“What shall I do now?” Adair sighed, thinking back to how he had foolishly given in to temptation.
He had intended to avoid Emily.
She terrified him. She was stirring emotions that he had locked away in a box he had kept buried for many years.
He knew she could tip that box. Her touch already rattled the lock. If he let her in any further, she would wreak havoc on his restraint.
After he’d kissed her, he’d pulled away as if she burned him, and she had. His body singed where she had touched him. His chest, the nape of his neck, his wrist.
He would forever be marked. A price he would pay for unchecked lust.
She had followed him quietly, obediently, with no idea of the wild urges he had been wrestling to keep leashed. Inside, he had been burning. What he had wanted—needed—was to bolt, to sprint through the dark and throw himself into the loch until the frigid water cooled the heat clawing under his skin. He had wanted to drown before his clothes caught fire from it.
But he couldn’t.
Duty had pinned him in place. So he had kept walking, step after measured step, escorting her to her chambers while every part of him screamed at him to run.
To say he had been tempted to lead her to his room was an understatement. He had almost been overcome with desire. His manhood had pulsed like a cadet sounding the drums of war.
It was another reason why he had to stay away. She was dangerous, and he could barely restrain himself.
She had smiled at him innocently, holding her door open, and he had thought to take advantage of the feelings writ large in her eyes.
He had made a promise right there and then to avoid her. He would meet her for no other reason except to maintain the illusion of their engagement.
Why then had he broken that promise after just one day?
One month, lass. I swore I’d give ye away, nae learn the taste of ye and call it mine.
He looked at the stockings on his desk. He had flipped them over, the pattern hidden. But he still needed answers.
How could she have known it?
The possibility of her having seen his pendant was not so far-fetched, but there was a strong chance she did not. She would have had to see him shirtless. And in the time he had known her, it had never occurred.
The door creaked open, and Fergus walked in carrying a tray. “Good afternoon, me Laird.”
Then he fell quiet, which was uncharacteristic of him.
He placed the tray atop the sideboard on the left side of the room, then picked up a clean crystal glass. With apop, the lid came off the decanter, and the sound of running liquid calmed Adair’s nerves.
The scent of rich scotch had a way of filling a room and ridding it of its staidness, and he felt more relaxed than ever. His muscles melted into the leather cushions, and he closed his eyes, allowing the aroma to tickle his senses.
“Fergus.” He popped one eye open and nodded toward the woolen stockings on his desk. “Get rid of them.”
They were partly the cause of his unease, and he did not need any more burdens to carry. Wedding preparations were taking a toll on him. Alas, he could not just bundle them up and throw them in the trash.
Fergus made a sound between disappointment and belligerence.
“Ye have complaints?” Adair took the scotch from his hand before he could set it down.
Fergus clasped his hands behind his back, affecting an air of dutiful reverence. “I have none, me Laird.”
It was always a runaround with him.
Adair sat up. “Speak, Fergus.”
Fergus paused, studying him. “Ye look unwell, me Laird.”
