“Of course,” Aedan murmured. His heart slammed. He moved close, touched his lips to her, felt her breathy moan, and silently cursed the posing sessions, the silk under his hands, the legend of Dundrennan that held him back from what he deeply wanted. Needed.
John set down his chalk and stood back. “I left some sketches in the library where I was copying some details from engravings of Pictish objects. I will be back soon. Take a break, you two, and rest.” He grabbed his cane and left the room, closing the door.
The immediate silence was heavy. Aedan straightened, fighting the thunder within, blood pounding. He began to release her—and simply could not.
“Damn it,” he breathed, an apology of sorts, and pulled her to him. He kissed her soundly and thoroughly, curving her back, feeling her lips open beneath his. A fierce hunger overtook him as he kissed her, slaked, drew back, delved again like a man dying of thirst.
“Aedan, God,” she breathed, and cupped his face, pressed against him. He took her with his mouth, his tongue, his hands slipping up and down, but could not quench his thirst for her. His hands trembled on her waist, sliding over silk as he gripped her arching hips.
He could not hide how profoundly he wanted her. Pulling her forward, he arched into her, and let her feel his mounting desire. She moaned into his mouth and moved her hips. He thought he might succumb, then and there. Again he kissed her, deeper, open, and felt the delicate, wet caress of her tongue upon his own.
Then the door handle turned, and the candle flame vanished in the draft as John entered. Cloaked in sudden darkness. Aedan ended the heartrending kiss and drew back, pulling his woolen tunic and cloak close.
John relit the candles and Aedan resumed the pose. He could feel Christina’s heartbeat thumping against his chest. His mind was foggy and he could not remember their exact pose. Drawing her to him, he set one hand on her waist and with his free hand, captured her fingers against his chest, his furiously beating heart.
John looked up. “Ah, you changed the pose. I like this one even better.”
Damn this whole infernal business, Aedan thought, and gave John a thin smile.
*
“I’m finally paintingnow on the dining-room walls,” John told Christina later, after an hour of posing. She ached from holding some positions too long, and stood bouncing on the balls of her feet and swinging her arms as she listened to her brother.
At the other end of the room, Aedan looked like a man desperate for movement, pacing and scowling to himself. The tension of the passion between them had been high that evening; his hands had felt hot enough to burn, while her body had throbbed.
“I would love to see what you’ve done on the walls,” she said to John, just as Aedan strode into an adjacent room and closed the door.
“I’m transferring the drawings and laying in some ground color. I might ask Miss Amy to help with it. She has been assisting me in the library, searching for historical detail.”
Christina nodded, looking at several drawings spread out on a table where John had laid them out in order, like large cartoons telling a story. With the sharp point of a compass, he had punched tiny holes around the sketched figures. The next step, she knew, would be to tack them on the walls, which had been prepared with whitewash, and begin to pounce charcoal powder over the punched marks. When the drawings were removed, John would trace the charcoal marks and begin painting.
She had seen the process often enough to assist her brother. But she was rather pleased that he suggested Amy’s chatty help instead. As she and John spoke, she looked up to see Aedan return to the room.
Deep inside, she felt something bound, almost joyful, at the mere sight of him. He had changed from the tunic to the coat and kilt he had worn at dinner, when Mrs. Gunn and one of theJeanies had served beef and barley soup and lemon pudding. She had spilled some pudding on her blouse, and Aedan had handed her his napkin, dipped in water. Little touches and contacts and murmurs meant so much to her now.
She rose from her seat, smoothing her loosely cut costume. “I must change, too.”
“Chrissy, no one but us will know if you go to your room still in costume,” John said. “Everyone is asleep by now except the three of us.”
“I suppose I could.” She considered the tedium of putting on stays, crinoline, petticoats, blouse, skirt, and waister just to go to her room and undress. “My blouse needs cleaning, after all. Tomorrow I should take it to Effie MacDonald. It’s laundry day.”
“Do that, and do not bother to change now,” John said. “We will not tell.”
“Aye, then.” She went to the adjacent room to gather her folded things, bundling them in her arms, though the crinolines looped out awkwardly.
Aedan removed his jacket and slipped it gallantly over her shoulders, then took the bundle from her to carry her things.
“Oh! Thank you.” Surprised, she wrapped his large coat snugly around her, breathing in its owner’s spicy, earthy scent. Kissing John’s cheek, she avoided Aedan’s steady gaze, wishing she could kiss him too, and more.
“I will stay here for a while to finish some studies,” John said. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Christina exited through the door that Aedan opened. He followed, holding a flaming candle and dish in one hand and her bundled clothing under his free arm. When she turned to head for the wide staircase, he stopped her.
“This way. There’s a door to the hidden stairs, so no one will see you. Two flights down to your bedchamber.” He opened a narrow door in the hallway paneling to reveal the dark, curvingstaircase, and went ahead, candle held high. Christina realized he meant to catch her if she stumbled. “Careful, now.”
“Always,” she said, and heard his quiet laugh. Following him, she lifted her hemline to move cautiously downward. He led the way, candlelight illuminating the curving stone walls, their footsteps making a quiet cadence.
Descending past Aedan’s door, Christina paused on the darkened landing by her bedroom door. She glanced at Aedan. The solitude in the tower stairs felt intimate, and her blood fairly steamed with the memory of the kisses they had so freely shared. She wanted to go into his arms, but his hands were full—and she could not risk succumbing until she was sure. Years ago, she had mistaken lust for love. Now she reminded herself to be cautious, no matter what her feelings insisted.
