CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Grizel had not meant to conquer Malcolm’s chamber that afternoon.
She had meant only to move the stack of letters from the chair, since no chair ought to be made useless by paper, and then to separate the sealed dispatches from the answered ones, since no reasonable man could find anything in such disorder.
After that, the dagger left too near the washstand had required shifting, and the heavy sea-chart spread across the table had needed weights at the corners before the draft ruined it entirely.
By the time she paused, Malcolm’s chamber looked rather less like a laird’s private room and rather more like a place that had survived her attention.
His papers were stacked by urgency. His gloves had been moved away from the ink.
Two of his blades now rested upon the wall pegs instead of the chest. Her shawl lay across the back of his chair.
Her book sat upon his table. A ribbon Eilidh had insisted she wear for the ceremony had somehow found its way beside his seal.
The effect was alarmingly domestic. Or perhaps, just honest.
Then suddenly, the door opened. Grizel turned and found Malcolm standing on the threshold.
He had one hand still on the latch, while his dark gaze moved slowly over the room.
He took in the papers, the weapons, the shawl, the ribbon, the book, the unmistakable evidence of feminine occupation advancing through his belongings like a well-led army.
He said nothing. That was more noteworthy than objection.
“I was improving efficiency,” Grizel commented without being asked.
His gaze traversed the chamber to reach her. Before he could answer, Tavish appeared behind him, carrying two folded reports and the expression of a man who expected nothing and was therefore delighted by everything.
He looked over Malcolm’s shoulder. Then, he laughed. He laughed with his whole wicked soul.
“Oh, brother,” Tavish said, pressing a hand to the doorframe. “It already looks as if she owns the place.”
Malcolm didn’t turn. “Leave.”
“I have only just arrived.”
“And now ye may discover the pleasure of departure.”
Tavish leaned farther in, grinning at the shawl, the papers, and Grizel’s ribbon beside the seal. “Will ye be wanting me tae knock before entering her chamber now, or yers?”
“Tavish.”
“Aye, aye.” He held up the reports. “I value me life, though less than I value this moment.”
“Out.”
Tavish stepped back, still laughing under his breath. “Future lady, if ye require more territory, his wardrobe is weakly defended.”
Grizel lifted her chin. “I shall consider it.”
The door closed on Tavish’s laughter. Silence returned, though not the same silence as before.
Malcolm remained by the door for another breath, still surveying the room with the solemnity of a man assessing coastal damage after a storm.
Grizel stood beside the table, suddenly aware that her shawl did not belong there, her book did not belong there, and yet neither looked wrong. That was the difficulty.
“Are ye offended?” she asked.
His eyes moved again to the ribbon beside his seal.
“I am adjusting tae invasion.”
The answer escaped him so gravely that Grizel laughed before she could stop herself.
It was not a proper laugh. It was too warm, too unguarded, and it startled her by how easily it came in his chamber, among his weapons and papers and all the signs of a life into which she had no doubt just intruded with scandalous confidence.
Malcolm watched her. He did not smile. But she could see softness in his eyes, hidden behind that dangerous quiet.
“Ye are staring,” she said playfully, once her amusement had softened.
“Aye.”
“At the damage?”
“At the culprit.”
“I have caused very little damage.”
“Ye moved me dirk.”
“It was in a foolish place.”
“It was within reach.”
“Of the washstand. Were ye expecting an attack from the basin?”
His mouth moved then, just enough. “One never kens what enemies a man may make.”
“With soap?”
“With women who rearrange his chamber while pretending tae convalesce.”
“I am nearly recovered.”
“Ye were ordered tae rest.”
“I rested while considering improvements.”
“And then?”
“I rose tae enact them.”
“A dangerous progression.”
She leaned lightly against the table, refusing to admit her leg had begun to ache. “Ye should be grateful. Yer papers are now sorted, yer chair can be sat upon, and yer blades nae longer threaten innocent furniture.”
“Me furniture had made nae complaint.”
“It was suffering silently.”
“As am I.”
“How noble.”
He came farther into the room. The movement was unhurried, but it changed everything. The chamber had been hers a moment ago, claimed by small domestic victories. Now it was unmistakably his again, not because he challenged her place in it, but because his presence made the air aware of him.
Grizel’s hand tightened on the chair.
“Does yer campaign extend tae me desk?” he asked.
“Only if necessary.”
“And who judges necessity?”
“I dae.”
“Convenient.”
“Efficient,” she corrected mischievously.
He stopped on the other side of the table. “Ye are becoming very comfortable issuing judgments in me chamber.”
“Someone must.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “And in me life?”
She ought to have looked away. Instead, she let the question remain between them a little too long.
“In some corners of it,” she smirked.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “Only corners?”
“For now.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It was meant as a courtesy.”
“A courtesy,” he repeated.
“Aye. I thought ye might prefer warning before full occupation.”
He came around the table. Grizel did not move.
That was either bravery or foolishness, and she had long since ceased to distinguish them in Malcolm’s presence.
He stopped near enough that she could see the faint ink stain on his thumb, the mark of rain on his sleeve, the restraint gathering in him even now, as instinctive as breath.
“Ye speak,” he mused, “as if I am expected tae yield.”
Grizel looked up at him. “I was under the impression ye admired sensible decisions.”
“I admire silence upon occasion.”
“How unfortunate for ye.”
“Very.”
She smiled. “If ye wished a silent wife, ye chose poorly.”
His gaze intensified at the word wife. So did hers.
It stood between them, no longer a bargain, no longer merely a future ceremony waiting upon the shore. A wife might move papers. A wife might leave a shawl on a chair. A wife might stand too close in a private chamber and speak of occupation as though she had not already begun it.
Malcolm lifted one hand and touched the ribbon beside his seal.
“This yers?”
“It may be.”
“It is on me table.”
“So it is.”
“With me seal.”
“A charming arrangement.”
“A dangerous one.”
“Only if ye fear ribbons.”
“I fear very little.”
She softened before she could help it. “I ken.”
The words seemed to reach him where teasing had not. His expression changed, the guarded amusement giving way to something quieter, more exposed.
“Insufferable woman,” he finally smiled in that way that made her knees go weak.
“Familiar woman,” she corrected, echoing the morning before.
His eyes returned to hers. The air warmed.
“Familiar,” he said slowly, as though testing the word and finding it both dangerous and true.
Grizel’s pulse betrayed her. “Dae ye object?”
“I am considering it.”
“With great seriousness, I trust.”
“With what little remains tae me after invasion.”
Now, he was so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. But she waited. She wanted him to kiss her this time. Luckily, she didn’t need to wait long.
He closed the tight space that was left between them and pressed his lips against hers.
She knew that she shouldn’t have given into him with such ease, but every time he held her in his arms, she melted into them.
He moved her backward through the kiss. Before she knew it, he had gently laid her to sit on a sofa in the corner, as he got down on his knees before her.
When he pulled away, he watched her with eyes that were filled with hunger.
“What on earth are ye doing?” she asked through a smile.
“Thanking ye,” he teased, gently gripping the hem of her skirts and pulling them upward so slowly that she could feel the soft graze of the fabric caress her skin.
She watched him do it, and the sight of him on his knees stole her breath. A moment later, she realized what he was planning on doing.
“Malcolm, ye dinna mean tae?—”
“Shhh,” he urged, spreading her legs gently.
As he did so, he kept his fingers on the insides of her thighs.
“Let me show ye how grateful I am for ye,” he grinned, and the moment his tongue flicked over her most intimate flesh, she gasped as if she had just surfaced from deep water.
The sensation was overpowering, and all she could do was offer herself up to him, spreading her legs and demanding more.
“Mmm…” he murmured, and the sound of his voice made her blush.
But when he took her into his mouth, she felt as if she had utterly lost her mind. His tongue slid inside of her, playing with her, teasing her, sucking her. She gasped loudly, gripping a fistful of his hair, as if she were afraid that he might change his mind and move away.
She couldn’t allow him that. She wanted him there, inside of her, deeper and harder. But that wicked man was gentle, soft, bringing her to the edge of the abyss and then leaving her there, to linger, waiting for that moment when it would all implode.
He was reaching a place inside her she never even knew existed. But that was the trouble with him. She wasn’t herself with him. She was his. And that was what she always wanted to remain.
She closed her eyes as she felt his lips sucking, the sound filling the chamber, making it more indecent than ever. When he added his finger, circling her swollen pearl, that was when an intense tidal wave of pleasure washed over her completely.
She clung to him desperately, not wanting to let go, lost in the abyss of pleasure, with his tongue inside of her. When the last ripples of ecstasy loosened their grip of her, so did she of him. He pulled away from her, looking up with those fathomless eyes. His lips were still wet from her dew.
She felt an insatiable desire to reach out and touch them. She did, and he gently kissed her fingers as she did so.
“Peace, at last,” she heard him say.
Her eyes widened in mock shock. “That was a very poor method of winning an argument.”
“It worked.”
“For a moment.”
He kissed her thigh, then gently and almost reverently pulled down her skirts. “Then I shall remember it.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Ye are becoming too bold for yer own good.”
“And ye are still impossible.”
“Familiar,” she reminded him through a beaming smile.
This time, his answer was not a word. He leaned in and kissed her once more, slower now, and the chamber, his chamber, her shawl, their scattered signs of occupation, grew very quiet around them.