Page 10 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

For a moment, Lachlan couldn't speak. No one had ever looked at his past—at his moment of greatest shame—and seen strength instead of weakness. Hope instead of damnation.

"Why did ye paint it as a phoenix?" she asked quietly.

"Because that's what I am," he said, the words surprising him with their honesty. "Somethin' that died in fire and was reborn from the ashes."

"And what were ye reborn as?"

He looked at her. This brave, intelligent woman who could see beauty in his darkness and strength in his scars.

"I'm still figurin' that out," he admitted.

They stood there, their gazes on each other for a long moment. "I'm jealous," Erica said suddenly, still staring at the phoenix with obvious admiration.

"Of what?"

"That ye can create somethin' like this. I wish I could paint, but I have nay artistic talent whatsoever."

She wants to learn?

The idea intrigued him more than it should have.

"How do ye ken if ye've never tried?"

"Oh, I've tried. Ada attempted to teach me when I was younger. The results were... tragic."

"That bad?"

"Worse. I once painted what I thought was a beautiful Highland landscape. Ada took one look at it and asked if I was feelin' ill, because surely only a fever could explain why I'd painted purple cows."

"Purple cows?"

"They were supposed to be heather bushes."

"Here, let me show ye how it's done," he said, moving to set up a fresh canvas on another easel.

"Ye'd do that? Teach me?"

"Why nae? We're supposed to be spendin' time together anyway." He picked up a clean palette and began squeezing out paints. "Besides, I'm curious to see if yer purple cows have improved with age."

She laughed—a sound that did strange things to his chest—and moved to stand beside him. But when he gestured for her to take the brush, she hesitated.

"I daenae want to waste yer good materials on me terrible attempts."

"Erica." He caught her chin gently, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. He felt her stiffen, but she remained still. "Art isnae about perfection. It's about expression. Whatever ye create will be worth the cost of the paint."

Sweet Christ, her skin is soft.

The thought hit him unexpectedly, and he found himself studying the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise.

"Come here," he said, his voice rougher than intended.

She moved closer, and he positioned her in front of the easel, then stepped behind her. The moment his hands settled on her waist to guide her stance, he felt her flinch—just slightly, but enough for him to notice.

There it is again. What makes ye afraid of touch, lass? Was it a man that did this to ye? Is this why ye cannae stand me touch?

"Easy," he murmured, keeping his voice gentle. "I'm nae goin' to hurt ye."

"I ken that," she said quickly, but he could feel the tension in her shoulders.

Then what is it?

The mystery was driving him mad. She wasn't afraid of him—he was certain of that much. But something about being touched made her body react with fear even when her mind knew she was safe.

"Tell me if ye want me to stop," he said quietly, pressing a brush into her hand.

"Nay, it's... it's fine." But her voice was slightly breathless.

He guided her hand to the palette, his fingers covering hers. "Start with the sky. Blue, mixed with just a touch of white."

"Like this?" She dabbed the brush in the paint, and he felt her begin to relax slightly.

"Aye, but daenae be afraid to take more. Paint is meant to flow." He helped her load the brush properly. "Now, broad strokes across the top of the canvas. Feel the paint resist the surface, then give way."

She moved the brush as he directed, and he found himself acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. Her back against his chest, her hair tickling his jaw, the subtle scent of lavender that seemed to follow her everywhere. He leaned in, sniffing deeply.

Focus on the paintin', ye fool.

"Nay, like this," he said, adjusting her grip. "Ye're holdin' it like a weapon instead of a tool."

"It feels awkward," she admitted.

"Everything feels awkward at first. Here—" He covered her hand completely with his, guiding the brush in smooth, confident strokes. "Let the paint do the work. Daenae fight it."

The blue spread across the canvas in a perfect wash of color, and he heard her small gasp of delight.

"I did that?"

"We did that," he corrected, though most of the skill had been his. Still, watching her face light up with accomplishment made something warm unfurl in his chest.

"What next?"

"Clouds." He loaded the brush with white and a touch of gray. "Softer strokes now. Think of how clouds actually move—light, driftin', never harsh."

This time, when he guided her hand, she didn't flinch. If anything, she seemed to lean back against him slightly, and Lachlan had to grit his teeth against the surge of want that shot through him.

She trusts ye enough to let ye close. Daenae ruin it by pushin' for more.

"I can see why ye enjoy this," she said softly as they worked together to create wispy white clouds. "It's... peaceful."

"Is it?" He'd never thought of painting as peaceful. For him, it was usually an exorcism—a way to bleed out the darkness so it didn't consume him.

"Mmm. When I'm rulin' the clan, me mind is always racin'—problems to solve, decisions to make, people dependin' on me. But this... this is just about color and light and creatin' somethin' that wasnae there before."

She sounds so young when she talks like that. So tired.

"How old were ye when ye became the lady?" he asked, continuing to guide her hand as they added details to the clouds.

"Twenty-four. Only a few months ago, actually."

Christ. She's been carryin' the weight of leadership for mere months, and already it's wearin' on her.

"That's young for such responsibility."

"Aye, well. Sometimes life doesnae give ye a choice about when ye grow up."

The bitter note in her voice told him there was a story there—probably one as dark as his own. But before he could ask, she shifted in his arms, trying to reach a higher section of the canvas.

The movement pressed her more firmly against him, and Lachlan's control nearly snapped. She was warm and soft, and she smelled like everything good in the world, and having her in his arms was pure torture.

Easy, lad. She's nae ready for what ye're thinkin'.

But his body wasn't listening to his mind. His hands tightened on her waist, and he had to force himself to loosen his grip before she noticed.

"Maybe we should add some mountains," she suggested, oblivious to his internal struggle.

"Aye," he said roughly. "Mountains."

But as he helped her mix gray and brown for the distant peaks, all he could think about was how perfectly she fit against him, and how much he wanted to turn her around and kiss her until they both forgot about everything except each other.

Soon. Once she's ready. Once she trusts ye completely.

The question was: how long could he wait?