Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Magnus turned the cup once more in its new stand, adjusting it a hair to the left, then a hair to the right, though it had already sat exactly where it needed to.
He set his hands flat on the desk on either side of it and studied the crest like it might tell him something the wood hadn’t already said twice.
“Thank ye, Elspeth.” He said it quietly, then cleared his throat at once, as though the words had come out wearing the wrong coat.
She didn’t say anything. She only shifted her weight, the candlelight sliding gold along the line of her jaw. Magnus found he’d stopped looking at the cup.
“Ye should retire for the evenin’,” he said.
“Should I?”
“Aye.”
“That’s a fine way to thank a woman for a gift. Toss her out the door before the candle’s burned an inch.”
“I’m nae tossin’ ye anywhere.” He came around the desk half a step, then caught himself and stopped, one hand braced flat against the wood like he needed something to hold him in place.
“Ye’re standin’ there lookin’ at the door like ye wish it would open itself.”
He hadn’t been looking at the door. He looked at it now, on principle, and regretted it because it gave her something to smile about, and her smile did more damage to a room than the fire in the furnace shed had.
“Our handfasting is the day after tomorrow,” he said, which was not an answer to anything she’d said.
“Aye, I’m aware. I’ve had four fittings this week alone. Katherine has opinions about ribbon that could start a war.”
“And if ye daenae leave this study within the next moment—”
“If I daenae leave,” she said, tilting her head, the movement slow enough that a loose curl slid free of its pin and settled against her throat, “what?”
He watched the curl settle. He should not have watched the curl settle.
“Then I cannae promise ye safety.”
“From whom?”
“From me.” He said it low, and his fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk.
Her breath caught, audible in the quiet.
The fire crackled behind him. The cup sat forgotten in its new stand between them, and neither of them looked at it again.
“Magnus.”
She didn’t finish it. She didn’t leave either.
He stood there with the desk between them, which had seemed moments ago like a reasonable enough distance, and now felt like no distance at all.
“Ye’re supposed to be frightened of me,” he said.
“I was. For the first fortnight.” She folded her arms, chin coming up, settling into the argument. “Ye ruined it by mendin’ Mrs. McAulay ’s henhouse door in the rain rather than sendin’ a man to do it. Beasts daenae fix henhouses.”
“It leaked. A man cannae sleep soundly kennin’ that a door’s swingin’ loose in the wind half the night.”
“Aye. And ye could have told her to wait till mornin’.”
“I daenae like leaks.” He said it flatly, then heard how it sounded and looked away from her, jaw working, as if the words had betrayed him rather than the leak.
“Ye daenae like a great many things, and yet here I am, standin’ in yer study, unafraid.”
He came around the edge of the desk then. She didn’t step back. She lifted her chin instead, meeting him halfway with her eyes rather than her feet.
“Ye should be.”
“Should I?” She laughed, short and low, and it didn’t sound like fear at all. “Ye keep sayin’ aye like it settles somethin’.”
She lifted her chin, and the candlelight caught in her eyes.
Magnus thought, briefly and with some violence, that a man ought to be allowed to hate a color as harmless as brown for what it was currently doing to him.
“It doesnae, ye ken. It just makes ye sound like ye’re tryin’ to convince yerself.”
“I daenae need convincin’ of anythin’.”
“Then why are yer hands clenched in fists?”
He looked down. They were. He opened them, one finger at a time, and set them flat against his thighs, though it did nothing to loosen whatever had wound tight in his chest.
Elspeth watched him do it. Her teasing stopped, mouth going soft, eyes tracking his hands rather than his face now, and she didn’t reach for either an explanation or him.
“It’s a fine stand,” he said, because the cup was there and it gave him somewhere to put his eyes that wasn’t her mouth. “Ye had the lad carve the Wallace crest into it.”
“Aye. I thought—” She stopped, and her fingers found the edge of her sleeve and worried at a loose thread there, twisting it once, releasing it, twisting it again.
“Since it belonged to yer family before it belonged to ye, it seemed a shame to let it sit crooked on a shelf like it was nothin’ at all. ”
Magnus picked the cup up, turned it once, and set it back down exactly as it had been, because his hands needed to do something that wasn’t reaching for her.
“It’s nae nothin’,” he said.
“I ken that now.”
The fire popped. Neither of them moved toward it, or away from each other, and the room had gone small the way it always did whenever she stood in it for too long.
“Elspeth.”
“Aye?”
“I told ye to leave a quarter hour ago. I’ve said it three times now, and ye’ve moved closer with every one of them. The door.”
“Ye did. And I noticed.” She didn’t move toward it. She moved half a step closer to him instead, chin lifted. “Perhaps if ye actually wanted me gone, ye’d have crossed the room and opened it yerself, rather than sayin’ the word to me like it might do the work on its own.”
He glanced at the door. He didn’t cross to it. His hand found the edge of the desk behind him instead and gripped it hard enough that his knuckles paled.
“Elspeth,” he said again, lower this time.
She only smiled, slow and too pleased with herself, and stayed exactly where she was.
* * *
Magnus’s voice, low and rough, sent a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the fire. She watched his knuckles turn white where he gripped the desk, watched the muscle jump in his jaw as he fought for control.
The air between them felt thick, heavy with unspoken words and the scent of rain clinging to his kilt from his earlier work outside.
She took another step forward, close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that the wool of her skirts brushed against the leather of his boots.
His eyes darkened, the firelight catching in their depths, turning them to molten whiskey. He didn’t move away, didn’t tell her to leave again. He just watched her, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
“Ye keep sayin’ me name like it’s a curse,” she murmured, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips. His stubble was rough against her skin, a delicious friction that made her breath catch. “Or a prayer.”
Magnus closed his eyes, his whole body trembling as her touch slid down his throat, over the frantic pulse in his neck.
When she reached the collar of his shirt, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist with an almost painful grip.
Not pushing her away, but holding her there, trapping her hand against his thundering heart.
“Elspeth,” he said again, and this time her name was a surrender all at once.
She leaned into him, pressing her body against his, feeling the hard planes of his chest and stomach through their clothes. His other hand came up to tangle in her hair, tilting her head back, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.
The room spun around them, the candlelight blurring into streaks of gold, the crackle of the fire fading into a distant roar.
His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and desperate, all pretense of control gone. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tentative. It was a claiming, a kiss that tasted of whisky and smoke and weeks of wanting.
Elspeth met his passion with her own, her free hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there forever.
He backed her against the desk, the edge digging into her thighs, but she barely felt it. All she could focus on was him—his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his teeth nipping at her lips, his hands roaming over her body with a possessiveness that made her ache.
One hand slid down her back, cupping her arse, pulling her flush against his erection, hard and thick and pressing against her through their clothes.
She moaned into his mouth, rocking against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of him. His response was a guttural sound, half-growl, half-groan, as he lifted her onto the desk. Papers and books scattered to the floor, but neither of them noticed or cared.
All that mattered was this—this frantic, hungry need that had been simmering between them for months, finally boiling over.
Magnus’s fingers fumbled with the laces of her bodice, his hands shaking with urgency. When the ties finally gave way, he ripped the fabric apart, buttons popping and skittering across the floorboards.
Elspeth gasped as the cool air hit her heated skin, her nipples pebbling into tight points. Magnus’s mouth was on her instantly, hot and wet, his tongue swirling around one peak while his fingers rolled and pinched the other.
Her head fell back, her spine arching, pleasure shooting through her like lightning.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, grinding against his hardness.
His free hand shoved her skirts up, bunching them around her waist, his fingers finding her wet heat through her thin drawers.
“Christ, Elspeth,” he breathed against her skin, his voice thick with wonder and need. “Ye’re already so wet for me.”
She could only moan in response, her hips bucking as he rubbed her through the fabric, his thumb circling her bud with devastating precision.
He was driving her mad with need, every touch stoking the fire burning in her blood. When he finally tore her drawers aside and slid two fingers into her tight channel, she cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him.
He worked her with his fingers, stretching her, his thumb never ceasing its maddening circles on her bud. Her orgasm built quickly, a tidal wave of sensation gathering strength, pulling her under. She was close, so close, teetering on the edge.
Then he stopped.
Elspeth’s eyes flew open, a protest dying on her lips as she saw the look on his face—raw, primal, utterly undone.
For a moment, he just looked at her, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole her breath. Then he drove his fingers inside her again, which knocked the breath from her lungs.
He moved his fingers slow and deep at first, then faster, harder, setting a rhythm that had her moving with it. His other hand found her bud again, rubbing tight, hard circles that pushed her over the edge.
Her orgasm crashed through her, violent and overwhelming, her body shaking around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through her. She screamed his name, her voice raw and hoarse, her vision blurring as white-hot ecstasy consumed her.
Magnus did not stop until her juices spilled in his hand. He kissed her bud before collapsing on top of her.
For a long moment, they just stayed like that, tangled together on the desk, the firelight painting their skin in shades of gold and amber. Magnus’s weight was a comforting pressure, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her breast.
Elspeth traced patterns on his back, feeling the muscles twitch beneath her touch, feeling the dampness of her release trickling down her thighs.
Slowly, reluctantly, he stood up. He helped her down from the desk, his hands gentle now, his touch reverent. Her legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he swept her up into his arms, carrying her to the worn leather armchair by the fire.
He settled her on his lap, wrapping his plaid around them both, tucking her head under his chin. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the flames dance, the only sounds their quiet breathing and the occasional pop and hiss of the fire.
“Elspeth,” he said softly, his lips brushing against her hair. “I…”
She tilted her head back, looking up at him. His face was shadowed in the firelight, but she could see the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely showed. She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.
“Shh,” she whispered. “Just hold me.”
And he did, his arms tightening around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.
In that moment, wrapped in his arms, with the fire warming their skin, Elspeth felt like everything would be alright. Like they had finally crossed the chasm between them, like this fragile, fiery thing between them might just be strong enough to last.
She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent—smoke and whisky and sweat—and let herself believe it, just for a little while.