Ye are all right, lassie,” Thomas murmured, his lips half-pressed to her neck. “I’ll not hurt ye.”
His fingertips danced up her thigh, gentle and fleeting. Teasing, almost. Emma hadn’t truly believed he would touch her there until he did, his fingers reaching the spot between her legs. She sucked in another breath, sharp and surprised, digging her fingers into his shoulder.
Thomas touched her firmly and rhythmically, with the confidence of someone who’d done this before and knew how to get the desired result. Every fresh wave of sensation was dizzyingly new to Emma. She squeezed her eyes shut, lost in the sensations of his moving hand and his lips on her neck.
The feelings rolled and coiled like a wave, heightening and peaking until a climax crashed over her, and she couldn’t quite bite back a cry.
She felt him smile against her neck, nuzzling his nose against her. He stilled, and she tried to regain her breath.
“That was…” she began, her voice embarrassingly hoarse.
“See what I mean?” Thomas murmured, his voice low against her neck, sending vibrations through her whole body. “Ye are mine, Butterfly.”
Emma drew in another breath. Was it her imagination, or had all the breathable air been unceremoniously whisked out of the room?
Thomas leaned back, his face red and his eyes dark with desire, and Emma’s breath stuck in her throat.
What now?
It only seemed fair that she returned the favor, but she didn’t exactly know how to do that. She wasn’t experienced in these matters like Thomas, so perhaps he could show her how to…
She shifted just a little and let out a yelp as something sharp dug into her hip.
“Ouch!”
Thomas flinched, backing away, and the moment was gone.
“Ah,” he murmured, reaching forward to pick up a large piece of rock from the desk. “Dominic uses these as paperweights.”
Emma laughed softly, rubbing at the new bruise on her hip.
“There is a couch right there that we could have used.”
Was it her imagination, or did Thomas’s cheeks color at that? Surely not. Surely she, a virgin healer, could make the famously raking Laird MacPherson blush.
“I considered that,” he admitted. “But I reckon Dominic is sleeping there, and that’s… that’s a wee bit off-putting. I love him like a brother, ye see, so…” he trailed off, pulling a face, and Emma giggled. She felt giddy as if she were drunk.
“That’s a fair point. Will ye tell Dominic about…”
Thomas gave her a Look. “No, I’ll not be telling Dominic that we did this in his office. As to him sleeping in his office, we ought to find him a wife.”
“Or get him a bed.”
Thomas laughed softly at that, his expression turning speculative and hungry again. Emma felt wrung out and had a strange feeling that her legs might not support her if she dared to slip off the edge of the desk and try to walk.
Thomas tilted his head to one side as if he could read the thoughts going around in her head.
“Are ye tired?” he asked, his voice low and soft.
As if he… as if he cared.
Stop it.
The ripples of pleasure were slowly leeching away, her normal self now beginning to return.
Did this mean anything? Was Thomas just swept up in the knots of jealousy, angry that Peter dared to flirt with the woman he had brought with him?
In a rush, Emma remembered that she and Thomas were betrothed. Well, they had told everyone they were betrothed. It wasn’t a real betrothal.
None of it was real.
Swallowing hard, she forced a smile. “I feel… I feel a wee bit tired, actually. Do ye think I could maybe go home? I don’t want to seem rude.”
Thomas’s expression turned unreadable, not helped by the guttering candlelight. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Of course, we can both go home together in the carriage,” he said lightly.
“I can walk or ride if ye would like to stay longer,” she offered.
Thomas gave a low chuckle. “That’s kind of ye to offer. Ye are a kind lassie, Emma. But no, I’ll leave when ye leave. Come on, let’s go, eh?”
He offered her his hand. Emma hesitated, not entirely sure why. It wasn’t as if anything bad would happen if she took his hand.
She reached out gingerly, feeling his warm, sure fingers close around hers. He pulled her effortlessly to her feet, a firm and immovable counterpoint to her jelly legs.
She had the strangest, irrational feeling that all would be well. Everything would be all right if she could just stay by his side.
Emma gave her head a little shake. These were not good thoughts. She needed to remember who she was, who he was, and think accordingly.
“Thank ye, Me Laird,” she said lightly. “I think I am ready to go home now.”
Thomas was watching her with that same inscrutable expression. “Very well,” he replied.