Chapter 51
Fifty-One
Neal
“You might actually need stitches, Sorcha,” I said as we made it back to our cabin.
“Not again,” Sorcha complained. “First the cultist in New Orleans and now that awful woman? I’m accumulating scars and I don’t like it.”
“You can’t even see the scar on your knuckles,” I said as I settled on the couch and pulled her into my lap. I dabbed the cuts on her face with my handkerchief, fussing. “And I will make sure you can’t see the scars from these either. You’re my High Lady. We have to keep up appearances, don’t we?”
“Because I’m your sovereign.” Sorcha pulled back and smirked at me.
“Because you’re mine,” I replied.
“So tell me, Neal,” Sorcha said, toying with the fastenings on her dress, “are you going to hold my hand and share a bed and clean this out and kiss it better?”
“I guess stitches can wait,” I murmured into her throat. “Bed first?”
“Kiss it better?” Sorcha asked.
“Every time, my love,” I replied.
I scooped her up into my arms, pressing kisses around the wounds on her face, then, finally as we reached our bedroom, to her lips.
“Pick up where we left off in the ballroom?” I offered.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Sorcha murmured, kissing me again as she shrugged off her bodice and moved to the fastenings on her skirt.
And once I had her skin on skin, flush and warm and safe in my arms, I kissed along the base of her neck, her collarbone, and finally said, “Sorcha? I’m glad you’ve forgiven me. But I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself for that night.”
“Which one?” Sorcha asked, breathless, distracted.
“That night with the owl on the porch when you tried to kiss me. Our wedding,” I said. “Our honeymoon when you ran away from me. When we conceived the baby. I could make a list.”
My hands drifted to her hips, and I traced my lips up to her hairline.
“I will be forever earning back your trust,” I murmured. “Forever trying to prove my affection.”
I wiped away a trickle of blood from her cheek with my thumb.
“So go on,” Sorcha chuckled, eyes bright and eager. “Prove your affection.”
I kissed her forehead. Then down along her cheek to her mouth and captured the breathy little moans playing at her lips. I moved lower, to her neck, her collarbone, her chest. Her hands fisted in my hair as her body arched against me.
“Every day, my love,” I murmured between kisses. “Every day if you ask.”
“Neal,” Sorcha moaned, “I’m asking.”