Page 58 of Bonetide

“You walked four miles to be undone by your neighbor. Tell me you will not be ashamed in the morning.”

“I won’t be ashamed,” I tell him.

“Tell me again.”

“I won’t,” I insist, even though the truth is I have no fucking idea what I will feel because part of me, most of me, can’t believe what the hell just happened.

“Aye, lass.”

He kisses me softly, with gratefulness and reverence.

Then he drops down and kneels on the mossy ground.

I can scarcely breathe with the sight of him at my feet like this.

He runs his palms up my thighs, strong fingertips digging into my flesh, and stares up at me through his dark lashes, his gaze electric.

“You are so very lovely, Iris. Worth waiting all this time for.”

I should probably press him on that, the whole waiting all this time for thing, because that’s not the first time he’s said something like that. But honestly, his fingers fucked the brain cells out of me and I have like, two left, and they aren’t doing much of anything but bumping into each other like a bunch of drunken buffoons.

He slowly brings his hand up higher, under the skirt, and I’m about to ask him to wait a moment so I can desensitize myself before he goes down on me, or whatever he has planned from that angle, when suddenly he goes still.

His head turns toward the driveway. He’s looking down it, toward the main road, the direction I came from. His mouth has gone into a flat line and from the tilt of his head, the way his eyes are scanning, I can tell he’s listening.

“Alasdair—”

“Hush, Iris.”

I hush.

I don’t hear anything for a second. Then I do. The sound of tires on gravel. The low growl of an engine taking the access road at a careful pace.

His hand is on my elbow before I have time to react. He pulls me, with speed that surprises me, around the trunk of the birch, into the deeper cover behind it. He has me against the back of the tree now, the side facing the woods, and his body is between me and the road. He puts one hand on the trunk beside my head and the other at my waist and he holds me there, still, his face above mine, his breathing controlled in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

The engine gets closer.

It comes up the access road at maybe fifteen miles an hour. It rolls past us slowly, past the birch and wet bracken, and I can’t see it from where I’m pinned, but I can see Alasdair’s eyes following it. I see the second his eyes settle on whatever vehicle it is, because his face hardens, the look in his eyes becoming sinister.

It’s enough that I get a chill down my spine.

The car continues down the road toward the castle. The engine recedes. The sound of tires on gravel goes quieter, then faint, then is gone.

After a long beat, Alasdair steps back from the trunk. He looks at me. His face has smoothed out somewhat, but the concern is evident on his brow.

“Who was it?” I ask.

“Inspector Sinclair.”

The name lands sharply in my stomach.

“He’s going to the castle,” I say, feeling panicked. “To see you. Did he see us?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“He was watching the road. He didn’t look at the trees.”