Chapter 18
A few nights later, they were both seated on the couch again, facing toward the fire.
Struan was reading something that looked rather heavy, while Elspeth had a novel that she had brought from Edinburgh but then immediately forgotten that she owned, since it had been put away in a drawer by accident.
Though fond of reading, that night she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She sighed as one passage in particular eluded her.
She scooted over to him and pointed to the line on the page. “This here. There’s a passage in French, and my French isn’t good. What does this mean?”
He squinted at it, then said, “All hail our queen the marmalade cat.”
“Struan!” She laughed even as she swatted his arm (an ineffectual move if ever there was one. Twelve Elspeths could not hurt someone of Struan’s size). “Tell me what it really says.”
“Oh, fine. It says guard well your…um, body. It is for me alone and I will…mmm how to say…slay both the beholder and the beheld.” Struan paused, parsing it. “I guess he’s vowing to kill her if another man looks at her.”
“That’s ridiculous! How can she control whether someone else looks at her? Does it really say that?”
“I’m sorry, but yes.” He pointed. “That word there means execute or murder.”
“What a stupid man.”
“Is he the hero?”
“No, he’s the villain who’s kidnapped her and taken her to the castle on the cliffs.”
“If he’s the villain, he’s supposed to be cruel.”
“But he’s not just cruel, he’s irrational.”
“Doubly villainous, then,” Struan said. “I hope your heroine escapes.”
“She may die tragically. I’ll read on and see.”
“Do report back,” he said, giving her one of his sideways smiles, gone in an instant. But always enough to warm her heart and quicken her breath.
She stayed next to him as she resumed her book. Or tried to. “You speak French well,” she noted.
“I learned enough to get by while I was on the Continent. My friend Brodie Ross spoke it much better. And Spanish. And German. He was gifted.”
“Was?”
“He died in the war.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Was it…was it at the same time you were injured?”
“No, it happened afterward. I wasn’t actually there then. I was recuperating in London.”
“So you’re still mourning him.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “When I’m not mourning myself.”
“But you’re still alive.”
He shrugged. “For a long time, I didn’t believe that.”
She thought about that. Maybe that was part of the reason he avoided intimacy with her—he was coming out of such a dark and death-filled place that the mere thought of living was too much.
She leaned closer to him. “You know you can talk to me.”
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“I mean, I want you to know that I’ll listen.”
“Always a nice benefit.”
“Struan. You know what I mean. I want to be someone you can talk to, should you ever need to talk.”
He gave her a look that was half alarmed, half pleased, then said, “Read your book.”
She tried. She really did. But reading when one was already sleepy was difficult, and especially so when one could think only of the man next to her on the couch. The novel dropped to her lap, unheeded.
“Ellie?” he said quietly. He nudged her. “Ellie? You’re asleep.”
“No,” she protested…sleepily, it must be admitted.
“You ought to be in bed.”
“I like this. Being with you. Don’t send me away.” She cuddled into him, hiding her face.
He moved his arm to better hold her, and she reveled in how warm he was, how solid and yet comfortable.
But after a few blissful minutes, he touched her cheek. “Ellie. Come, you can’t stay here if you’re falling asleep. Get up.”
“Don’t want to. Bring a blanket, I’ll sleep here.”
“You will not.” He leaned over and slid his arms under her shoulders and knees.
A moment later, he was carrying her out of the parlor, not seeming in the slightest bit inconvenienced.
Upstairs, her bedroom was empty—Agnes would be downstairs, listening for the bell. But Struan didn’t go for the bell. He yanked the top cover away and laid her on the bed.
Then he began to unbutton, unlace, and unwrap everything he needed to in order to slide her gown off, lifting her where her body pinned it down.
“Are you going to take everything off?” she wondered.
“No.” The word was muttered quickly, and she hoped with regret.
And indeed, while he removed her stays, he didn’t touch her chemise. He did move down to her feet, still clad in stockings…which went up to over her knees, held in place by ribbon through the top hem.
He slid his hands over her right calf. There was nothing precisely sexual in the move, but his touch lingered, testing the curve of her calf and stopping only when the fabric of her stocking did.
He found the tied ribbon and worked it loose, his fingers grazing bare skin once or twice, creating a flash of heat that made her wish she was wearing more articles that could be untied.
He leaned over her. “Ellie? Are you comfortable?”
As she turned her head to answer, her lips met his.
And that was all she needed to be comfortable.
There was something so lovely and solid about Struan.
She craved his closeness, like she could build a wall between her and the whole world.
And his kisses were just intense enough to make her lose her breath, and then he pulled away.
“You’re kissing me,” she whispered when he paused.
“I’m sorry.”
“I like it. You could do it more. I’m…almost disposed again.”
“I can’t anyway. The things I want to do can’t be done to a sleeping woman.”
“But I’m not asleep. I’m talking to you.”
“You’re also not awake,” he told her.
She frowned. “Am I dreaming?”
“You can think that if you want to.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
He kissed her once more, a kiss that was meant to be soft and quick but somehow failed to end, both of them too entranced by the slide of slick lips and hot breath to break it off. Elspeth dreamily thought that sometimes having was far better than wanting.
Struan went still, and she realized she’d spoken out loud…or whispered anyway. She said, “Stay with me. For a little while, until I’m really asleep. The rules allow it.”
“I know the rules,” he muttered. But he shifted lightly, so his weight was on the bed next to her, and he laid a kiss on her forehead. “All right, I’ll stay till you sleep.”
“Mmmm, good.” She smiled, thinking how nice it was to have his comfortable warmth next to her, and his mouth occasionally grazing her skin in a way that sent a glow throughout her veins. “I’m going to stay awake.”
“You will not,” he returned. “But I’ll stay with you till you drift off.”
“I love you,” she murmured. “I’m so lucky you chose me.”
He didn’t respond, but she felt his hand close over hers.
* * * *
The idea of leaving Ellie, barely dressed and drowsily seductive, was an exercise in pain. The only reason he would do it was the knowledge that if he fell asleep there, it was likely he’d be there when daylight returned, and he couldn’t stop Elspeth from seeing what he looked like in full light.
But those few minutes—all right, the better part of an hour—he absolutely feasted on how good it felt to be so close to her, to see the beauty of her figure, hidden only by a layer of thin cotton, but the curves temptingly prominent under the drape of the fabric.
He couldn’t stop himself from skimming one hand over her body, noting that her hip fit perfectly under his hand.
He watched her breasts rise as she inhaled, wanting to feel that part of her under his palm too.
But he resisted, because she wasn’t able to tell him he could, and he didn’t deserve to have something so beautiful in his hands anyway.
Yes, she’d asked him to stay, told him the rules allowed it, and they did. The rules allowed him almost anything he wanted from her. But he needed her to want it too.
And she was now fast asleep, her breathing even and slow, her lips just a little open, and her lashes occasionally twitching in the midst of some dream. He moved his hand to take hers, and died a little when even in sleep, she tightened her grip and gave a sigh.
Christ, he was in hell. A hell of his own making because not only had he lied to Elspeth, he lied over and over, letting her believe the story she’d half made up and he was so willing to push.
He had to tell her the truth about how she’d been offered to him as a way to escape a debt, but every single day he didn’t, it seemed like a more impossible task, with the stakes higher each time.
Because if Elspeth learned the truth and then chose to hate him—an extremely rational choice on her part—he would not recover.
Everyone thought Struan was some unmovable rock, uncaring and unemotional. He’d thought that himself some of the time. It was how he got through his injuries and the general hell of the war. But Struan was a maelstrom of feelings; he just never let anyone see it.
And now the maelstrom was worse than ever, because Elspeth was fueling it with her onslaught of sincerity, which ripped him up inside because he wanted to return it. He really did. But he couldn’t, because he was a lying bastard.
But he still wanted her. Painfully.
Not tonight.
He was so hard that he winced when he eased himself off the bed and walked to the connecting door to his own room, where it was, thankfully, completely dark (Struan having made his feelings about unattended flames known).
So he could wrestle his clothing off and then get his hand on his aching cock, working with an urgency that even his younger self would find embarrassing.
Breathing hard, he cleaned up and staggered to his own bed, praying that he’d have no dreams. Not the usual nightmares of fire, but also not the tantalizing dreams of Elspeth that had recently invaded his brain.
Both were torture, and he couldn’t escape either.
* * * *
The next evening, they had dinner as usual, with Elspeth sitting at his right hand, temptingly close to him, wearing the amber necklace, her hair half-down again…
and an absolute scandal of a gown. Struan had dismissed the servants the moment the soup course was served.
Granted, he dismissed the servants promptly every evening, since Elspeth had instituted the practice of she and Struan serving themselves when not entertaining (so in reality, all the time).
It was more intimate, certainly. The servants probably also appreciated that fewer of them had to be on call throughout the meal.
Tonight, however, he was just glad there was no one else to see Ellie.
“Do you like my outfit?” she asked, probably because he couldn’t keep himself from looking at it.
“It’s lovely.” Which was true. What he couldn’t say was that it made her look ravishing.
Or ravishable. The way the gown’s neckline dropped practically down to her chest, the laughably scanty sleeves that revealed her shoulders and her arms, the overall sheerness of the silk that clung to her figure…
it all made him think of exactly one thing.
“The seamstress’s note said that it was an evening gown designed to make an impression,” Elspeth said.
“It does.”
“What impression does it make on you?” she asked. There was a challenge in her tone, almost a demand.
He knew exactly what she was driving at, and he knew it was past time to get this…issue between them out in the open. So he said, without softening his reaction, “It makes me want to take it off.”
“And will you?” Elspeth was clearly done being patient.
He wanted to. Christ, he wanted to. But there was the stubborn issue of him looking like walking death.
“I thought this whole marriage was about you getting an heir,” Elspeth said more gently. “Don’t you want that anymore?”
“Of course I do.” He wanted children more than anything else in the world, other than perhaps wanting Elspeth.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself to say something. “Then why do you refuse to…to bed me? You’ve kissed me, and I think you enjoyed it.”
“Yes.” Hell, yes.
“But you won’t do more than that. You’re making it impossible for me to do my duty as a wife, and when I can’t fulfill my duty, I feel like a failure. Every night, like clockwork.”
She might as well have punched him in the gut.
Struan had thought a lot about bedding or not bedding Ellie, but he’d never even considered that aspect of the issue.
“You could never ever be a failure. Christ, you’ve taken the thankless role of my wife and turned it into a triumph.
Look at this house! The grounds. You’ve done all of that. ”
She set her jaw. “And yet you continue to ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you. I’ve tried to ignore you, and if you want to talk about a failure, that’s one for the books. You’ve never needed a gown like that one to make an impression. No matter how much I’ve tried to avoid wanting you, it’s all I can think about.”
“Truly?”
“God, yes.”
“But must I beg you to do more than think about it?”
The image of her begging caused an instantaneous stiffening of his cock. But then he remembered his appearance. “I appreciate your…willingness, but you don’t know what you’re asking. I’m not…you would not like the sight of me.”
“You’d prefer me not to look?” she asked, puzzled. “If that’s all, then I can keep my eyes closed. Or you could blindfold me.”
Oh, Christ. A blindfolded Elspeth, naked beneath him on the bed…. He silenced the groan of anticipation rising up within him.
Wait. Had she just offered him a solution? A simple, obvious solution that he’d been too stubborn and stupid to think of?
“Would you do that?” he asked her.
“Do what? Keep my eyes closed? Make the room dark? Wear a blindfold? I’ll do all of those. Whatever it takes to please you.”
If she kept talking, he was going to need a cold bath. Or to jump into the sea.
“Struan?”
He inhaled. He could do this. “May I come to your room tonight?” Formal language for this formal arrangement—finally making Elspeth the wife everyone assumed she already was.
Maybe she hadn’t believed that he’d actually get on with it. But then she nodded, apparently resolved. “You may. I will be expecting you.”