Page 17 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
Erica obeyed, letting Ada slip the blue wool over her head. The fabric settled around her curves with familiar comfort, the color making her skin glow and her dark hair seem richer. It was one of her favorite gowns, practical enough for riding but also flattering to her complexion.
"Ye're shakin'," Ada observed as she worked the laces at Erica's back.
"I'm nae—" But she was. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to help with her hair, and her breath kept catching in her throat. "Why am I shakin'?"
"Perhaps because this is the first time in days ye'll be alone with yer husband? The first time ye'll have to actually talk to him instead of hidin' in corners and avoidin' eye contact?"
"I havenae been hidin'—"
"Aye, ye've been hidin'," Ada said firmly. "We've talked about this, lass, there's nay denyin' that. And now he's called ye on it. Nay wonder ye're nervous."
"I'm nae nervous. I'm angry."
"Ye can be both, ye ken."
Ada finished with the laces and moved to arrange Erica's hair, pulling it back into a practical braid but leaving soft tendrils to frame her face. Her touch was gentle, soothing, and gradually Erica's breathing began to steady.
"There," Ada said finally, stepping back to admire her work. "Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
Erica looked at herself in the polished silver mirror and had to admit Ada was right.
The blue gown hugged her figure perfectly, and the simple hairstyle emphasized the elegant line of her neck.
She looked like a lady preparing for an important engagement, not a woman being dragged off against her will.
"Now hurry along," Ada said, giving her a gentle push toward the door. "Ye daenae want to keep that husband of yers waitin'. Somethin’ tells me he's nae in a patient mood today."
When Erica arrived at the stables, slightly breathless from hurrying, she found Lachlan already waiting with two horses saddled and ready. He looked up as she approached, his blue eyes sweeping over her appearance with an intensity that made her skin warm.
"Ye clean up well, wife," he said, his voice carrying a note of approval that she tried not to find gratifying.
"I'm here, as ye commanded," she replied, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. "Though I still think this is unnecessary."
"Do ye?" He moved to her side, close enough that she caught his scent—leather and soap and something distinctly male that made her stomach flutter. "We'll see about that."
"Where’s me horse?" she asked, looking around for the stable boy.
"Actually," he said, his voice low and commanding, "ye'll ride with me."
"What? But I should have me own?—"
"Ye'll ride with me," he repeated, and before she could argue, he was lifting her and settling her in front of him on his much larger mount.
The position put her between his thighs, her back pressed against his broad chest, his arms coming around her to hold the reins. She could feel every breath he took, every slight movement of his powerful body, and the heat that had been simmering since he'd grabbed her wrist earlier flared to life.
"This is highly improper," she managed, though her voice lacked conviction.
"We're married," he reminded her, his breath warm against her ear. "There's nothin' improper about a man ridin' with his wife."
They set off through the castle gates, and Erica tried to focus on anything other than the man holding her.
The afternoon sun was warm on her face, and despite her lingering irritation at being commanded about, the countryside around Castle Kinnaird was undeniably beautiful—rolling green hills dotted with wildflowers, crystal streams cutting through meadows where sheep grazed peacefully.
It was different from her own lands, gentler somehow, more cultivated.
But it was impossible to ignore Lachlan's presence.
His chest was solid against her back, radiating heat that seemed to seep through her riding dress.
His arms bracketed her on either side as he held the reins, and she found herself studying his hands—long-fingered, scarred from sword work, but surprisingly elegant as they controlled their mount with easy expertise.
What would those hands feel like on me skin?
The treacherous thought made her shift in the saddle, and she felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath. The movement had pressed her more firmly against him, and she became suddenly, acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched.
"Easy," he murmured, and she wasn't sure if he was talking to the horse or to her.
The rhythm of the ride was doing things to her that she didn't want to examine too closely. Each step the horse took seemed to press her more firmly against Lachlan's hard body, creating a friction that was making her pulse race and her skin flush with heat.
She could smell him—leather and soap and something distinctly masculine that made her want to turn in his arms and bury her face against his neck. The thought was so shocking that she stiffened, trying to put distance between them.
"Relax," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Ye're safe with me."
But that was the problem. She did feel safe. More than safe—she felt desired. She could sense his awareness of her in the way his breathing had changed, in the careful way he was holding himself. And her body was responding in ways that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
"Why the lake?" she asked, desperate for distraction from the heat building between them.
"It's one of me favorite places to be," he replied, his voice vibrating through his chest and into her back. "Peaceful. Away from everythin' that demands me attention."
Except right now, she was demanding his attention. She could feel it in the tension in his arms, in the way his thighs tightened around her when the horse stumbled slightly, and she had to grab his forearm for balance.
His muscles were like iron beneath her fingers, and she found herself wondering what he would look like without his shirt, whether the rest of him was as powerfully built as what she could feel pressed against her.
The lake appeared ahead of them, a mirror of blue reflecting the sky, and Erica felt both relief and disappointment that their ride was coming to an end.
What's happenin’ to me? I should be afraid of being so close to him, nae wishin' the ride would last longer.