One of his fingers traced a lazy line on her jaw. “Then you’ll understand why I wasn’t in a hurry to return.”
Her skin tingling under his fingertips, she nodded. It wasn’t only this place, these people, that contributed to her unease. It was also her husband. The enigma. The emotional distance between them. In many ways, he was still a stranger to her.
But he’d made a start today, confiding a bit more about his childhood. And she’d made a promise to herself, to trust in him fully, to stop holding back. And beyond all that…despite her lingering doubts…
Well, she just wanted him.
He drove her wild, and she wanted to see where that wildness took them.
And there was only one way to find out.
“Come upstairs,” she whispered.
FORTY-FIVE
“GOOD EVENING, dearies.” When Kendra and Trick stepped into their chamber, Mrs. Ross came forward, two goblets in her hands. “I thought you might be wanting a wee sack posset to help you sleep.”
Sleep was the last thing on Kendra’s mind, and she was fairly certain Trick felt the same. But she took one of the cups anyway, and sipped the warm, thick liquid, sweet and fragrant with the scents of cream and wine.
Gazing at Trick over the rim, she watched as he removed the roll of papers from the front of his kilt and tucked it into his trunk before turning to Mrs. Ross. “We thank you,” he said with a nod and a smile. “And we wish you a good night,” he added pointedly.
With a smile of her own, Mrs. Ross handed him the second cup as she left.
Kendra sagged against the door after Trick closed it. “How strange that she would be waiting here for us.”
“She was my old nurse.” He sipped from his cup before setting it on a bedside table, then unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the desk. “I reckon she saw us together earlier and figured it wouldn’t be long until we were for bed.” When she blushed, he pulled her close. “I don’t want to be thinking about Mrs. Ross now.”
His eyes burned into hers. She leaned away to sip some more posset, hoping the wine would bring her strength. And courage.
Trick gently pried the cup from her fingers and set it down beside his own. He slipped the shawl from her shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it on a chair. Running his fingertips over the skin revealed by the absence of the shawl—and her scooped neckline—he placed a shivery kiss just below her collarbone. “I much prefer these delightful English dresses,” he murmured.
His lips tickled her skin. Until today, she’d never thought twice about the low necklines that had been in fashion since King Charles was restored to the throne. Trends were driven by Charles’s love for everything French, which meant she’d worn gowns like this all her life, even as a little girl exiled on the Continent.
But, thanks to her exasperating, overprotective brothers, never before had anyone taken advantage of the sensitive skin such dresses revealed.
“I like this dress, too,” she said breathlessly as he trailed kisses up her throat, all the way to her lips. Her hands went straight to the warmed wool of his kilt and hiked it up just the barest inch.
A chuckle rolled through his throat. “I think I like my skirt as well,” he said against her mouth.
The heat in his tone made her whole body tremble, and she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his middle to hold herself up. At a noise on the stairs, she froze, her heart beating double-time.
“Do you hear something?”
Trick’s breath tickled her ear. “Something like what?”
“Like footsteps. In the stairwell—can’t you hear it?”
“Nay.” He raised his head. “Wait. Maybe I can.” The sound was faint, muffled, so soft their heartbeats and breathing nearly drowned it out.
Nearly.
She bit her lip. “There are people in there, I’m sure.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His lips grazed hers, sweet with the flavor of creamy sack posset. “It must be the ghosts of men going up to Prisoner’s Leap,” he murmured, and she couldn’t tell if he was jesting or not. “They won’t bother us in here.”
“D-do you believe in ghosts?”
“Right now I believe in finishing what we’ve started.”
She twisted away from his kiss. “What if it isn’t ghosts on those stairs, but someone much more real and frightening?”
With an exasperated groan, he bodily picked her up. He walked to the bed and plopped down, sitting her on his lap. “Like who?”
Fear mingled with more pleasant sensations, turning her head. “Mrs. Ross, maybe? What if she only used the sack posset as an excuse, and she was really up here as part of a plot, but we surprised her—”
“A plot?” He shook his head decisively. “Mrs. Ross wouldn’t hurt a midge.” He reached to the bedside for his goblet of sack posset, taking a generous gulp as though to prove it wasn’t poisoned. “She cared for me as a bairn. Why should she want to do me harm?”
“She cared for your mother more, and she’s less than happy with the way you ignored her all those years.”
“She was, true enough. But she knows now that it wasn’t my fault. I cannot believe she still holds a grudge.”
“How about Annag and Duncan? They surely do.”
Trick’s clever fingers pulled the pins from what remained of her bun. “I seriously doubt Annag and Duncan are hovering behind that door.” The gray day had delivered on its promise, and rain slashed against the small window set deep into the wall. “It’s the storm you’re hearing, Kendra.”
“Niall, then? He’s been passed off as the duke’s younger son. If something were to happen to you, he’d inherit it all. The dukedom, Amberley, Duncraven…”
In the midst of combing his fingers
