Page 36 of Scandalous Scot
Heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven.
And then she walked through the adjoining door. Alana must have left through the other exit, thankfully—he hadn’t thought about that before he’d undressed. If the tub was heaven, his wife was one of its angels. But the thoughts that ran through his head just then? Anything but angelic.
In fact, they were just the opposite. Which made him feel like the devil’s minion—an accurate description if the images he’d just conjured in his mind were any indication.
If he was going to survive until his family made it to Hightower, he would have to get a grip. But at this moment, the only thing he wanted to grip were his wife’s hips. He imagined pulling her down into the tub with him, initiating her into this marriage for real.
“Ian?”
He couldn’t really talk at the moment.
“Mmmmm.”
“You look like you’re in pain.”
His laugh sounded devilish even to his own ears.
15
This had beenthe strangest day of Màiri’s short life.
From confusion to disbelief, from anger to sadness . . . and now this. She’d not been prepared to see Ian unclothed, one muscular leg draped over the side of the wooden tub, hands propped behind his head. He appeared to care for naught at the moment.
That wasn’t quite true.
As relaxed as he appeared from a distance, her perception changed as she moved closer and the firelight illuminated his face. His eyes.
Which was when she’d blurted out that ridiculous statement. For as soon as the words left her lips, she realized it was not pain that contorted his face at all.
It was desire.
Her lack of experience might be glaring, but Màiri had seen that expression on Ambrose’s face before. Not as intense, but it had been there nonetheless. Once, they’d even discussed it—Ambrose telling her precisely when he’d stopped thinking of her as only a friend but as a potential marriage partner.
At first, she’d been shocked. But the more Màiri had thought on it, the more the idea had grown on her. Ambrose accepted her, mark and all. He was kind. He was someone she’d known her whole life. He also lived close to her father, a fact she had hoped might sway her father to set aside his newfound hatred of Clan Dern. But in the end, it had mattered naught.
Perhaps it was for the best.
She could not help but smile at her husband, despite all of the unbelievable things she’d learned this day.
Or maybe because of them. He really had struggled to fit into this time.
“You laugh at me,” she accused. “I did not expect to find you . . . in such a state.”
“How did you expect to find me?”
“Clothed,” she blurted.
Ian’s brows raised. He pulled his leg back into the tub and leaned over it to grab the soap sitting on a stool beside it. His back, as broad and muscular as the rest of him, was fully presented to her.
“Is that so?” Sitting back in the water, he gestured to the stool. “Will you sit? Clearly we have a lot to discuss.”
Hesitantly, Màiri moved to the other side of the tub, closer to the fire. As if she needed its heat for warmth. She was sure her cheeks had been inflamed since she stepped inside the bedchamber.
Màiri moved the drying cloth and hiked up her shift. Sitting on the now-empty stool, she averted her eyes from the tub. Ian’s laugh told her that he knew precisely what she was doing and why. But of course it didn’t work. Her eyes were drawn to his chest. Expansive, hard . . . she very much desired to touch it.
“I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”
Her gaze flew back up to his face. His jaw was no longer clean-shaven, and a few days of growth had made him appear older. His serious expression unsettled Màiri. It was unusual for Ian, and she liked it not.
