A rustle of fabric alerted him to the fact that she was now naked.
He reached out and pulled her into his arms, holding her against his body for a moment until she gripped his shoulders. A moment later, he effortlessly lifted her to the bed, joining her there.
His fingers swept from beneath her arm, along the swell of her breast then down to her waist and stomach. The palms of his hands pressed against the side of each breast until the plump curves met. He bent his head and kissed both of them at the same time.
“You’ve beautiful breasts, Sarah,” he said. “Not only are they lovely in shape and form, but they’re very sensitive.” He bent and licked one nipple.
“Douglas,” she whispered.
“My dearest Sarah. My lovely Sarah.” My beloved.
He cradled her in his arms, whispered in her ear, crooned to her in a soft, entreating voice. She turned to him, her face nestled in the space between his neck and shoulder, her breath hot, her heart racing.
“Oh, Douglas.”
His fingers knew her, stroked across her skin, explored her, seeking out places that made her sigh, that made her clutch him with urgent fingers. She repeated his name, her voice sighing. His palms tenderly stroked across her skin, his lips followed, and when he kissed her, his mind quieted and found peace.
His open lips touched hers, and in that kiss was all the reserve he used, all the tenderness he’d ever shown her, and just a hint of the passion he felt.
His body was simply an extension of his mind, or a wick to his soul. Slowly, gently, carefully, so as to cause her no harm or discomfort, he entered her, centered himself, seated himself, and felt in that instant that in her heat, dampness, and mystery, he’d found himself home at last.
“Sarah,” he whispered, nearly done in by the pleasure coursing through his body, by the astonishing joy lightening his spirit. “Sarah,” he said, and her name became a benediction, and a way of expressing the inexpressible.
Chapter 26
Leaving Kilmarin was more difficult than Sarah had anticipated.
She hugged her grandfather, who suffered her embrace in silence. When she drew away, he reached out to touch her cheek, and she was surprised to feel his hand tremble.
“I’ll not see you again, child,” he said. “But I’ll be sure and tell your mother that you’re doing well.”
Without giving her time to respond, he turned to Douglas.
“You need to come home to Scotland,” he said. “Bring my granddaughter back to her home.”
They exchanged a look, and Donald finally nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw. He turned, and without another word, walked back inside Kilmarin, leaving Sarah and Douglas standing beside the carriage in the porte cochere.
Douglas smiled, helped her inside, where she sat next to Florie. Her maid yawned discreetly behind a gloved hand, then smiled a greeting.
Before they could pull away, the carriage door opened again, and Linda peered inside. Her face was radiant; the girl had gone from lovely to exquisite. Hereyes filled with tears, and she reached out one hand to Sarah.
“I don’t know how you did it, cousin, but thank you. Thank you!”
“What did I do?” Sarah asked, confused.
“Grandfather has said that I can marry Brendan, after months of refusing. Months!” Her smile was tremulous but joyous all the same. “Thank you.”
Sarah grabbed her hand and squeezed, wishing that she could have met this version of her cousin earlier.
“Be happy,” she said, knowing that they would probably never see each other again.
Linda startled her again, by reaching behind her and then handing her the box she’d found in her mother’s room.
“Grandfather wanted you to have this, since you found it. Something of your mother’s, to remember your visit to Kilmarin.”
She smiled again, and withdrew, closing the carriage door.
When Douglas opened the box, she glanced at the mirror and then away.
