Page 21 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

“Good night, then.” He lay on his pallet with his back to her, his movements stilted, as he pulled his plaid over his shoulder.

She plopped onto the bed, stunned at his sudden shutdown. Could it mean that this arrangement unsettled him as much as it did her?

You’ll not get off so easy, Cormac.

A purposeful smile curved her lips. She’d enjoyed their conversation and wasn’t nearly done. She lay on her belly, pulling the last of the pins from her hair. She tossed them haphazardly, one by one, onto the side table.

“Would that we were having a grand Aberdeen adventure, rather than searching for Davie,” she ventured. Though silence greeted her comment, she hadn’t really expected him to answer. Which was fine—as long as he was listening.

She contemplated her clothing for a moment.

Finally, at a loss, she simply blew out the stub of candle on the side table and stretched out on the bed.

Her outfit was restrictive, but she was uncertain what to do about it.

She hoped she’d eventually fall asleep despite the uncomfortable bodice and layers of skirts.

At least the heavy arisaid would keep her warm.

“This inn is more pleasant than I expected.” She shifted, feeling free to give a sharp and unladylike tug to her bodice in the darkness. Better. The dried heather of the overstuffed mattress crackled as she scooted under the blanket. “And it’s more comfortable, too.”

She attuned her ears to the silence, taking in the sound of distant voices downstairs, the creak of timber as Cormac turned, the rhythm of his breathing.

“Gormelia,” she mused after a time. “It’s a strange thing. Having a new name like this. Almost as though we could be anybody, do anything.”

She brought her hands to her belly, tracing up and down the hard lines of her stays, wishing she could be free of the blasted things altogether.

At least what she currently wore was far simpler than some of her gowns.

Tomorrow, though, she’d need to dress in her best, if their act was to be convincing.

She looked forward to the pretense. “I wish we really were a wealthy lord and lady. Not in search of slaves, of course.”

The thought brought her mind to an inevitable place, a place she’d gone to innumerable times before: her, married to Cormac, a half-dozen children between them.

It was Cormac’s own fault, mentioning his sister’s notions of marriage as he had. Marjorie wavered, but she had a question she simply had to ask. And although she knew the real truth of the matter, she had to know if he’d face that truth, if he’d answer her honestly.

“Do you ever think what might have happened if . . . well . . . if Aidan were still here? Do you think . . . Cormac, would we have wed, you think?”

The only response was his muted snore breaking through the silence.

He woke that night, his heart pounding. The memory of Aidan’s scream echoed in his skull. It was a dream he hadn’t had in a while, but he supposed all this talk of saving Davie had brought it back.

It had taken him hours to fall asleep, in truth. Marjorie had been going places in her mind that pained him, and so he’d feigned sleep in order to find some measure of peace.

But peace had been long in coming.

Sharing a room with her had been a critical error.

The place was entirely too small. When he’d opened the door to see the lone mattress, dark thoughts spilled into his mind in a crazy rush.

The mere sound of that mattress giving beneath her weight had been enough to pull the blood to his groin, hardening him to the point of distraction.

Rolling Marjorie onto that bed was all he could think of.

Pinning her beneath him, kissing her as he had on the beach.

Only next time, he wouldn’t stop kissing her.

Next time, he’d push the cloak from her shoulders, shuck the bodice from her breasts. Would she giggle and be playful, or would desire simmer in her eyes?

He sat up in the darkness and wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to wipe the dream from where it lingered in his mind. He was a boy again, stuck in blackness, hearing Aidan’s terrified cries.

“Cormac?” Marjorie’s voice was such a familiar thing, but she spoke now in a drowsy whisper. It was a novel sound, tinged husky and mellow. “Cormac, are you all right?”

He looked up at her. The moon had risen full and high, and it shone in their room, casting a white light on the side of her face, down the side of her body.

Desire ripped through him.

No, I am not all right.

She’d forsaken her Aberdeen finery for the day, dressing instead in a simple arisaid .

He sucked in a breath. She’d somehow managed to remove all that tartan wool in the night.

His eyes roved down her body. The blanket clung close to her legs, and he realized she’d stripped her layers of petticoats as well. And her bodice, too?

He swallowed hard. Marjorie lay there, staring openly down at him, wearing only her sark and the moonlight.

Desire tore through him at the sight of her, but so, too, did fear—fear for his very soul. Because he’d never stopped caring for her.

Only now he was a man, with a man’s needs.

“Cormac?” she asked again.

“Good night, Ree,” he said, his voice tight. “Get some sleep.”