Therefore, he had her roll on her side away from him and he settled in behind her, putting his top arm around her waist and his bottom arm pillowing her head.
“Courieinto me, Alasdair,” she whispered.
Courie. Nestle. Snuggle.
He had not heard the wordcouriein over twenty-five years. It must have been his mother who had said it to him before she died, before he was sent to his aunt and uncle in Bailebrae. He could not imagine anyone else would have ever had occasion to use the word with him.
His throat tightened and his eyes stung. He was glad the room was dark and Arabella would not have been able to see his face if she had turned toward him.
And then his imagination was taken by the smallness and the softness of her waist under his own hand and what seemed a very thin and delicate and impractical nightdress. He wondered if he would be able to sleep at all, here in bed with her. But her own breathing was calm and even. She put her hand on top of his and made a sighing noise that sounded suspiciously like contentment and he surprised himself by falling almost immediately into a deep, warm sleep where he dreamed of standing in a bishop’s study with Arabella.
Twenty-Three
Arabella awoke in a delicious wash of warmth. She had woken up several times throughout the night and Alasdair was always there, holding her, an arousing presence. She had thought seriously about turning and kissing him and undressing him and climbing on top of him. He might sleep on like an enchanted prince and she could have her wicked way with him. But she thought it might be a great deal more pleasurable if he would participate. And then his long, deep, even breaths would lull her back to sleep and to her dreams of what he might allow in the morning.
And he was still holding her now, just as tightly as before.
She could feel and hear his breathing and knew he was still asleep.
She lay very still.
But in time, his breathing changed.
And she dared to make a quarter turn on the bed and lay flat on her back so she could turn her head and see him, still lying on his side. She clutched his hand on her stomach so that he could not withdraw it, but he made no move to do so.
And there he was, green eyes. Waves of auburn hair. Ginger whiskers. She put her other hand on his cheek to feel his stubble. Mmmm.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said and smiled and the dimples flashed for just a second before he winced.
“Alasdair, what’s wrong?” She raised her head.
“Not a thing,” he said. “I just ...” He slid the arm out from where her head had lain all night. “I think my arm has gone numb.” He lay flat now himself and took his hand off her stomach and began to rub the other arm. “A little compression of the radial nerve, that’s all.”
She sat up. “I’ll do that. It’s my fault, after all. My big head.” She began to knead his upper arm through the banyan.
“Yer big head.” She noticed he put his other hand on her leg covered by her nightgown. “Filled with so many—ow!—marvelous things.” She had worked her way down to his elbow. “’Twas a delight to cushion it for a night, Miss Lovelock.”
“Have you noticed that I call you Alasdair all the time now?” She rubbed his forearm.
“Aye.”
“Do you think you might call me Arabella? You really cannot go on with ‘Miss Lovelock.’ You will slip and call me that in front of the others.”
“But shouldn’t I call ye Mrs. Andrews in public?”
She mashed his hand now in the most unforgiving manner.
“I suppose you should, but it is a lie.”But how I wish it weren’t.“Whereas Arabella is not. So perhaps in private, I could be Arabella? It seems silly that you kiss me and yet you don’t call me Arabella.”
He bit his lip as if he were thinking of something. “Ye may be right, Miss Lovelock.”
“How is your arm now?”
“Better.” He flexed his fingers.
She moved away from him, to the other side of the bed and hopped off.
