Chapter 33 #2
Reaching out, he gathered the ends of her hair in his hand. “If this is, as you say, representative of any constraints, then change it. Your life has changed, perhaps your hair should reflect it.”
“I couldn’t,” she said, but she turned and went to the dressing table. Sitting on the bench, she stared at herself again. “I truly couldn’t.”
“Shall I do it for you?”
She glanced up at him, amazed that he should offer. “Would you?”
“If you wish.”
She had never considered that she might rid herself of her burdensome hair, but now the temptation seemed almost too wonderful to resist.
Grabbing a handful of hair, Riona stared at the riot of auburn curls that were forever frizzed.
Thick and unruly, it marked her days with its care.
An hour was spent combing it in the morning and another hour was wasted brushing and braiding it at night.
What would it be like to be freed from such a chore?
“Yes,” Riona said quickly, before she could change her mind. “I will do it. Cut my hair, James.”
He came to stand behind her, and all she could see of him in the mirror was the lower half of his body.
His hands reached out to rest on her shoulders, pulling her back until her shoulders rested against his legs.
His fingers thrust into her hair, dislodging the rest of her carefully placed pins without thought to their cost or to the effort of finding them later.
But she didn’t open her mouth, didn’t speak the words that might have cautioned him.
Bending, he withdrew his dirk. The fingers of one hand trailed in her hair, lifting up the tresses. The silver knife glinted in the other hand, promising death to the mess of her hair. With a stroke, her appearance would be changed.
He hesitated just a moment, but Riona took a deep breath and spoke, “Go ahead,” she said in a surprisingly steady voice.
“Are you certain, Riona?”
“Yes.” She stared at her image in the mirror. The woman there looked resolute.
As one lock was severed she took a deep breath. Then another tress was cut, curling around his hand. He extended his fist toward her, and Riona covered his hand with both of hers, feeling the warmth of her hair between them.
“It’s not too late,” he cautioned.
Cutting her hair was a symbol of her new status, her freedom from a society restrictive toward unmarried women.
“People will think I’ve had a fever,” she said. “I’ll tell them it’s a recurring one.”
One by one the locks were snipped, falling to the floor as she watched. His hands were warm and large, the actions of his knife relentless as her hair was cut to just below her shoulders. The weight on her neck eased as he continued.
Once he stopped, he placed his hand against her forehead gently, pressed her head back so that she looked up at him. They shared a surprisingly somber upside-down look. How strange that he should be so formidable in his silence.
Now she glanced at the floor, stunned to realize how much hair lay there. The vision in the mirror had altered to become someone else. Someone she had only dreamed about in her wildest and most wicked fantasies.
Her hair fluttered around her shoulders, curling at the ends. Her lips were tempting. Her eyes were wide, holding secrets in their depths.
The knife clattered on top of the dressing table as James reached out with both hands to spear through her hair, bringing her head back once more to rest against him.
“Is this enough, Riona?” he asked in a hoarse voice unlike him.
“Yes,” she said, threading her fingers through her hair. Tiny hairs clung to her bodice, and she flicked them away. Standing, she turned and faced him, only to encounter his look.
His face was almost severe as he studied her. Self-consciously, she raised her hand, pulling at the ends of her hair.
“Don’t you like it?”
“It suits you.”
She brushed away the loose hairs at her neck and cheeks.
“Let me,” he said, removing her hand to retrieve a hair clinging tenaciously to her nose. That done, his fingers dusted like feathers across her cheeks and brow, down her neck. He blew gently against her collarbone, causing her to shiver.
His palms smoothed over her shoulders, down her back.
They were man and wife, yet at this exact moment, what was between them didn’t feel blessed as much as simply exciting.
Her breaths alternated with her heartbeat, both at a rapid rate. Cogent thought had flown from her mind at his appearance, and the only thing remaining was a need that recalled the pleasure of the moments they’d shared together.
“You are so beautiful,” he said.
There was no sorcery at the Witch’s Well, or in the Lethson ceremonies. There was magic, however, in his voice.
Stretching out his hand, he touched her shoulder, leaving a warm path to her elbow. She shivered, and he smiled.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head, thinking that he knew as well as she that it wasn’t a chill that caused her response.
He opened his coat, pulled her close. Riona linked her fingers at the back of his neck, staring up at him.
Slowly, in the silence, he bent his head and kissed her.
Her hands framed his face as she deepened the kiss. She could see starlight and blackness behind her eyelids, felt the surge of excitement being near him always caused in her. Reaching down, she moved his hands from her waist to press against her breasts.
Suddenly, he broke off the kiss and stood with his chest heaving, his chin resting against her temple.
She leaned against his chest, nodding. Her hands gripped his upper arms as she pushed herself away.
But she didn’t want to be cautious or prudent or even wise at this moment. She only wanted to feel.
Something wanton and wild and not altogether understandable made her want to remove her clothing in front of him and stand, one hand on hip, to let him look his fill.
There, Mrs. Parker, that is true wantonness.
Rory stood in front of the mirror in the room he and James had shared, slicking down his hair with some water from the ewer.
He had on a new white shirt that James had given him.
He hadn’t been able to afford new trousers and a coat, and didn’t feel that he should be asking for an advance on his wages, but the old ones were presentable.
On his shirt he’d pinned a MacRae clan badge, an emblem he prized above all others. Through it, he’d threaded a piece of moss, another symbol of the MacRaes.
He was feeling quite well, Rory decided.
The journey to and from Inverness hadn’t worsened the state of his leg.
In fact, it didn’t sting as much as before.
Although it would always be scarred, it wouldn’t show below his trousers.
His hand was a different matter. He’d lost the use of two fingers.
But, he reasoned, he might have done the same damage in a carpentry accident.
At least he still had them. It wasn’t as if they had been sheared off with a sharp saw.
That was the bad. As far as the good, he had quite a future ahead of him, working with James MacRae to build his new great house.
He would be occupied for years in good honest labor.
If one of the buildings he constructed happened to be his own cozy home, then perhaps he should be doing some thinking about who should occupy it besides him.
Even a snug little place could get lonely in the winter months.
Abigail had danced with him at Lethson, and she’d giggled, too. She’d even introduced her parents to him, and a brother and sister. A good start, he thought.
He smiled at himself in the mirror, the expression fading the longer he stared. Perhaps she would be offended if he addressed his comments to her.
This business of courting was a terrible thing, filled with all sorts of rules and regulations. Would she think him old enough? If not, he’d be willing to wait a year or so. After all, one didn’t find a girl like Abigail in every corner of Scotland.
Giving himself one last look, Rory smiled again, threw his shoulders back, and strode across the room. He opened the door and closed it with firmness, walked downstairs with resolve in his very footsteps. He sat at one of the tables waiting for Abigail to be finished with her duties.
A few minutes later, she came bustling into the kitchen, a tray in hand. She stopped at the doorway and stared at him. As if, he thought, irritated, she’d never seen him presentable before.
He stood and bowed slightly to her.
“Abigail,” he said.
She, in her frilly little cap and apron, performed a small curtsy.
“Rory.”
“Are you planning any entertainment this evening?” he asked, wishing that his throat felt less tight and that his heart wasn’t beating quite so fast. It made his words sound breathless, as if he’d run down the stairs.
“No, I’m not,” she said.
“Are you seeing anyone else, Abigail?” he asked, wondering if it was permissible to ask such a question.
She shook her head, still looking bemused. “I’m not, Rory.”
“Would you like to walk out with me from time to time, then?”
“I would,” she said, finally beginning to smile. “It seems a lovely evening tonight.”
He grinned back at her, thinking the world a wondrous place.
He offered her his arm, and they left the room, their destination uncertain. All each of them truly cared about was that they were together.
Susanna held her shawl tightly around her shoulders and slipped from the kitchen door. What she was about to do would, no doubt, horrify Polly, and most definitely shock Abigail. Cook, she suspected, would understand.
Why, then, was she doing something so wicked? Because it had been fifteen years since a man had touched her with desire in his eyes. Because tonight she wanted to forget she was a mother, a matron, an heiress. All she wanted to be was a woman.