“You want me to lie down? On freezing wet wool?”
“The wool goes over your head. You’ll be verra warm soon enough. Come.” He spreads his arms wider. “Trust me.”
“I do,” I admit with a sigh, and go straight to his side, my body tucking along his as naturally as breathing. A gust of bitter air whooshes up my dress and my arms tighten convulsively around him. My shivering intensifies immediately. “And if you ever doubt it, remember this moment. If we don’t both freeze to death first.”
The thing is, I honestly do trust him, and it astounds me. I’ve spent my life being the one in charge, the person making difficult decisions. Finding myself entrusting my well-being so unquestioningly to another person feels like jumping off a cliff. A really freezing one.
He tugs the wool higher, and it lands on his shoulder with a heavy slap. Using his shoulder and knee, he keeps the wet fabric from my body as much as he can, winding and tucking until we’re conjoined mummies.
“I cherish your faith in me, Mo ghràidh,” he murmurs with a kiss to the top of my head. “Mo chridhe.”
Whispered Gaelic endearments spill from him, and the feel of his hot breath along my neck, the side of my face, in my hair, sends a warmth pluming through my body that quickly turns to something hotter, brighter. The thrill of his naked legs tangling around mine is almost unbearable.
His lips find my ear. “See now?”
It takes a moment for me to come out of my daze enough to understand what he’s referring to. A thin crust of frost has encased the outside of the wool, sealing in our warmth. He’s eased down from his elbows, but the plaid has stayed in place.
I wriggle my toes, luxuriating in the sensation of feeling warmed-through for the first time in days. A pleased squeal escapes me. “It’s like an igloo.”
“You wish to glue yourself to me?”
I swat him. “Not that.”
He angles his head and gives me an adorably bereft expression.
With a small laugh, I admit, “All right, maybe that.”
He slides his hands to my waist and hoists me higher along his body. His lips brush mine as he murmurs, “’Tis a relief as I’ve already well and truly bonded myself to you.” His arms flex tighter, adjusting to nestle me even closer.
I kiss him hard, and his surprised moan reverberates through me until I feel like some exotic instrument, my every cell thrumming with joy and yearning and life. He slides his hand lower, drawing up the hem of my skirt, skimming up the back of my thigh. His hand cups my bottom. Squeezes.
And for the second time that night, I’m lost.
Eventually, I say, “We really should sleep.”
It’s not the first time those words have been said between us. But even though our eyelids are drooping, there keeps being one more kiss. One more thing to say.
“Aye, so you’ve said.”
He’s right. I keep putting off sleep, unwilling to be done with him for the night. And now I find I have yet another thought to share. “But first?—”
“You want another go?” he asks with a low, suggestive chuckle. He hikes me up his body so he can nuzzle my hair. “I knew you for a wee hellcat.”
“No, not that.” I nudge him with the energy of someone who should’ve gone to sleep hours ago. “I keep thinking about what you said—how my truest desire is family.” I rest my chin on his chest, holding his gaze. “Neither of us has it. Real family, I mean. Do you think that’s why we’re drawn to each other?”
“Och, no,” he says easily. He places a large, warm hand along the side of my head, gently guiding me back down. “We were drawn to each other because how could it be otherwise? You’re the sun in my sky, Rosie-love.”
“So this is destiny?”
“Beyond destiny.” His thumb brushes my temple, slow and sure. “The sun doesn’t rise because fate wills it. It rises because it must. It could be no other way…it simply is.”
I trace lazy circles along his chest, fingers wandering through loosened laces, over warm skin, exploring all the masculine things about him that fascinate me. The dusting of hair that tickles my palm. His low hum of pleasure as I lightly scratch his skin.
“But there was magic, too,” I murmur.
“If sunrise is the heartbeat of the heavens,” he says, his voice a low rasp in the dark, “then magic is the breath.”
“That’s beautiful.”
