Page 61 of A Scot's Pride
And when they were married, she wouldn’t hesitate.
But if she went into his room, she also knew that it wasn’t just a wee dram of whisky she was going to want. She was going to want to kiss Bryson. For him to take her into his arms as he had in the garden. And even thinking about that had her blood heating up. Flames licked at her cheeks, and her breath hitched. Crossing into his room wasn’t just paying a visit. It was surrendering.
“Well, Freya? What’s holding ye back?” he asked.
She looked up into his smoky gray eyes, the sensual curl of a wicked smile on his lips as if he could read her thoughts and knew her hesitations.
“I’m afraid if I cross over, I’ll…” She shook her head. This was not a conversation to have in the corridor of an inn where anyone could hear them.
Leila or Lady Daven could catch wind of her voice right now and open the door, and then her decision would be made for her. She would be disappointed if that happened, and she hadn’t leapt at the opportunity to be alone with Bryson.
At this moment, she wanted nothing more than for him to take her into his arms and make her forget the entire day.
Freya uncrossed her arms and walked into his room.
Bryson shut the door behind her and walked over to the sideboard where two glasses were placed beside each other, one which already had a dram of whisky inside it. He picked up his flask and poured some into her glass.
Their fingers brushed when he handed her the glass, sending tingles racing along her limbs. She sipped the strong spirits, eyes on his as he did the same. The burn that followed the path of the whisky down her throat was nothing in comparison to the ache of desire that built somewhere in her middle.
“I didna want ye to think I’d left ye,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding deeper, a little more gravelly. “And I suspect my aunt encouraged me to run off, playing me in the way a master poker player would play a hand. She wanted to see if she could rattle ye, the old bat.”
Freya grinned and took a step closer to him. “She did. And now that I know what you were up to, I must ask forgiveness for all of the horrible thoughts I had about you until spying you on the road.”
Bryson chuckled. “I am curious as to what they were.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Och, but I do, lass.”
“I conjured up many a Shakespearean insult.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Tell me one.”
She took another sip of her whisky in search of fortification. “Well, I thought you a goatish, dog-hearted horn beast.”
Bryson chuckled, swirling his whisky. “Then I am honored, for I love goats, dogs and any beast with a horn.”
Freya couldn’t help but laugh. “I can do better than that.”
“Och, lass, I know how good your lips can be.”
Heat flamed her face, for he wasn’t talking about her ability to lay seventeenth-century insults at his feet.
“You think my lips are good?” Oh, boy. That had to be the whisky talking.
Bryson drained his glass, then set it down, taking purposeful steps toward her until the distance between them was closed.
“I do.”
Freya sucked in a breath and drained her glass. “I should leave. I should…go back to my room. I need to rest.”
Bryson raised a brow, his lip curling in a sensual grin. “Rest, is it?”
“Yes. Rest.”
