“Romeo, are you ready? Shall we call out to them to open the doors?”
He could not answer. She curled close enough to kiss, mouth luscious, breasts rising, falling provocatively under lace. “Nearly,” he said hoarsely.
She sagged against him, feigning death, one arm trailed down, head tilted. “Here lies your Juliet, awaiting your heartbroken soliloquy,” she whispered.
“Dear God,” he whispered, unable to think of a single quote. Playing this game with her had been a mistake. He should have begged off.
Christina shifted again. The sweet quiver of her breasts sent desire plunging through him. “Romeo, stop scowling.”
“Juliet, stop twitching and chittering like Miss Thistle.” His acerbic tone was not enough antidote, but would do.
“Hmph,” she huffed, scowling too.
He kissed her brow. Safe enough. “Ready?” he murmured.
She glanced up. Aedan noticed then that her pose resembled that of the girl in the painting. But she was not that girl—she was part of him somehow, increasingly dear. She tilted her head, her neck swanlike and beautiful. Her throat, her cheeks blushed. She was twitchy, innocent, and alluring all at once, and he was very nearly done in.
“Romeo, try to look impassioned,” she whispered.
Passion.He was filled with it, dark and strong and ripe with it. She roused and haunted him as no woman ever had. But he could never fall in love with her. Never.
“Miss Burn,” he growled, “you know not what you ask of me.”
“Just tell them to open the doors,” she said, misunderstanding. “And say this—’O my love! my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath no power yet upon thy beauty!’”
“Intableau vivant, we are silent. Thank God,” he added in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” she asked, gaze widening.
A knock came on the sliding doors. “Ready, you two? We are waiting!”
“One moment,” Aedan growled, as Christina adjusted her pose, eyes shut. He shut his eyes too, and kept motionless.
The doors slid open. Amy and the others batted their guesses about, laughing over whether the tableau represented Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Elaine, or some other tragic literary couple. Aedan held Christina in the shadowed hallway,breathing in tandem with her. He hardly listened to their banter, for he had come to a staggering conclusion.
Despite his resistance, despite the curse, the laird of Dundrennan was falling dangerously, disastrously, in love.
“Romeo and Juliet at the tomb!” John cried out.
Aedan shifted, helped Christina sit forward. She smiled as they clapped. Aedan could not smile, beckoning to Amy.
“Shut the doors so we can clear the space for the next couple,” he said curtly.
“You are such a grump!” Amy said, laughing as she slid the doors closed again.
He sat with Christina in silence for a moment. She sat forward, smoothing her gown.
“That was lovely.” She smiled, turning to him, bright as a candle. He melted.
“Aye,” he growled, and kissed her.
She made a little sound, twisting to curl her arms around his neck, opening her mouth under his, and he felt her hunger match his own. Wrapping her close, moving his lips over hers, seeking, he felt himself fill to bursting, body and soul, felt his heart awaken.
She shifted in his arms, and he slid his hand, still at her waist, upward to touch the swell of her breast. She moaned, undulated, deepened the kiss.
Another knock sounded. Christina gasped, jerked away, stood hastily. “Dear God,” she said raggedly, “what is this between us?”
“I do not know.” Standing, he picked up the bench and carried it back to its place. Amy called and knocked again, threatening forfeit.
