Page 22 of Scot of Desire
“Nay, course nae. Ye just nearly knocked yerself out.” He shook his head. “I need the light, come this way.”
“I need tae leave.”
“Says the woman who just burst intae me room without knocking. Ye should hardly be surprised ye got an eyeful.”
“Oi!”
“This way,” Bran continued calmly, taking hold of her hand and towing her toward the fireplace. When she swayed, the knock to her head having had an effect on her after all, he kicked asmall stool in place before the fire and urged her to sit down. She flopped down, her vision swaying a little, though she was very alert when he stood before her, examining the bruise to her temple. It basically brought his crotch to her eye level.
She stared at the fastening of his trews, her mouth suddenly very dry indeed.
“I think ye’ll be fine. Ye’ll have a bruise though,” he warned as he stepped back from her. She allowed herself to breathe again as he increased the space between them and stopped running his fingers across her head. “People will ask how ye got that.”
“Nay problem.” She mussed her dark hair and covered the spot on her temple.
A strange silence fell between them. He hovered by the fire, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece. His manner was very serious now, a stark contrast to the jesting that had been in him seconds ago.
“Ye shouldnae be here, Ilyssa.”
She didn’t answer. She sat straight on the stool, suddenly annoyed. Yes, she knew she shouldn’t burst in on him unannounced when he was trying to bathe, but was it wrong to want to see him? After all she was going through, she had to talk to someone!
“I needed tae talk tae someone.”
“Ye have Catreena fer that.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Ye could have woken her.”
“Have ye ever tried waking Catreena up?” Ilyssa rolled her eyes. “She willnae thank ye fer it.” Yet it was plain he was no longer in a mood to jest. He was still staring at her, brazenly, refusing to look elsewhere.
“Ye shouldnae come like that tae me room, Ilyssa,” he began again.
“I didnae ken ye would be bathing.” She waved a hand at the bathtub behind them.
“It’s nae about that,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, though it was also quiet. “Look what ye are wearing. Or rather, what ye are nae wearing.” She looked down at her clothes. Her robe had opened, probably as she was trying to flee, her front only covered by her nightgown. Despite how close she was to the fire, her nipples were still pert, plainly visible through the white material of the chemise.
“What about it?” She tried to be nonchalant, brushing it off.
“In the name of the wee man.” He suddenly turned away and crossed the room, moving toward the bath where he tipped another steaming bucket of water inside. “In case ye hadnaenoticed, Ilyssa, ye are a lass, and I am a man. Ye expect me tae behave when ye are in me chamber dressed like that?”
Her jaw fell open.
Is he saying what I think he is saying?
“Ye and I should never be in one another’s bedchamber. It’s just nae appropriate nor is it a good idea.” He looked away from her, down at the bathwater.
Nay. He doesnaewanttae want me.
“Well, perhaps ye can forget the fact ye are a man fer a bit and talk tae me. Please, Bran, I need tae talk about what’s happening with…” As she paused, his eyes met hers. “With Cillian Grant.”
He dropped the bucket at his side, so it clattered loudly.
He looked around, suddenly animated. Apparently, he could find no shirt so grabbed a jerkin instead and threaded it over his bare shoulders. The hint of his chest beneath was enough to make her wriggle on the stool, creating some friction between her legs. He found a cloak too and dropped that over her shoulders. Then he grabbed another stool and sat down beside the fire, facing her, gesturing for her to start speaking.
His jaw had tightened, and he hardly looked pleased about having this discussion.
“Talk. Say what ye have come tae say and then… ye must go.”
