Chapter Twenty-Five
They slept that night with the connecting door between the two chambers left open. That was, if anyone slept.
Annista knew that Bonnie at least dozed for a while, since she sat with the little maid, insisting she keep Annista’s own bed. Bonnie declared she felt better and could return to her duties. Annista did not quite believe it.
She noticed the way Bonnie’s gaze flew to the door every time she heard a sound. And how she clung to Cora, or Morag when that woman was not attending her own mistress and took a turn. The two serving women seemed to have bonded with Bonnie, and Mistress MacKallan lent Morag when she could.
Annista was glad of that, for her energies felt oddly scattered and her own heart strangely divided. She wanted to protect Bonnie from further fright and harm.
Something, though, drew her persistently to Alan.
It was merely because he was sore injured, so she told herself, and had no one else at hand to look after him. For sure, he did not seem inclined to look after himself.
So, though she started out the night in her own chamber, as soon as Bonnie fell into her doze, Annista walked on bare feet to join her husband.
He, at least, was not sleeping, not then. Far too uncomfortable, perhaps, though he would not admit it. He sat propped up against the bolsters in the curtained bed, his dark hair tumbled against the linen and a scowl on his face.
A large measure of the awkwardness between them had flown, chased by circumstance, so Annista reflected when she climbed up into the bed beside him, tucking her feet beneath her.
He wore naught but a nightshirt—and bandages—and she only her night rail. Annista found that—well, oddly titillating.
She regarded him steadily and with inquiry until he said, “I canna get comfortable. I keep thinking I should be out there, searching.”
“Aye, so.” Annista understood. The same impulse prodded her. “We ha’ men on watch. And ye need to heal.”
“At first light, I will go out on Chieftain once more.”
She did not try to argue the absurdity of that, asking only, “And should ye encounter him?”
Alan shrugged uneasily and grimaced.
“Ha’ ye taken the draught the physician left?”
He shook his head.
“I will mix it for ye.”
“Nay—” he began, but she ignored him. Moving swiftly, before he could protest further, she rose from the bed and scurried around to his side where the cup, powder, and ale had been left.
Only the fire lit the chamber, and she did not pause to think how she must appear, flitting against its radiance, until she caught him eyeing her. Then she wondered if her thin night rail might not be transparent, the light shining through it.
If so, why did she not feel more self-conscious about it? What had become of her modesty?
Swallowed, perhaps, in events. She had no time for it. Besides—
Part of her liked how he was looking at her while pretending he was not, his glance almost as intimate as a touch. So much so that when she’d mixed the draught she perched on his edge of the bed, nearly atop him.
“Here. Drink it down.”
“I do no’ wish for something that will mak’ me drowsy. At first light—”
“Aye, I ken. ’Tis no’ first light yet. Foolish man,” she glared into his eyes, “will ye no’ ease the pain?”
Before he could object, she tipped the cup to his lips. This brought them into closer contact, her breast pressed to his shoulder.
He drank. Winced at the taste.
“Foul, is it?”
The rascal—he had his gaze fastened on her bosom where the loosened ties permitted a glimpse of what lay beneath.
Impulse prompted what she did next—impulse and perhaps devilry. When he’d lowered the cup she quite simply pressed her lips to his.
Tasting. Tasting.
“Aye,” she said then, running the tip of her tongue over her own lips. “It is bitter.”
But he was not. Beneath the sharp piquancy of the draught lay a deeper and far more seductive flavor.
His gaze met hers—his eyes, smoky gray shaded by fringed black lashes—wide. Then his arms were around her, and he drew her to him.
“Annista,” he groaned.
The remainder of the draught spilled. It splashed over the coverlet unheeded as Annista reached for him with both hands, even as she tried to spare his wound.
He seemed to care naught for it, because he drew her closer and closer. Crushed her breasts against that very wound. And he was kissing her, kissing—
As if naught existed in the world besides his lips on hers. As if naught mattered save the two of them meeting, meeting body to body and spirit to spirit. As if this had been meant ever since Annista drew her first breath.
Beneath the bitter draught, aye, he tasted like heaven. Felt like it also, with only the thin fabric of his shirt and her gown dividing them. The heat of him came right through, the strength of bone and muscle beneath. She could feel his very heart.
The pressure of his lips eased and she thought—nay, do not stop! Do not dare stop kissing me…
As if he heard the words unspoken, he dove with renewed passion. As if they understood far more than she did, her lips parted for him. Sensation drenched her as he took possession of her mouth, and all her moorings fell away.
Delightfully adrift on a sea of emotions, of desires deep and powerful.
She wanted the kiss never to stop.
But—she must be hurting him. For somehow he had lifted her from her perch on the edge of the bed so she lay atop him. And his hands—
They moved from the nape of her neck, where they had cradled her so tenderly, down across her back, feeling their way. Caressing. They explored the flare of her rump where he pressed her against him.
All at once she understood. This was how it was meant to be between a man and a woman. Joined above, and then below. The most natural of acts. As old and as inevitable as time itself.
Her body comprehended it all, as she did not.
One of his hands remained snug on her rump while the other trailed up her side to her breast, crushed against him.
Did she move the required distance to give him access? Quite possibly. When he caressed softly through the fabric of her night rail, she moaned into his mouth and he renewed the passion of his kiss.
She wanted—
“Annista.” He must have broken the kiss, for he spoke her name. “I must apologize.”
“Eh?” Her wits would not serve her. Scrambled, they were.
His breath gusted as he gave a soft laugh. “I ha’ broken my promise. No’ to touch. Will ye follow through wi’ your threats now?”
“Aye. Wicked man that ye are.” She gazed into his eyes, now spiked with silver lightning. “I should punish ye most grievously.”
“How?”
“Tie ye up, mayhap, so ye are completely helpless to my various demands.”
She could not help herself. She dove for his lips again, so close as to be irresistible. This time he parted those lips for her and—never loathe to dare—she ventured inside. Och, heaven did exist.
How much time passed in this delightful occupation, Annista could never later say. A cough from the adjoining room had them leaping apart, though not far.
Bonnie, in the other room. How could Annista have forgotten?
From a mere breath away, she and Alan stared into one another’s eyes.
“I will hurt ye,” she gasped and scrambled sideways.
Still, not far. She did not think she could make herself stir far.
He gazed at her searchingly now—his look intent and utterly focused. A fantastical scene arose in Annista’s mind: herself arising and going to close the connecting door. Returning to the bed and shedding her thin gown. Helping Alan remove his nightshirt also—for was he not sore injured? And then—
None of that could be permitted to happen. But at that instant—at that instant Annista knew they both wanted it most desperately.
“I—should go check on Bonnie,” Annista said, and fled.
She who so seldom ran from anything.