Page 92 of The Scot Beds His Wife
She turned to whisk the brush from him. “You don’t have to—”
“But I’m going to.” He used the leverage of her hair to gently but firmly direct her head back toward the fire.
Dumbfounded, almost horrified, Samantha sat, stiff shouldered, as he groomed her. She might not have been a virgin, hell, this was even her second marriage.
But tonight was definitely the night of a thousand firsts.
He obviously knew what he was doing, starting at the bottom of her thick mane, holding it away from her nightgown so as to not wring the water against it. Working the difficult tangles with deft and clever fingers instead of yanking on the brush. A green-tinged misery stole over her, ruining her enjoyment of the unexpected intimacy. Was this some kind of seductive ritual for him? Did he have a proclivity for hair?
“How many women have you played lady’s maid to?” she asked with forced nonchalance.
“One,” he answered blithely.
Oh God, that somehow made it worse.
“My mother.”
Stunned, she froze. “Your… what?”
“My mother wasna always blind, ye ken. That was my father’s doing.”
Samantha pressed her lips together as her blood raced. She’d suspected as much, but it had never seemed her place to ask.
“When we first came to Inverthorne after she lost her sight, we had no money for staff. It was only Callum, Eammon, and I. And my mother, of course. There were many things she couldna do for herself like arrange her hair.”
“I see,” she murmured. This was not at all in keeping with the Earl of Thorne that she thought she knew.
“That’s all I’ll say about it.”
She nodded, letting the rhythm of his brush strokes calm a mind that wanted to race. What an enigma her husband was. Ruthless, relentless, cunning, manipulative…
Generous, honorable, and… kind.
“Thank you,” she whispered around a sudden lump in her throat. How could he know that no one had ever done anything like this for her? Had ever done anything for her. She’d never been bathed. Never been dressed, tended to, or groomed.
She came from a hard place where self-reliance was the primary virtue. She’d never considered that a bad thing.
But… neither was this.
Her husband was a hard man, a lethal hunter, they said. And somehow that made this moment that much more disarming and alarming at the exact same time. Somehow, it made him more dangerous, because in one night he’d melted her multiple times. Not just her body.
But her heart, too.
Once the brush ran smoothly through her hair, he plaited it expertly. That accomplished, he pulled back the covers, snaked a thick arm around her middle and dragged her down to the pillow.
“Don’t husbands and wives sleep apart in this country?” she queried, trying not to appreciate that he slept naked. She’d been afraid he’d don one of those ridiculous nightshirts Bennett used to wear when it wasn’t cold enough for the equally unimpressive long johns.
“Stop confusing Highlanders with the British,” he mumbled, slumber already walking alongside the playful note in his voice.
“I’m just saying, you don’t have to give up your bachelor’s chamber for me, it’s not like we’re…” It had been a private worry of hers, that he’d resent sharing his space. That he’d push her out into a smaller, less comfortable room. It was within his right. And maybe he would eventually.
The longer he waited… the harder it would be.
“If ye think ye’re escaping me now, bonny, ye’ve gone daft. Now go to sleep.”
Samantha had never been one to obey, not really. But this once couldn’t hurt.
He’d left the window cracked, she noticed, but it only served to pull the warmth of the fire closer, without making it stifling.
