Page 11 of My Scot, My Surrender
Turning carefully, Sorcha sneaked a glance to where he slumbered. Brandt Pierce was a tall man, and the armchair looked far too small to contain his lanky frame. He was not as broad as her brothers, but his lean physique was deceptive. She had seen his strength with her own two eyes when he’d walloped Craig and his cousins. His chest, a swath of tanned skin visible through the loose lawn shirt he wore, rose and fell with deep, even breaths. A lock of bronzed hair hung over his brow, and his mouth was parted in repose.
Beneath that tumbling curl, she could recall the color of his eyes in minute detail—they were the earthy, changeable hues of the Highlands in the throes of autumn. But now, thick russet eyelashes rested against his cheeks, hiding them from view. Fine grooves bracketed that stern but sensuous mouth. It was, without a doubt, a mouth molded for pleasure. One she’d experienced firsthand. With a tiny sigh, Sorcha remembered the feel of those wide male lips on hers and the clever, silken glide of his tongue. A rush of heat swamped her limbs, and she pressed her suddenly slack legs together.
Brandt grunted softly in sleep and twisted his long body in the chair. It could not be comfortable, sleeping in such a cramped position, and yet he had kept his promise that he would not lose control of his desires. Her brain tripped over the memory of his words. Hisdesires. She hadn’t known what to make of it then, and still didn’t. Had he been expressing sarcasm, the idea of feeling desire for her ridiculous? Or had he been genuine, honestly saying that he would fight the urge to give in to his body’s craving for her?
The thought was a dangerous one, making the blood in her veins start to simmer. Restlessly, Brandt shifted again. He stretched out his long legs in front of him, hooking one ankle over the other and causing the edges of his shirt to ride up against his muscular torso. The night before, she had averted her eyes while he undressed and bathed not two lengths away. Now, though, her gaze took greedy inventory, and Sorcha found it suddenly hard to swallow. Or breathe. Or do anything of use at all.
Christ’s holy baubles.
She shouldn’t swear, but her breath fair fizzled in her throat at the tantalizing display of chiseled abdomen and hard male flesh descending to the noticeable rise of his trousers at the juncture of his trim hips. For a moment, she wondered whether the thin line of bronzed hair arrowing beneath his waistband would continue on to that riveting swell, and then, Sorcha’s breath well and truly abandoned her.
It wasn’t that she’d never seen a shirtless man before—she’d seen plenty of them on the Maclaren training fields. But none of them had ever had such a heathen effect on her. Her nipples had contracted to hot points beneath her night rail, the wool deliciously abrading her too-sensitive skin. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to feel every inch of that lean male frame plastered against hers, bracing her body into the mattress.
God’s teeth, she was shameless! Closing her eyes, consumed by the arousing tableau her imagination conjured, a tiny moan escaped her lips as she knotted her fingers into the bedsheets. Sorcha flipped over and groaned into the feathered pillows.
“Sleep well?” The warm voice slid across her overheated senses, and every muscle in her body tensed in frenzied awareness. Her husband was awake.
“Yes,” she replied into her pillow. “Thank you.”
More sunlight flared into the chamber as Brandt parted the drapes. Feigning sleepiness, she stretched and turned to face him. His grin and notched eyebrow made her abandon the pretense. “It didn’t look that way. You seemed to be moaning and groaning. Night terrors?”
Sorcha narrowed her gaze at him. The amusement in his voice hinted at knowledge…knowledge of her shameless perusal. The blasted bounder had been awake and hadn’t made a sound! She blushed to the tips of her ears and wished that she could pull the sheets over her head.
“That was probably it,” she said as blandly as she was able.
“Tell me about them,” he said, walking over to the washbasin to splash some water on his face and clean his teeth with a square of linen and tooth powder.
Sorcha stopped herself just in time from sticking her tongue out at his back as his hazel eyes caught hers in a sphere of mirrored glass on the wall. “I dreamed I went to a country festival and married a complete stranger.”
“That sounds frightful.”
“It was,” she said. “Terrifying.”
“Was this stranger you married a dreadful ogre?”
“Of the most monstrous ilk.” She sat up and shifted her legs over the edge of the bed, the sheet falling away. Brandt’s eyes met hers in the mirror again, his hand stalling in mid-air as his hot gaze dropped to a spot below her chin. Sorcha glanced down and resisted the urge to grab for the discarded sheet. The worn woolen fabric of her nightgown was snug against the curves of her body, and at his stare, her nipples, which had not ceased tingling, tightened even more. Flushing, she crossed her arms over the offending points and glared at him. “Worse than you can imagine,” she added sourly.
He laughed, and the deep rumble made her pause. She couldn’t help noticing how his laughter lit his eyes in the most fascinating way. “Did your monstrous ogre threaten to boil your flesh and suck the marrow from your bones?”
It should have been awful what he was suggesting, but the teasing words shot bolts of exquisite heat down her spine. The combination offleshandsucktogether with her earlier fantasies made her face feel as if it were on fire.
“No,” she gritted out and hurried behind the privacy screen. “I kicked him in the head.”
The thought of using the chamber pot with him so close by made her cringe, but she managed it quickly when she heard him walk to the opposite end of the room to get dressed.
Her husband’s reply floated over the barrier. “Poor ogre. Sounds like he got the raw end of the deal.”
“Why is that?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Because ogres need love, too.”
A ripple of laughter bubbled in her chest, and Sorcha poked her head around the barrier. Except for her little brother Niall, banter did not come this easily with other people, especially with a lout who was using her plight to get his hands on her horse. Though, to be fair, she was using him, too.
“Tell me more,” Brandt said as he deftly fastened the buttons of his waistcoat. “Was he a strapping young blighter?”
Strapping. Handsome. Irritatingly attractive.
Once more, Sorcha flushed and cursed her body’s idiotic response. Undressing swiftly, she tied her stockings and garters, then pulled a chemise and clean dress over her head. “He was a bit of a runt, actually,” she said, her voice muffled by the layers of cotton and wool.
