Harlowe stepped out and assisted Agnes, then Molly with the baby. “Get her to the door, Niall. Don’t let them fall.”
“Yes, milord.”
The cold, wet night air clashed with the heat on Maeve’s face. Still, she hadn’t been able to make herself move.
Harlowe’s head appeared inside. He was so handsome and talented and kind. In the past few weeks, his pallor had garnered color, he was regaining strength, and some of his memory seemed to be returning. “Let us go, then. We’ll catch our death. Is something wrong?” Along, apparently, with his tendency to issue orders.
Hiding a smile, she spoke primly. “Of course not.” She took his outstretched hand. Rather than setting her to her feet, he swept her up in his arms. “Oh. You shouldn’t—”
“And why shouldn’t I? I’m perfectly capable. Besides, you shall ruin your slippers.”
The ground was covered in a wet, slushy mess. “All right,” she said softly, realizing her face must match the reddest roses, and was as hot as the hothouse in which they were grown. No one was likely to see them once they crossed the threshold. “You may set me down under the portico.”
His chuckle rumbled against her ribs. Of course he didn’t do as she said. The door swung back, and McCaskle’s balding head gleamed in the foyer’s chandelier of candles, along with his beaming smile.
And his wife, Ina.
And his son, Niall.
And his sister-in-law, Cook.
And his daughter, Bitsy.
The group stood in a line. Behind them was Baird. In front were the children. Agnes, Stephen, Molly, still holding Nathan, Mary, and Penny.
Harlowe dropped her to her feet inside and took her cloak from her shoulders.
Maeve looked at the group’s expressions that ranged from knowing smiles to excitement at being out of their beds at the late hour. Her glance moved to Harlowe.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “They wished to congratulate us.”
The cacophony broke out in well-wishes and excited chatter.
“Take yourself off to bed, Agnes,” Maeve said. “I can take care of things from here.”
Agnes stood at the wardrobe, holding the dress Maeve had just gotten out of. “But your hair, my lady.”
Harlowe stepped inside the bedchamber. “I’ll assist the lady with her hair, Agnes. You may go.”
The maid draped the dress on a peg and quickly disappeared.
“You are an expert on hair?” Maeve asked him after the door latched softly on Agnes’s exit.
“I plan on being the expert on your hair.” He led her to her vanity and pressed her to sit, then began pulling out pins. “You know, the first time I saw you, I thought I was dreaming of fire.”
The locks fell past her shoulders, tickling the skin at her upper back. She met his gaze in the mirror and shivered.
“You put a hand to your head and said, ‘Frightful, isn’t it?’ But I didn’t find it frightful at all.” His voice was all that was deep and drugging to her normally pragmatic senses. He pitched the jewel-tipped pins atop the vanity and ran his fingers through the depths of her tresses.
She closed her eyes and sank into his touch.
“I’m glad you forewent powder.”
If he kept massaging her skull like that… His fingers moved to her neck. Her petticoat loosened and fell to her waist. Her stays came next. His lips brushed below her ear. “Sweet and spicy,” he whispered.
Her head fell to one side, and she let him nibble to his leisure. But one touch of his tongue and she started.
He pulled her to her feet. Her petticoat and stays slipped to the floor, leaving her in her sheerest chemisette, silk stockings, and garters.
