Page 37 of Scandalous Scot
“I was angry,” she said. “Before.”
“Before?”
“Your brother’s embrace. I know we’ve not known each other for very long, but when it became evident Marian and Alastair knew something I did not, the meal became an uncomfortable one. It was not a pleasant feeling. Fortunately, Alastair thought to tell me what you and Marian did not.”
Màiri continued to ignore Ian’s hand as it glided across his lovely chest with the soap.
“It’s not something you tell a stranger. ‘So, by the way, I time-traveled back from the twenty-first century.’”
“But I am your wife.”
“And a stranger still.”
His hand dipped between his legs. Though she couldn’t see through the water thanks to the dim light and film of soap on top, Màiri was surprised by how much she suddenly wanted to.
“Do you believe it?”
She’d been caught looking again.
“Aye. I do.”
Ian didn’t hide his surprise. “You believe I’m from the future?”
“Aye,” she repeated. “’Tis not so difficult to imagine. I’ve always known there are forces beyond what my eyes can see. I believe in many things I cannot touch or feel.”
Ian groaned.
She would hear the sound again.
“I take it Marian showed you Grey’s cell phone?”
A perceptive man, her husband.
“Aye, she did. Though ’twas ‘dead,’ as she called it, ’tis not from this time. And so much else suddenly made sense. Your strange manner of speech. The fact that Laird MacKinnish suddenly has a sister-in-law none knew of before. Your . . . familiarity with me, which Marian says is more customary in your time.”
“Kind of. I still don’t usually make a habit of kissing women at first sight.”
“’Tis extraordinary, really. And I am glad your family will be reunited.”
That he had let such vulnerability be witnessed by his uncles, by her, was further proof that he and his brother came from a very different place. She’d heard the Fae were capable of wonders. But to create a traveling chant that could transport people through time?
It was remarkable. Miraculous. Beyond anything she’d ever thought possible.
Ian glided the soap against his neck and back. Frowning, knowing she was begging to be hurt, Màiri made the offer anyway.
“Shall I do that for you?”
His hand froze.
“’Tis customary in my time for a lady to bathe her guests,” she explained, lest he misunderstand.
“But I’m not your guest. Not exactly.”
She should not have offered.
Ian slowly reached out his hand, the musk-scented soap nestled inside of it.
Moving the stool closer, Màiri took it from his strong fingers, immediately reminded of the kiss they had shared. Of how he’d not hesitated, his lips both soft and demanding. Of how he’d reached that same hand up and cupped her breast.
