Chapter 31
Thirty-One
After Alasdair had pulled her to him and couried into her, Arabella had not slept.
I will not miss a moment of this night. She stayed awake for the remaining hours of darkness—memorizing the sensation of his arms around her, the feel of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his body coiled around hers.
There had been two moments during their coupling that had been of great significance to her.
She felt certain Alasdair would say the most important moment had been when they had first joined.
That had been important to her, as well, but only because it had been important to him.
She wanted him, yes, but she had also wanted this for him.
But for her, there were two entirely different times that would be engraved in her memory forever.
The first had happened after he had spent himself the first time.
He had then said to her that she could have him again.
She had stopped breathing, thinking the moment had come when he would promise her a future with him, an endless series of nights stretching into tomorrow and next week and next year and beyond.
But he had only meant he was capable of getting hard again right away.
Oh.
Her romantic Alasdair had become daringly wicked. And she had experienced an instant of mourning for what she had thought was going to be a proposal. But only an instant, as a wash of desire came over her, demanding he touch her.
The second important moment came when he had been inside her the second time, and, beyond the excitement of knowing his pleasure and the satisfying feeling of being filled, she had sensed a rising tide of her own need.
He was going to make her spend. She had reached the heights of ecstasy and had her first climax from someone besides herself.
She should have told him at the time that he had been her first. After her discussions with him about her desire, he would surely see it was a far more significant event for her than her penetration years-ago by Giles.
If only he had spent inside her, though.
Then, even if he never asked for her hand, she still might have something of his forever.
A redheaded baby. She smiled. If that happened, she really would have to go to the New World and start over completely.
As a make-believe widow, perhaps, living on some forested frontier with an auburn-haired daughter by her side.
She heard sounds in the house, knew it was morning despite the closed curtains, and managed to squirm from the lock of his arms. Her exhausted Alasdair slept on as she dressed and crept from the room.
She took the brown scarf with her and held it to her nose as she descended the stairs.
It no longer smelled of him, and she felt a pang of loss until she realized she, Arabella, smelled of him instead.
There was a sound of dripping from the eaves. The sun was out, the snow was melting, and Arabella could not bear to stay inside any longer.
She sought the butler out. “Please, Andrews, may I have my coat and bonnet and gloves? I must go for a walk.”
“We’ll be serving breakfast in half an hour, Mrs. Andrews.”
“Just let me have a piece of toast or something. I long to get out.”
That is how Arabella found herself tramping through three-foot drifts with a ham sandwich in her hand, feeling quite gloriously alive and very grateful to be so. She was getting out of breath from the exercise of walking in the deep snow, and that invigoration was exactly what she wanted.
She was halfway done with the sandwich when Alasdair got within shouting distance of her.
“Good morning,” he called out.
She turned and waited for him to catch up with her. With his long legs, he had a much easier time wading through the snow than she did. And, of course, he was making use of her partially broken path.
“Good morning,” he repeated when he drew even with her.
She smiled. “Good morning. Would you like some of my sandwich? It’s not hot anymore, but it’s still delicious.”
“Uh, aye,” he said and took the sandwich from her gloved hand and sank his teeth into it.
She watched him chew. He had no hat on, but he had the tartan scarf around his neck. From her point of view, it seemed like the blue sky and his red hair and the bright-green tartan were the only bits of color in the entire landscape.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” she asked, knowing he had his mouth full and couldn’t answer.
He nodded.
She turned and started walking forwards again.
He followed but made his own path next to her. In a bit, he said, “Thank ye,” and handed the sandwich back to her.
She took a bite and handed it back to him. He took another bite and handed it back to her.
She looked at what was left of the sandwich. There was one large bite left or two small bites. She took a small bite and handed it back to him, thinking they were done.
But then he said, “Arabella,” and handed her half a small bite.
She laughed and put the piece up to her mouth and used her teeth to carve off a little bit of the morsel. She gave him the tiny crumb of sandwich that was left and stopped walking, waiting to see what he would do next.
He popped it in his mouth.
“You finished my sandwich!” she said in mock-anger.
“I was hungry.” He put his hand into the pocket of his coat and drew out a napkin-wrapped shape that looked suspiciously like another ham sandwich. “But I’ll give ye my whole sandwich to make up for it.”
“Alasdair, your coat pocket!” The pocket, composed of a patch of matching tweed on top of the tweed of his great coat, was half-hanging down. “When we get back to the house, don’t give your coat back to the butler Andrews, give it to me, and I’ll fix your pocket for you in a jiffy.”
“Aye,” he said.
“But I’m not hungry anymore. I want you to eat your sandwich.”
“Nae,” he said and tucked the napkin-wrapped sandwich into his other pocket. “I’m nae hungry as I thought.”
They took more steps forward in the snow. Six of Arabella’s steps for perhaps three of Alasdair’s.
He cleared his throat. She looked over at him. He was squinting with the reflection of the sun on the snow.
“Ye remember what ye said about my pocket?”
“That I would fix it for you?”
“Aye.”
They trudged forward.
“What would ye say to the idea of having as much time as ye like to fix it?”
“But it won’t really take that long, Alasdair.”
He stopped walking and turned towards her, so she stopped walking, too. His eyes were fixed on the snow between them.
“Nae, I’m saying what do ye think about having the rest of yer life to fix my coat pocket?”
Oh.
Oh.
It was here.
She thought it was here.
But after her misunderstanding last night, perhaps she better make sure he didn’t really mean to make her his eternal seamstress.
“What do you mean, Alasdair?”
He raised his eyes to hers.
“The evening Lord Morpeth became so ill. When we were in my room. Ye said . . . Ye said ye had thrown it all away. Being married, having children. That’s nae true.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. I could have married Boyd Cormack.”
“Ye could marry me.”
He had said it. Almost. Not quite. But, oh, so very, very close. If she wanted to, she could pretend to herself he had said it. But no. This was going to be her one and only proposal from Alasdair Andrews. She was going to make him say it. Actually, she was going to make him say both things.
She took a step towards him and stood on her tiptoes and reached up and brushed back the lock of hair that hung in front of his left eye.
“Could I?”
He grabbed her wrist.
“Would ye marry me?”
There was the first thing. She did not pull away from him and he gentled his grip and put her gloved hand on his coat over his left chest, over his heart, in the very place where she had put her palm when he had walked into her cottage in Dunburn.
“I love ye, Arabella Lovelock.”
There was the second thing. He had done it.
“Ye are the woman of my dreams. Marry me.”
She looked up at him.
“Aye,” she said.