Page 36 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
T he familiar sight of Kinnaird's gates felt oddly comforting as they rode into the courtyard, though Erica's mind was still back at McLaren with all its troubles and memories. The journey had left her muscles aching and her thoughts tangled with everything they'd witnessed.
"I need to see to some castle business," Lachlan said as they dismounted, his hands gentle as he helped her down from her horse. "I'll see ye in our chambers later."
Erica nodded, suddenly aware of how travel-worn and dusty she felt. "I think I need a proper bath before anythin' else."
"Aye. A long soak will heal those aches," Lachlan agreed, striding off.
"Ada!" she called as she entered the main hall, spotting the older woman directing servants with an armload of fresh linens.
"There ye are, lass," Ada said, hurrying over with obvious relief. "How was yer visit home?"
"Eventful," Erica replied tiredly. "Could ye prepare a hot bath? I feel like I'm carryin' half of McLaren's roads on me skin."
"Of course, of course. Go on up and I'll have it ready in nay time."
Within the hour, Erica was sinking into blissfully hot water scented with lavender, feeling the soreness from long hours in the saddle begin to ease. She soaked until her skin was pink and warm, letting the heat unknot the tension from her shoulders and back.
"Feel better?" Ada asked as she helped Erica from the tub, wrapping her in warmed linen towels.
"Much. Thank ye." Erica sighed with contentment as Ada took away the dirty water, leaving her alone to finish drying and dress for the evening.
She pulled on her night rail—the fine linen chemise that served as her sleeping gown—and settled into the chair by the fireplace to brush out her damp hair.
The flames cast dancing shadows across the room, and the familiar ritual of drawing the brush through the long, dark strands was soothing after the day's tensions.
The soft creak of the door opening made her look up, and she found Lachlan standing in the doorway, still in his day clothes but with his sword belt removed. He'd stopped just inside the threshold, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
The firelight caught the gold in her hair, turning the damp strands to silk as they fell over her shoulder. The thin linen of her night rail was nearly transparent in the warm glow, outlining every curve of her body in a way that made his mouth go dry.
"I..." he started, then seemed to lose his words.
Heat rose in Erica's cheeks as she became acutely aware of how she must look—hair loose and flowing, the firelight playing across her skin through the delicate fabric. The way he was staring at her, like a man starving for sustenance, made something low in her belly tighten with want.
"How long have ye been standin' there?" she asked, her voice coming out softer than intended.
"Nae long enough," he replied, his voice rough with something that sounded like barely controlled desire.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the charged moment between them.
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'laird, m'lady," came a servant's voice. "The evening meal is ready when ye are."
Lachlan cleared his throat, the spell broken. "Have it brought here. We'll take our meal in our chambers tonight."
"Aye, m'laird."
Within minutes, servants had arranged a small table by the fire with platters of roasted fowl, fresh bread, and cheese. They worked efficiently and quietly, clearly sensing the intimate atmosphere between their laird and lady.
When they were alone again, Erica had pulled on a robe over her night rail, though the garment did little to diminish the awareness crackling between them. They ate mostly in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other across the flickering candlelight.
After the meal, Lachlan poured wine into two goblets—a rich red vintage from the castle's stores. The wine was smooth and warming, loosening the tension that had been building all evening.
"Better?" he asked, noting how she'd relaxed against her chair
"Much." She took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. "Though I think ye had ulterior motives for keepin' me here instead of goin' to the great hall."
"Perhaps," he admitted with a roguish smile. "Can ye blame a man for wantin' his wife to himself?"
Instead of settling by the fire as usual after finishing their wine, he moved to a carved wooden chest near the window.
"There's another way to learn strategy," he said, lifting out an ornate chess set. "Knowin' how to play chess teaches ye to think several moves ahead, to anticipate yer opponent's plans."
Erica moved closer to examine the board as he set it up. The pieces were exquisite—carved from what looked like aged ivory, each one a work of art.
"Teach me," she said simply.
"The pieces were carved from ivory found at the bottom of the sea," he said, arranging the pieces with careful precision.
"Well, I'm suitably impressed," Erica replied, though there was a teasing note in her voice. "But will it make me play any better?"
"That depends entirely on yer skill, not the board."
He began explaining the rules, how each piece moved, and the objective of protecting the king while capturing the opponent's. Erica listened attentively, asking intelligent questions that showed she was grasping the concepts quickly.
"Now, let's see what ye can do," he said, gesturing for her to make the first move.
The game began simply enough, with Lachlan offering guidance and explaining strategy. But as the minutes passed, he began to realize that Erica was making increasingly sophisticated moves, her attacks coordinated and her defenses solid.
"Ye little minx," he said after she'd captured his bishop with a particularly clever maneuver. "Ye've played before, haven't ye?"
"Perhaps," she said innocently, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Those expensive chess pieces from the bottom of the sea arenae helpin' ye much, are they?"
"So confident, are ye?" He leaned back in his chair, studying her across the board. "Perhaps we should raise the stakes."
"What kind of stakes?"
His smile was wicked. "For each piece ye lose, ye remove an article of clothin'."
Erica's cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin with false bravado. "That's hardly fair. Ye have all yer clothes on, and I've only got me night rail."
"Then ye'd better keep winnin'," he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that made her stomach flutter. "Unless ye're scared?"
The challenge in his voice sparked something defiant in her. "I'm nae scared of anythin', least of all losin' to ye at chess."
"Prove it."
She moved her knight with deliberate precision, capturing one of his pawns. "Yer move, husband."
The game shifted after her bold declaration. Lachlan's moves became more calculated, more ruthless, and soon Erica found herself at a distinct disadvantage even though she continued to win.
"That's me rook," he said with satisfaction, capturing her castle with his queen. "And I believe that means..."
Erica's cheeks burned as she reached for the ties of her night rail, but her hands hesitated at the ribbons. This was it—the moment that would leave her completely vulnerable before him.
"Havin’ second thoughts?" he asked softly, though his eyes never left her face.
"Never," she said, though her voice wavered slightly. With trembling fingers, she loosened the ties and let the thin linen slip from her shoulders.
But instead of the hungry look she'd expected, Lachlan's expression grew soft with something that looked almost like reverence. His gaze traveled over her slowly, not with crude assessment but with the appreciation of a man who understood he was being given a precious gift.
"Absolutely bonnie," he breathed, rising from his chair. "Bonniest lass in all of Highland."
The way he said it—with such genuine admiration—made her feel not exposed, but cherished. When he moved around the chessboard toward her, his steps were careful, giving her every chance to stop him.
"I want ye," he whispered, his hands hovering just above her shoulders.
She nodded, unable to speak, and felt his warm palms settle gently against her skin. His touch was reverent, worshipful, as if she were made of the finest porcelain.
"I've wanted this every day since I last touched ye," Lachlan murmured, his lips grazing her temple, voice thick with hunger and restraint. "But only if ye want it too."
"I do," she breathed, the words soft but sure, like the breaking of a dam.
His eyes darkened. "Then I’m nae holdin' back."
He kissed her, slow at first—deep, searching, full of heat that built like a fuse catching flame. His hands framed her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks with surprising tenderness as he devoured her mouth. She answered him eagerly, tugging at his shirt, nails scraping over hard muscle.
He lifted her effortlessly and laid her back on the bed, her body sinking into the cool sheets. He stripped his shirt off with one hand, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he leaned in, his mouth catching hers again, his weight pressing her down in the most delicious way.
“You’ve nay idea how much I’ve been thinkin' of this,” he said against her lips, voice low and rough. “How many nights I’ve dreamt of tastin' ye again. Of feelin' ye in me mouth.”
He kissed his way down her neck, teeth and tongue leaving her skin flushed and marked. When he reached the swell of her breasts, he paused—eyes locking with hers as if asking for permission one last time. She nodded, trembling, breath shallow.
His mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking, sucking, teasing until she moaned and arched beneath him. He worshiped her with his mouth, switching sides, lavishing attention with almost painful precision.
Her thighs parted instinctively, desperate for friction, but he took his time. One hand held her hip steady while the other trailed down her stomach, fingers light as air, making her squirm.