Page 22

CHAPTER 22

What was I thinkin’, suggestin’ this?

Anna tried her best to concentrate on the delicious luncheon, savoring the berries, the fresh bread, the creamy cheese, the marinated meats, but it was proving tricky to satisfy her hunger when her stomach was tying itself in knots.

Do I have somethin’ on me face?

She was aware of Gordon looking at her, and every time she glanced his way, their eyes met and a feeling like a panic made her look away again. Except it wasn’t panic; it was something altogether more dangerous, that she couldn’t possibly give into—not out here on the beach, where anyone walking by above might peer down and see.

Indeed, if she had learned one thing about Gordon during this luncheon, it was that he might not have said much with his voice, but he said plenty with his striking gray eye. And if she was not mistaken, he had a hunger for something other than delicious food.

“I wish I had a book,” she said abruptly, lying back on the blanket, figuring it was safer to stare up at the sky than look at him.

“Am I so borin’?” he replied.

She sat up sharply. “What? Nay, of course nae. I… just imagine that it would be nice to read here.”

“I might nae have a book for ye, but there’s chess,” he said, removing a wooden board from the picnic basket.

Whoever had packed it had clearly thought of everything.

“Do ye play?” he asked, setting the board down between them. And when he pulled out a silk pouch filled with the pieces, she noticed he chose the black for himself.

She grinned, her nerves settling at the sight of the game. “Nae as often as I’d like, but aye, I play.” She took out her white queen and king and held them for a moment, an idea popping into her head. “However, I think I’d like to play a different game.”

“There’s only chess here,” he replied flatly, arching an eyebrow.

“Aye, but that doesnae mean we cannae add some rules of our own,” she teased, her confidence swelling. “How about: for every pawn of yers that I win, ye must answer—honestly and truthfully—any question that I ask, regardless of what it is?”

He had no way of knowing that she was rather good at chess, and had played on countless evenings with her brother, Jackson. In the past two years alone, Jackson had only beaten her three times and, as she liked to point out to him, those had been on evenings where she was half asleep in her chair.

“Did ye nae listen yesterday?” Gordon’s deep voice rumbled.

She frowned. “To what?”

“If ye have questions, ask ‘em. There doesnae need to be a charade.”

Understanding, she gave a shrug and smiled at him. “Maybe nae, but where’s the fun in just askin’ outright? Of course, if ye’re afraid that ye might lose, then…”

He rolled his eye. “For the sake of ‘fun,’ I’ll play yer game.” His expression darkened suddenly, the shadow of a smirk upon his lips. “But I have rules of me own.”

“Naturally,” she said, swallowing down the sudden leap of her heart into her mouth. “It wouldnae be fair if I dinnae have somethin’ to lose too.”

“Interestin’ turn of phrase.” He set his last pawn down on the board.

Hurrying to arrange her own pieces, Anna tried to read his expression, but it proved impossible, his thoughts as hidden from her perception as his eye behind his patch.

She was about to ask what she would have to give for each of her pawns, when he spoke again, that hint of a smirk returning to his lips: “For each pawn I win, ye lose a piece of what ye’re wearin’.” He met her gaze. “And nay, removin’ a hairpin doesnae count.”

The shock made her glad she wasn’t eating anymore, or she would surely have choked on the luncheon.

He willnae win enough of yer pawns for it to require much, she told herself, covering her surprise as quickly as she could with a nonchalant smile and a shrug.

“Very well,” she said, nodding down to his side of the board. “I hope ye’re ready for yer eight questions.”

“I am.” He tilted his head to one side. “And ye should hope ye’re wearin’ more than eight things.”

She was frozen for a moment, trying to remember, counting up the garments Jane had helped her into earlier. If she counted her stockings and shoes as individual items, she wore eleven things. If not, she wore nine. And she had a feeling that Gordon wouldn’t allow her to have duplicates.

Ye can do this. Ye must nae back down.

Tilting her chin up, she flashed her most courageous smile. “Well then, let us begin.”

“Where is yer maither?” Anna asked, stripped of her bodice and shoes.

Gordon nearly tutted at the clumsiness of the question, for he had warned her two questions ago that she had to be more specific if she wanted a defined answer. It appeared she hadn’t listened, though she was much better at chess than he had anticipated. More creative than him as a player, certainly, but he was methodical, and he would take all of her pawns soon enough.

“Wherever the dead go,” he replied.

Anna’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “What happened to her?”

Gordon wagged a finger. “Ye only get one question, lass.”

“Aye, but surely that is part of the same question?” she insisted, a note of frustration in her voice.

“Ye cannae trick two answers out of me.” He took his turn before she could argue the point, his bishop gliding in to steal her pawn.

“Yer stockings,” he purred, rolling the chess piece between his fingers. “Take ‘em off slowly.”

She scoffed, narrowing her pretty eyes at him. “If I cannae ask what was clearly part of the same question, then ye cannae choose what it is I remove. Indeed, ye should have been more specific with yer rules.”

She muttered rudely under her breath and slid her hands beneath the waistline of her skirt, fiddling with something underneath. Gordon’s eyebrow raised in silent appreciation, imagining what she might be doing, letting his thoughts tip toward wilder territory.

As she wrested her pannier out from under the skirt, tossing the strange contraption aside, he wasn’t as disappointed as he’d thought.

“Dinnae wear those things,” he growled, still toying with her captured chess piece. “Yer figure needs nay help.”

Glancing down at the chess board, Anna mulled over the pieces, tapping her plump lips with her index finger, drawing his eye to that sweet mouth. For a moment, he thought she might be ignoring him, and wondered what pleasant punishment he could muster for such defiance.

“I thought ye said it wasnae a man’s place to tell a woman—much less his woman—what to wear,” she remarked, still not looking up at him. “Has yer opinion changed as rapidly as yer reason for bringin’ me here to be yer bride?”

Perhaps she didn’t realize it, but calling herself his woman was akin to tossing barrels of whiskey onto a bonfire and chucking a torch in after. Incendiary. Explosive. And swift in its engulfing burn, igniting his desire, his need, until it took on a life of its own. His craving for her was a feral beast, tangled in ropes, straining to be free, and those restraints were on the brink of fraying—snapping completely.

She finally glanced up at him, a sultry look in her eyes, as if she had known exactly what she had said.

“Make yer move,” he rasped, barely holding onto his discipline.

She eased her pawn forward, taking his. “What befell yer family, Gordon?”

“Misfortune,” he replied, his blood white-hot in his veins. “Death.”

“At whose hand?”

His eye flickered. Couldn’t she tell he had no interest in discussing the past, when she was right there, alone with him in that private cove? Didn’t she understand that it was foolish to dwell on what couldn’t be changed, on what had been lost, when there was so much living to be done, so much to gain?

“Thieves. Long gone.” He moved his piece before she could press the matter further, taking her pawn with his queen, not caring that he had put his most powerful piece in such a vulnerable position.

Her eyebrows rose as she observed his move. “Why did ye do that?”

“Take it off,” he said thickly. “All of it. In honor of me queen’s sacrifice.”

Shaking her head, Anna pushed his queen back to her previous position. “I sacrifice me pawn instead.”

Biting her lip, oblivious to the effect it had on him, she fumbled for the fastening of her skirt. Keeping her eyes on him, she pushed the thick silk over her hips and down her thighs, drawing the cumbersome thing away from herself. Yet, she took pains to fold it and set it aside neatly.

“Enough of the game,” Gordon growled, those ropes in his mind losing their battle against the beast within him. “Ask yer questions. For each that I answer, ye remove somethin’ more.”

At first, he thought she might refuse, her gaze flitting up to the cliff high above. She was nervous that someone might see; he could tell by the way she hid herself, tucking her knees to her chest, one arm wrapped around them, making herself as small as possible.

“Nay one can see us here,” he told her. “There’s a ledge. It conceals us.”

Her gaze snapped back to him. “Why should that concern me?”

“Ye tell me. Ye’re the one who seems concerned.”

Her throat bobbed, her cheeks flooding with that beautiful shade of pink. “I daenae want to ask a question.” She paused. “Remove yer eyepatch. Show me, and I’ll remove everythin’ I’m wearin’.”

He leaned back on his elbow, staring at her with his good eye narrowed. Of all the things he’d thought she might say, that hadn’t featured in his mind—that she would ever want to see the mess that those bastards had made of his other one.

Since it happened, he hadn’t shown anyone but the healer. Not even his uncles knew what was underneath the patch. Not even Sophia. In truth, even he wasn’t certain what it looked like; he hadn’t dared to see his reflection in any mirror, leaving it where it belonged: hidden.

“If I show ye, ye’ll run screamin’,” he told her in a low voice, pushing himself up. “Ask yer questions instead.”

“Take off yer eyepatch, I’ll take off what I have left to remove,” she countered defiantly, her words severing the ropes that were holding him back.

What did I teach ye about bein’ specific?

He would give her what she had requested, but he would not be the cause of her nightmares, nor of any drawings of an eyeless monster with a broken bride in its arms.

“Very well.” He discreetly reached for the strip of fabric that had held the luncheon basket shut. “Close yer eyes.”

Anna frowned. “Why?”

“Close yer eyes,” he commanded, brooking no argument.

With a sigh, she sat back, her hands braced against the sand, and slowly closed her eyes. “They’re shut, though I really daenae see why?—”

He moved swiftly, looping the strip of fabric around her closed eyes, his fingertips tying a tight knot behind her head so she wouldn’t be able to peek. Kneeling before her, gazing down at her blindfolded face, his stomach tightened as her lips parted, releasing the softest, breathiest gasp.

“What are ye doin’?” she whispered, her chest rising and falling with sharper breaths.

“Removin’ the eyepatch,” he replied. “Just as ye asked.”

“But… I cannae see!” she protested.

“Ye dinnae ask to see, only for me to remove it.”

And being a man of his word, keeping his good eye on her in case she attempted to lift the blindfold, he lifted the patch from his ruined eye. It had been a while since he had felt the wind on it, and though he couldn’t see anything through it, the caress of the warm, salt air was a pleasant thing indeed.

Anna muttered something rude under her breath, but there was a smile on her lips. “Ye’re slyer than ye let on, Gordon Shaw.”

“I believe in detail,” he insisted. “Without it, ye can never be sure of what ye might get.”

As she tilted her head up slightly, her teeth grazed her lower lip in another tormenting bite. “And what is it that I stand to receive? What reward from me betrothed?”

“I’m still waitin’ for ye to fulfil yer part,” he replied, fighting to contain the desire to rip her stays and shift away from her, to strip her bare until she lay naked on the blanket, letting the crash of the waves along the coast snatch away the sound of her pleasure.

“I cannae see,” she repeated, chuckling nervously.

“Ye daenae need sight,” he said, his voice demanding. “All ye need is touch.”

She hesitated. “I cannae undo me stays alone.”

It was the permission he had subconsciously been waiting for, his arm sliding around her waist, while his other hand worked quickly on the knot of ribbon that held the stays closed. That done, he pulled the bothersome undergarment apart, tossing it to the sand.

Now, all that remained were her stockings and her shift.

“Fulfill yer promise,” he whispered, close to her ear.

Swallowing down his surging ardor, he took hold of her hands and settled them on the light fabric of her shift, where the hem gathered halfway up her shins. Her grip tightened on the material and, in kind, his hands curved around hers, both of them undressing her in a slow, maddening reveal of soft skin and the most divine figure.

He helped to tug the material under her backside, his blood thundering in his ears as they worked together to ease the shift upward. He absorbed every teasing second, taking in the majestic sight of her, uncovered bit by scintillating bit, like the most exquisite piece of art ever created.

She’s… perfection.

His throat tightened as his gaze skimmed along the elegant line of her lower legs and over the muscle of her thighs, which were pressed firmly together, denying him the singular bliss of admiring what lay between. No matter; he liked the anticipation.

Letting his gaze wander higher, he delighted in the slight rounding of her stomach, leading up to pert breasts—two perfect teardrops of supple flesh that seemed made for the mold of his hand—and the pink peaks of her nipples. Groaning in the back of his throat, he denied himself the satisfaction of closing his mouth over them.

Nae yet.

There was more to be seen first, more to be kissed, more to explore, and he meant to take his time, no matter how ravenous the beast inside him was for a taste of her.