THIRTY-NINE
Calum lay sprawled on the trundle bed, one arm folded behind his head. His brain was too full for sleep, and he hadn’t bothered to take his kilt off, its pleats fanning over the quilt. He’d expected Sorcha to be home when he and Aly returned, but the house had been dark and cold.
From what Aly had said of Yvaani, he didn’t think she would have done Sorcha any harm, and no doubt Sorcha was simply taking on the responsibility of keeping Yvaani out of the way seriously.
Even so, he should have had a way of signalling to her when they were finished, or insisted she be home by one, or—
Or nothing. She was an adult, not a child in need of minding.
A knock at the door jolted him off the bed.
He crossed the room to open it, his skin warming like a candle flame as he looked at Aly, standing in the corridor in her stays and shift.
Her injured arm was in a sling over her chest, but he could still make out the curve of her breasts above her stays, the slope of one pale shoulder where the linen had slid off.
She’d removed her fichu, leaving nothing to conceal the pale, freckled skin of her chest.
Aly’s cheeks were pink, her hands in tight fists. “I’m really sorry to ask, but I can’t get my stays unlaced without my good hand.”
Calum gestured for her to enter the room.
He didn’t trust himself to speak; his mouth was too dry.
Aly stood in front of the fire, the light bleeding through her shift like water through a piece of paper, turning it translucent and outlining every line of her body, and for a moment Calum forgot everything but the sight of her before him.
He clenched his jaw together, bringing himself back to reality, and stood behind her, angled so the firelight illuminated the lacing on her stays.
She reached up with her uninjured arm and pulled her loose hair over her shoulder, revealing the freckles scattered across her skin like fae dust. Calum’s breath hitched and he pressed his lips together, hoping she didn’t notice.
Tugging the slipknot loose, he focused his attention on the laces under his hands, not on the cat-fine ringlets that shone at the nape of her neck.
He pressed his palm against her back to steady his grip, her skin soft beneath his touch.
He pulled the cord through the eyelets one by one, the zipping sound each time not enough to cover the sound of her breathing.
She was so close to him the very air between them seemed to vibrate with her nearness.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to bury his face in the copper tangle of curls cascading over her shoulder.
He cast about for something—anything—to say that might take his mind off the fact that he was undressing Aly, that every time he tugged the cord through another eyelet she was closer to standing before him in nothing but her thin shift.
The sleeves billowed to her wrists and the hem extended below her knees, but the linen was so thin he could feel the warmth of her skin through it.
“It’s been cold and wet the last few days, and it’s only a few weeks till Imbolc,” he said. “Looks like it’ll be a long winter.”
He could kick himself for saying something so inane. Talking about the weather, of all things. He braced for her mocking reply—the way she teased him always sent a thrill through him, entirely the opposite of what he wanted when he was trying to distract himself from the current situation.
But instead, all she said was, “Aye. I hope it isn’t, though.”
Silence fell, the air thick with tension and unsaid words. He reached the last eyelet and tugged the lace through.
“Do you need help with the straps?” he said, hoping to Méabh she wouldn’t.
Aly tilted her head to her left shoulder. “This one’s tied under the sling.”
Calum pressed his eyes shut, steeling himself as she turned to him.
He held his breath, reaching under the sling to tug the ribbon loose.
Heat shot up his arm as he pulled the strap out from beneath the sling, his fingers skimming over her shoulder.
He kept his eyes trained on her face, not at the curve of her waist or the shadow of her nipple beneath her shift.
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” she asked, easing her right arm out of the stays.
Calum blinked, trying to remember what they had been talking about before he’d been distracted. The weather, he’d thought. “What do you mean?”
“With Grant.” She drew her lower lip between her teeth, sending a bolt of heat through Calum. “Trying to put him in prison, I mean.” She dropped her gaze, her fingers tightening around the stays that hung from her grasp.
“It’s where he belongs,” Calum said. “Where he can’t hurt anyone.”
“I know, I just . . . I don’t want to be doing this out of hatred. I don’t want to be like him.”
Her words clenched round Calum’s heart. He slid one finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up towards him. “Hating him doesn’t make you anything like him.” She was close enough he could feel the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. “Wanting revenge doesn’t, either.”
“What does it make me, then?” she said, a tremor in her voice.
“Human.” His finger was still beneath her chin; it felt as though every nerve in his body was concentrated in that single fingertip. “If you hate Grant, it’s because of what he’s done. And he deserves every last bit of your loathing.”
Aly’s eyelashes cast shadows over her cheeks, her exhalation ghosting over Calum’s hand, sending a pulse of need through him.
She lifted her chin and, before Calum could react, her lips were on his, her warmth pressed against him.
She dropped her stays, threading her fingers through Calum’s hair.
He pulled her to him, his hands on her hipbones, his fingertips pressing into her through her shift.
Desire flared in him like a struck match, his mind consumed with nothing but the press of her body to his.
She moaned into his mouth, and the sound went straight to his cock.
He tugged her closer, forgetting her injured shoulder, and she let out a gasp of pain.
The sound was like a bucket of ice water over him.
He broke away, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
Aly snorted, but there was no humour in it. “I think you’ll find I kissed you.”
“It’s not—it’s not appropriate.”
Aly’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t take you for a prude. You seemed to be enjoying yourself well enough.”
“Aye, and that’s the problem.” Calum scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re my informant. You’re staying in my house—I can’t take advantage of you like that. What if you change your mind? I could ruin you.”
Aly lifted her chin. “Well, maybe that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Well, I’m not,” Calum snapped. “I’m not willing to risk that you’re in my bed out of a sense of duty or fear of what I’ll do if you refuse.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Aly snarled. “I don’t get a say because I’m too delicate and vulnerable to make a decision?”
Calum held out a hand towards her. “Aly, no, that’s not what I—”
She bent and snatched up her stays. “That’s not what you meant? What did you mean, then? That you’re ashamed to admit you’re attracted to a crime lord’s mistress?” She turned and stalked out. A moment later he heard the door to his own bedroom slam shut.
He fell back on the trundle bed, rubbing a hand over his face and wondering how trying to do the right thing had gone so horribly wrong.