Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“As I rode off that day,” he said, his arm tightening around her waist, “I heard a woman singing. She stood on a hill, a young woman with hair like bright copper.” He brushed his hand over her red-gold hair, its richness caught in a net.
“The song she sang went deep into my heart. I do not remember it clearly, but it stayed with me. I shared her grief, but she could not have known that.”
“She knows it now.”
“I heard you singing the day I fell down the mountainside, too. I was lost in the fog, and heard your voice through the mist. It helped me find the direction of the path.”
“I was coming back from walking out with Morag,” she said in a hushed voice. “I was practicing the song she had taught me.”
“That song saved me.” He wrapped her in his embrace, and she rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, leather and wool, smoke and man. “So let me help you.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Help me how?”
“My father caused great grief in this glen. I am aware of that. And I know you are doing your best to save the heritage of this place. I thought a publisher might help, but that is not what you want. Not yet, at least.” He smiled a little.
She stared at him. His sincerity was clear in his eyes, in his quiet voice. Trust and gratitude filled her. Love brightened her. But she could not say what she most wanted.
She could not tell him about Finlay and the tenants and the people who so needed and wanted to return to their homes.
Not yet, though she began to hope that one day she could confide in him and he would understand.
But Kenneth Grant’s threats hung over her head like a sword.
She had to wait until she knew what to do there.
But there was something else she could ask of him. Quickly she explained about Flora and the old, legendary fairy tunes—and the crystal that could be found on Ben Shee.
“Fairy music?” he asked when she had finished. “Just a legend?”
“Flora insists that their origin is real and their magic is, too. Her songs are unique to Glen Shee. If I leave the glen, I will never learn them. Flora will not even share them with Morag. They will disappear.”
“That is a stubborn old woman.”
“She is, but I can have the songs if I meet a quest.” She told him more about the fairy stone Flora wanted her to find. “It is the price of those songs. I must climb Ben Shee.”
Evan huffed a dry laugh. “And I thought you took no risks.”
“You are teaching me. And I know something you do not know about Ben Shee. The view up there is like standing in heaven. I want to go.”
“We will see that heavenly view soon, aye?” He kissed her brow. “You need to do this yourself, but let me make sure you get there safely. If I can help with your quest, Catriona Bhàn, I will.”
With a laugh of delight, she flowed into his arms. He kissed her, then again, each kiss longer and more tender than the last, while the rain drummed against the windows and her heart thumped against his.
He drew back, catching her hips firmly against his, rocking her a little. Not only did she know what he wanted, she wanted it too, heartbeat quickening at the very thought.
“We have some privacy in here, while they are getting ready to go,” he whispered, nuzzling his lips over hers.
“We do,” she said, her body already aching for him.
“Over here,” he said, tugging her away from the fireplace and the portrait watching them.
Pulling her into a small alcove lined with bookshelves that held a wide leather armchair in its shadowy nook, he sat and pulled her into his lap, skirts spilling over his thighs.
He set his lips on hers in a kiss so swift and hard, it felt like soft lightning.
Leaning into his arms, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, let him taste her tongue, heard him groan softly as he loosened the tiny buttons of her blouse. She slipped her hands inside his coat, laughing softly.
“Stop,” she whispered.
He groaned against her lips and his fingers stilled. “What?”
“This—feels like—like a commitment,” she whispered breathlessly. “Even more than before, because here we are, about to—”
“I know, and it is,” he whispered. “Answered and done, my dear Lady Kildonan?”
“Aye, Kildonan.”
He kissed her in response, and a sense of freedom bubbled up in her, passion and delight anchored in certainty.
He moved quickly—she felt the urgency too, knowing this place might not be nearly as private as they needed—and he slipped a hand inside her bodice to cage her breast, fondling the nipple.
Gasping, she rocked over him, and his other hand vanished under her skirts, warm and seeking.
She moaned, anticipating, body pulsing, craving what marriage could make deliciously familiar.
“Oh,” she whispered as his hand moved upward. “Good Lord, Kildonan—”
“So they call me,” he murmured, and took her lips in fast, hungry kisses.
“We had best hurry—oh, gracious,” she breathed.
“A little haste is just the thing,” he whispered, lowering his head to nestle his lips over her breast, nudging down her chemise to sweep her as she pearled and breathed faster.
He took her swiftly in his lips, and she arched against him, while he shoved aside petticoats to find the opening in her knickers with deft and divine fingers.
Her heart, her blood, pounded in a frenzy, and she shifted, managing to straddle him in the generous chair, skirts rucked in a billowing cushion that tented over his lap.
Tucking her hand around her skirts and under his kilt, she found him thick and ready.
Hearing him groan low, she smothered him with kisses.
Within moments, hidden in the shadowed alcove, their nearly silent, bursting passion concealed beneath her skirts, she followed his rhythm, keen and burning sweet.
Wrapping her arms around him as they moved together, she never wanted to let go.
One thought repeated in her mind, settling in her heart.
Here is heaven, love, with you.