Her left nipple peeked at him from the edge of the opened bed-robe, and if it weren’t for theblue cloudswirling around her hips, he’d have a fine view of her lush, fiery-red nether curls as well.
He took a step forward, his blood heating. “Perhaps ’tis a good thing I’ve returned early.”
She shook her head, completely disagreeing.
He’d ruined her surprise.
Disappointment sweeping her, she swatted at the reams of blue silk. But her efforts only served to trap her more fully in the mound of tangled cloth.
“Och, aye.” His body went even tighter when herhand- swipinggave him a better view of her soft curves. Already, he could feel her full, round breasts in his hands.
Saints, he couldtastethem.
“ O-o-oh, aye,” he said again. “ ’Tis very good, indeed.”
“Nae, it isn’t,” she quipped, striving for dignity. “Not at all.”
He arched a brow, not understanding.
She bit her lip. “I — this” — she grabbed a handful of the silk, holding it up for him to see — “is an awning tent for you. A true Viking one. My cousin Kenneth brought it back from Stromness in Orkney. It’s already decorated with my father’s black stag and I’ve been stitching a raven on it.”
“Ach, lass, I dinna know what to say.” He stared at the length of silk in her hands. “ ’Tis beautiful.” His voice was rough, husky. “The most exquisite embroidery work I’ve e’er seen.”
“Exquisite?” Gelis looked down, saw the magnificent rendering of her father’s crest gleaming boldly in the candlelight.
Her breath caught and heat swept up her neck, flooding her cheeks.
“Arabella stitched the stag.” The admission tore her heart and she bit down on her lip, almost drawing blood. “ ’Tis her work you see,” she owned, gathering the cloth over her arm, smoothing the billowing folds. “The raven is mine, but . . . he is not yet done.”
“Then show me what you have so far.”
“Not yet, please.” She looked away, shame and embarrassment scalding her. “You wouldn’t like it just now.”
“Say you.” He scooped an armful of the tent silk off the floor and shook it out until her half-stitched raven fluttered into view. “I will love . . .”
His praise tailed off, his eyes widening.
Gelis could feel her face turning bright red. “I told you, he is not yet finished.”
“He is perfect.” Ronan’s heart split wide as he looked down at the awkward, uneven stitches.
Barely recognizable as a bird, the rendering could have been anything between a sparrow and a swan. Clearly, his lady wasn’t skilled with a needle.
That she’d tried, and had done so to please him, shook his world.
His vision blurred, the raven’s crooked outline wavering as stinging heat stabbed the backs of his eyes and a hot lump swelled in his throat.
“Lass . . .” The endearment came out like a croak.
She glanced aside. “I knew you wouldn’t like it . . .”
He shook his head, unable to speak.
Then he did what he could, striding forward, blue cloud or no, to pluck her out of the welter of rippling silk and yank her hard against him.
“Your raven is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He stroked her hair, holding her so tight he almost crushed her. “And you had the right of it all along, sweetness. Youaremy salvation.”
“You’re not disappointed?” She pulled back to look at him, her eyes glittering with nontears. “Not truly?”
