Allie swallowed.
Madonna mia, what had she gotten herself into?
Her attraction to this man overwhelmed her senses.
For the tiniest fraction of time, she permitted herself to lean into him. To let him drag his nose up her throat and nuzzle at the hollow underneath her left ear. His hands rose, unerringly finding her waist under the mass of her dressing gown and nightgown, attempting to pull her closer. The heat of his torso scalded her.
She ached to sink into him, to demand more.
But that road led to madness.
Uffa. Enough.
She flexed her fingers on his arms and pushed away. His palms slid reluctantly off her hips, but the imprint of them lingered. Even hours on, she knew she would still feel the burn of each one of his fingers.
Allie finished tugging his coat down his arms and turned to set it on the chair beside the fire.
“I appreciate how ye always save me from myself, sweetladra,” he said, tipping back onto the bed again.
Head on his pillow, eyes glittering in the low light, he appeared a pagan god tumbled to earth. Allie supposed every romantic woman in Britain dreamed of seeing the Highland Poet in just this state—half-dressed, sleepy-eyed, and ever-so-kissable.
And all of their imaginings would pale in comparison with the reality before her.
With every layer of clothing she removed, Ethan’s allure only multiplied.
“And why would I continue to do that?” she asked, voice casual.
“Because I’m your friend, o’course. And I ken all your secrets.” He paused, frowning. “Except . . . except what happened to your mother. And where Tristan went. Ye willnae tell me those.”
Allie froze.
He had asked her the same question at least once a day for the past week. If she truly considered him a friend—no matter how fleeting—she would share that harrowing piece of her history with him.
And yet, still she hesitated.
She never spoke of it. Of those dark days when she had lost her mother and brother in successive blows . . . the only two people in the world who had ever loved her.
Sighing, Ethan rolled onto his back. “Ye dinnae need tae tell me of their loss, lass. Your bonnie heart be injured in that place. I ken how such wounds can be.”
Yes, that was also true.
And it was late. And he was drunk and lying half-dressed on a bed. And she was in his bedchamber illicitly and would be ruined were she discovered.
So, actually, as Allie pondered it . . .
. . . now would be the perfect time to tell him.
It made a brilliant sort of sense.
She ticked the reasons off in her mind—she would have to do it quickly, Ethan would have no time to ask follow-up questions, and he was so drunk, he would likely forget their exchange entirely.
In the future, if he asked, she could in clear conscience say she had already discussed it. After all, it wouldn’t be her fault if he didn’t recall the conversation.
All things considered, she was unlikely to find a better opportunity.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Allie sat down on the edge of the mattress beside his hip, her body facing his head. Ethan’s eyes flared in surprise.
“Very well,” she said, “I shall tell you the whole sordid history, but do not blame me when you remember none of this come morning.”
