Chapter Eleven
Liam tried toblock out the drunken singing outside his bedroom door and focus on the woman he’d just ruined. They were married now for sure, but she didn’t know that yet. Which meant he had a short moment in time to convince her to throw her lot in with him.
He began by tending to her physically. That meant water and bread. Whatever she was wearing was torn to shreds leaving her in a dirtied shift and stays that smelled of drink. He would need to get her out of all that, but not until her head and stomach were settled.
“Here,” he said as he handed her a cup of water. “This will help.”
She’d already managed most of the bread, and she took the cup with a loose-limbed ease. “I have to buy Deirdre a new dress,” she murmured before she drank the water. Then she looked down at her stained clothing. “Do I smell like the distillery?”
“Only a little,” he lied. “Who is Deirdre and why must you buy her a dress?”
She touched a trailing thread. “Everyone was tugging on me. They tore the gown to pieces.” She finished the water and then seemed to lose strength. He was sitting beside her, so it was an easy thing to encourage her to sink against him and close her eyes. He thought she might have gone to sleep, but a moment later she spoke in a small voice. “Did I do a good job?”
“What?”
“As Laird Dub… itch… whomever’s ghost bride?”
“You were wonderful,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Who told you the tale?”
“Lady Beitidh. She said it was the most important part of the festival day and that I’d replaced her.”
Of course, she did. His father’s mistress—who was no lady in any sense of the word—would have gotten the idea from his father and together they manufactured this disaster.
“She’s not a lady,” he said gently. “And she tricked you.”
Clara lifted her head off Liam’s shoulder. “What? But she said—”
“It doesn’t matter, Clara. It’s over.” He refilled the cup with water and pressed it on her. “Drink up. We’ve got some talking to do.”
She did as he bid, but when she was done, her expression was cloudy. “I don’t think I want to talk. I don’t think I’ll like what you’re going to say.”
He was sure of it. “Why not lie down a bit? Until you feel better?”
She proved she wasn’t completely lost as she peered around the room. “But this isn’t my bedroom.”
“You can’t leave now. Not with everyone outside the door.”
She sighed. “They are rather loud.”
Yes, they were. He stretched back on the bed and pulled her with him. She lay down against him, settling sweetly into the curve of his shoulder.
“Does your head hurt?” he asked.
“Not really. I’m sure I’ll have a sore head in the morning, but right now, it’s just nice to lay down.”
He let her rest there while he stroked his hand over the curve of her waist and up along her ribcage. She fit him so well, hip to hip, long leg curling around his legs. His cock was standing tall and a little twist would have him rubbing delightfully against her. If ever he had imagined his wife, he would not have landed on a lanky bluestocking with moderately-sized breasts. But that’s because all boys were idiots. As a man, he couldn’t wait to unlace her stays and discover the glory beneath her clothes.
“Do you know when I first realized you are beautiful?” he asked.
She shifted against him, making his cock throb. “What? How much whisky have you had?”
Enough to make him mellow. “When we walked in Hyde Park, and you wore that shapeless thing without stays. It was like you’d put a bag on and everything underneath was free.”
“I was perfectly covered,” she said.
“I know. And yet when I touched your sides, this wasn’t there.” He tugged lightly at her stays. “I learned the shape of you then. That you weren’t all hard angles and knobby knees.”
“My knees are definitely knobby.”
