Page 83 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Ah, Hades. He showed a modest side and swathed his arse with bed linens—his mythical power no longer in view.
“Mrs. Neville.” His brogue was graveled irony. “Why don’t you come in?”
“Mr. MacDonald, I think I shall.”
Stiff formality was her placeholder when lacking recourse. The idea of hearing Will’s voice disappeared on the length of him stretched out lionlike. Even the soles of his feet were beautiful.
Will finger combed hair off his face. He’d been asleep, naked, as one does if his name is Will MacDonald.
“I came to talk to you. I thought you said my name in invitation.” She gestured to the door as if it would give testimony. “It’s why I came in.”
Bed ropes squeaked, and Will sat up, his wonderfully meaty and sinewed torso revealed in all its glory. Hillocks and dales of smooth skin over knotted muscles. More sun-kissed gold hairs ringing male nipples. He grabbed a handful of the bed sheet as if to cover more of himself.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He blinked sleepy eyes. “Trying to get dressed.”
What blasphemy, covering himself.
“No. Stay just as you are. Please.”
His brow furrowed. “It’s no’ proper, me like this and you in a bedchamber.”
“Oh, but kissing me senseless and having sex with me in the countryside is quite acceptable?”
“We were young and foolish.”
“And now we’re older and wiser.”
Will was doubtful, a lion’s mane of hair falling around his shoulders. She advanced on him with cautious steps, so as not to spook her quarry.
“Rest as you were. You look a wee bit tired.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “A wee bit is it?”
“Maybe more.”
“I am tired, lass.” He accepted her offer to throw propriety to the wind and stretched stomach down on the mattress. Will put his cheek on the bunched pillow, his face to her.
She took a seat at the side of the bed. Will rested comfortably, his body’s gentle ebb and flow in time with his even breaths. She rested a hand in the field of white between them.
This was strange agony. To come this far yet know they had miles more to go. Where was the bold man who’d tucked her medallion between her breasts? The dance of man and woman was fraught with mystery and wonder. It left her with an inkling that Will had waited years for this moment, but she’d be happy to start with his whereabouts last night.
“Why didn’t you come home last night?”
Will’s eyes honed on her with the precision of a gimlet tool. “Home you say?”
“Do you deposit your dirty boots anywhere else?”
“You don’t have to clean my boots,” he said in a sleep-grumbled voice. “The men of West and Sons Shipping wanted to share a pint, which turned into three or four and a farewell dinner at a chophouse.”
Their afternoon conversation took on the intimate feel of a minor marital spat, which was as discomfiting as Will naked in bed.
“They like you.”
“Most people find me congenial.” His mouth was a torment. Wide, sensual, framed by another day’s whiskers.
“I find you congenial.”
