Lucy blinked wildly. “Aye?” she urged, breathless.
“He sleeps like the Dragon in King Arthur, who slumbered so deep it formed a hill.” He intended to form those words into playful ones. The low, hoarse quality ruined the effect. “In fact, he slept so deep…”That gentleman you love and are destined to marry.“That all the McQuoid-Smith children, with wooden swords in their hands, were granted entry into his chambers. They jumped about his mattress, even on Campbell? Through it all, Campbell slept.”
Arran failed to elicit the laugh he’d not realized he’d been longing to do.
Lucy’s gaze moved searchingly over his face, her jade-green stare as much a mystery as the woman herself.
“Who was it?” Her whispery soft question brushed his lips like a tender caress.
Bespelled, he faintly registered himself answering with a shake of his head.
“Who allowed the children inside Mr. Smith’s chambers?”
That was the one part of Arran’s story she’d ask after? Not about Campbell? Or how he’d responded when awakening? Not so much as a wistful smile or dreamy gaze.
“Me.”
Warmth, and… a touch of wistfulness, gleamed brighter in Lucy’s clear gaze. His eyes, however, were reserved for her.
He needed space from her more than he needed blood in his body.
“Mulled cider?”
Her breath-stealing smile reappeared. “That would be lovely.”
While he went to fetch them drinks, Lucy hastened along with him. Collecting the rest of the biscuit molds and carrying them back without giving Arran another look.
She lay her beloved stash upon the table in an uneven tinny chorus as the biscuit cutters fell unevenly upon the oak table planks.
“I’ve seen biscuit cutters before,” she said.
While she cheerily chattered, oblivious to the riot of dark feelings rooting around inside him, Arran poured himself a mug of mulled cider—a verylargeglass. “Have you?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve seen them at festivals. Occasionally Rom will pass through, peddling their wares. But I’ve never seen ones like these.”
Arran set the pewter mug down. He made the mistake of glancing back. That carelessness nearly cost him the rest of his sanity.
Lucy’s comely mouth formed another sweet smile.
He thought better of it and grabbed the entire pitcher. Remembering a mug for Lucy, Arran carried his bounty of liquid fortitude to an ebullient Lucy’s side.
She angled her flour-kissed cutter for his inspection. “Did you see this one, Arran?”
His eyes lingered on a tear-drop shaped birthmark in the web between her thumb and forefinger. It was as if she wore the mark of Cailleach, goddess of the winter. “I didn’t,” he murmured.
“It is a fine one.” Lust sapped him of anything and everything but the sight of that mark, one that beckoned him to leave his own stamp upon her. He imagined taking that flesh between his lips and sucking upon her creamy soft skin.
“It must be delicious,” Lucy said—just as Arran took another fortifying swallow from his mug.
Strangling on his swallow, Arran erupted into a paroxysm. A hot flush filled his neck and splotched his cheeks.
Lucy dropped the kitchen gadget and sprung to action. She raised a hand and, with a cupped palm, thwacked him hard between the shoulder blades several times. Until he got himself under control.
Except, with his lungs recalling their reflexive function, his body took note of Lucy’s palm resting upon the thin layer of his lawn shirt.
She moved her fingers in smooth, sure, butterfly-soft circles. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.
