After some minutes of him fumbling, she suggested he search the drawers of the dressing table for something to aid him. To her relief, a button hook was there, allowing him to make better progress. Still, he was laboriously slow and, all the while, she was aware of his breath upon her neck.
Mayhap ’twas her imagination but she thought it grew louder the longer he was about the task, especially when she asked him to untie the top laces of her corset and loosen them.
At last Finlay was done and retreated to the other side of the room. Quickly, she shimmied out of the gown. The corset was now loose enough that she was able to twist it round, continuing the loosening of the laces herself, until it could be drawn over her head. She then donned the nightshift and removed her petticoats, bloomers and camisole from beneath the safety of its covering beforethrowing back the covers.
Sliding in, she uttered a most unladylike exclamation as she encountered cold sheets.
“No warming pan, I’m afraid.” Finlay glanced back.
“’Tis not so bad.” If she said it firmly enough, she might believe it.
From the hearth, there was a spitting sizzle.
“These logs!” Finlay shook his head. “I fear they’re not so well seasoned as the ones in the snug. Too much sap still in the wood.”
As if in response to the remark the fire gave another crack, shooting a shower of sparks upon the rug. Muttering darkly, Finlay stamped his foot in several places, squashing the glowing pieces.
“Finlay! Your sporran!” Margaret bolted upright.
He spun about, turning his back as a second barrage of embers flew out, landing on the rear pleats of his kilt.
In a trice, Margaret had leapt from the bed. Without thinking, she began beating the folds with her hands, slapping his backside.
“Don’t tell me my bahookie is burning!” He twisted about, trying to see.
“Hold still, ye eejit!” Grabbing hold of the waistband, she smacked some more, then took the opportunity to swipe at the sporran.
“Gad’s teeth, woman! Watch my valuables!” Finlay hopped to the left, trying to get away from her, while puffing madly upon the smoldering sporran. Made from the mane of his late father’s favorite hunter, the thing dangled low like an old man’s beard, and flames were licking upward from the bottom.
Grabbing a cushion from the fireside chair, Margaret walloped it again, as hard as she could. Finlay spluttered, dancing about. Brucie, clearly wanting to join in with the excitement, jumped up, shoving two great paws into Finlay’s groin.
“Get it off! Quickly!” Margaret shrieked.
There was no time for the individual buckles fastening the sporran in place. Ripping at the side fastening, Finlay threw off the kilt entirely then stomped upon it.
“Mygoodness!” Margaret blinked rapidly, presented with two pale globes (well-muscled) perched atop quite spectacular thighs (moderately hairy).
As he turned about, her eyes widened. The front of his shirt did not quite cover the thickness protruding from between his legs. Of course she’d seen it before—and not just on their wedding night, exactly a year ago—but it had been a while. She’d forgotten how impressive it was. Moreover, the longer she looked upon it, she was certain it was getting bigger or, at least, pointing at a different angle than it had been.
Rather than attempting to cover his person, Finlay folded his arms, which only made the shirt ride up more. Despite the debacle with the kilt, he looked nauseatingly pleased with himself and was clearly unharmed.
“Are you checking it’s still there, lass? Come closer if you like. I’ve nae objection to you making a thorough inspection.”
Urgh! And to think I was worried about him.
The loathsome lout!
Sending him what she hoped was her most withering look, Margaret returned to the bed, pulling the covers up high. “As you’re sleeping in the chair, you’d best be putting that back on, unless you want chilblains on your nether regions!”
From the corner of her eye she watched him go to retrieve the kilt, only to begin cursing again. Brucie had ripped the sporran from its fastenings and was shaking it most thoroughly, growling and drooling.
With a wide, panting smile, he dropped it at his master’s feet.
CHAPTER 7
Margaret staredup at the bed’s canopy.
The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the fire. Finlay was sitting close to the hearth, about which he’d placed the guard.
