“I need to talk to ye,” he said. His voice was low and rough, as if he had walked a long way with a stone in his throat.
“To say what?” She stood up and faced him. “To repeat what ye said at the lake? That ye will set me free? That I should pack and go and pretend that none of this happened?”
“Emma—”
“Nay.” Her voice came out too sharp, so she steadied it. “Ye cannae keep breaking me apart and expect me to go quiet.”
He took one step, then stopped as if a line lay between them that he did not dare to cross. “I tried,” he admitted. “God above, I tried to stay away. I didnae want a bride. I didnae want to think of ye. But ye are everywhere I look.”
She did not breathe. “Jack?—”
“I yearn for ye,” he rasped. “I want to touch ye. I want to spend the rest of me life with ye. Every day, every night. I want… ye.”
Silence filled the room so completely that she could hear the coals pop in the grate. She closed the small distance between them and put her hands on his face. His breath tickled her palms.
“Then ye are too late, Laird MacLeod,” she whispered. “Because I am already in love with Scotland’s greatest villain.”
A small sound left him, half laugh and half disbelief. His hands closed around her waist. He pulled her to him and kissed her like a man who had gone thirsty for years and at last found water.
Everything that had stood between them fell.
The fear. The anger. The pride.
He kissed her again and again until she could not remember the last time she had drawn breath. Her fingers slid to his shoulders and held on. His mouth grew gentle, then hungry, then gentle again as if he could not decide whether to worship or devour her.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her lips. “Say it, and I will.”
She shook her head and spoke into his mouth, “Nay.”
He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a cloak and set her on the edge of the rocking chair. It scraped once across the floor, then stilled as his forehead rested against hers.
They tried to breathe, but they failed. His thumb traced the line of her jaw as he kissed the place a tear had dried. She reached for the ribbon on her sleeve, but he caught her hand.
“May I?” he asked, his voice low.
“Aye.”
He undid the bow with gentle fingers, slowly as if each knot was made of glass. He then pressed down on the crease where the ribbon had pressed and looked at her like a man beholding a holy thing.
Heat climbed her throat. She leaned up and kissed him again, quick and sure, then deeper when he reciprocated.
“Emma,” he said, breaking away for air. “If we do this, we arenae doing it halfway.”
“I daenae expect anything less,” she said. “Nae with ye.”
He searched her face once more, as if making sure this was not a dream he would wake from with blood on his tongue. She nodded, and his shoulders relaxed, and the strain that had carved lines at the corners of his mouth turned to something softer.
They stood together and backed toward the low cot by the fire, bumping once into the cradle screen and catching it before it rattled. They both froze and listened. No sound came from the corridor. No cry. Only the hiss of the coals and the rasp of their own breathing.
“Jack,” Emma giggled nervously. “We are in the nursery.”
“Aye,” he said, smiling helplessly. “For now.”
Before she could respond, his mouth found hers again. His hands were strong, careful, and sure.
The room narrowed to the rise and fall of their bodies and the warmth he gave and the warmth she returned. There were no fine words left. Only yes. Only now.
He lifted her off her feet and carried her to his chambers. A sly laugh escaped her lips when she saw him struggle with the door.Eventually, they both slipped inside, and he lowered her onto the bed.
