Page 40 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“ C ome along then, braither. Let’s get ye sorted before ye fall down the stairs and break yer fool neck.”
Ian hoisted Athol’s considerable weight more securely against his shoulder as they navigated the narrow wooden stairs leading to the tavern’s upper rooms. His brother’s ale-sodden state made him a dead-weight – all loose limbs and muttered complaints.
“I’m nae drunk!” Athol protested with a hiccup, nearly pitching forward down the stairs. “I’m… appreciatin’ the fine craftsmanship of their barrels!”
“Aye, by emtyin’ every last one of them,” Ian replied dryly, adjusting his grip as they reached the landing.
Behind them, Rhona helped guide a swaying Olivia up the steps, her usual composure replaced by giggles and an alarming tendency to lean heavily against the wall for support.
“This is mortifyin’!” Olivia announced to no one in particular. “Maither would have me locked in a convent if she knew I was drunk in a village tavern.”
“Yer secret’s safe with us,” Rhona assured her, though Ian caught the glimmer of amusement in her voice.
The tavern keeper had provided them with two adjoining rooms – modest but clean chambers with narrow beds and small windows that looked out over the village square. Ian maneuvered Athol through the door of the first room, depositing his brother onto the bed with more care than ceremony.
“Will he be all right?” Rhona asked from the doorway, genuine concern coloring her features as she watched Athol sprawl across the mattress like a felled tree.
“Och, aye.” Ian said, pulling off his brother’s boots and loosening his belt. “He’ll sleep it off and wake with a head like thunder, but he’ll live. Though he might wish he weren’t, come mornin’.”
Athol mumbled something that might have been either gratitude or complaint – it was impossible to tell which.
“Come, Olivia,” Rhona said gently, helping the swaying woman toward the bed. “Ye need tae rest.”
Ian stepped back to give them room as Rhona helped Olivia remove her shoes and settle under the woolen blankets. Olivia was asleep before her head touched the pillow, her breathing deep and even.
“They’ll be fine together,” Ian said quietly, noting the question in Rhona’s eyes. In the dim hallway the air between them charged with the same tension that had sparked during their conversation downstairs.
Rhona stood before the door to the second room, her hand on the latch, but she didn’t move. In the flickering candlelight, Ian could see the uncertainty flash across he features.
“Will ye be all right sleepin’ here?” he asked softly, stepping closer. “I ken ye struggle with confined spaces.”
Her spine straightened defensively. “I’ll be fine.”
But even as she said it, Ian saw her glance toward the narrow door with something that looked suspiciously like dread. He’d learned to read the signs – the way her breathing quickened slightly, the almost imperceptible tensing of her shoulders.
“Rhona.” His voice was gentle but insistent. “After taenight, after what happened between us… dinnae try tae pretend ye’re unaffected.”
She lifted her chin with that familiar stubborn pride. “I said I’ll be fine.”
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, but Ian caught it with his hand before she could close it, their faces mere inches from each other.
The room beyond was even smaller than he’d feared – barely large enough for the single bed and washstand, with walls that seemed to press inward in the candlelight.
“Are ye sure?” he asked quietly.
For a moment, she wavered. Ian saw the war playing out behind her eyes – pride battling with fear, the need to appear strong wrestling with the formidable terror that small, dark places held for her.
“If I said nay, where would ye sleep?” she asked, her voice small.
The corner of Ian’s lip twitched upwards as he nodded toward the ground below his feet. “Right here, lass. Keepin’ guard over ye.”
“Perhaps…” she began, then stopped, her voice barely above a whisper, “…perhaps it would be best if I weren’t’ alone.”
Relief flooded through Ian so powerfully that it surprised him. “Aye. I think it would be wise.
He stepped into the small chamber, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room felt even more cramped with both of them in it, but Rhona’s breathing eased slightly in his presence.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, though he could see the lingering tension in her shoulders. “I hate that it affects me so,” she admitted quietly. “I still cannae bear tae be closed in. I wonder if I ever will.”
“’Tis nae weakness,” Ian said firmly, “What happened tae ye… any sane person would carry scars.”
Rhona moved to the small window, pushing aside the curtain to look out at the village below. Moonlight silvered her profile, highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw connecting to her neck.
“I used tae love storms, ye ken,” she said unexpectedly.
“The wildness of it, the way the wind howls through the trees. I’d stand at me window and just watch the lighnin’ split the sky.
” Her voice grew soft with memory. “Now, when thunder rolls overhead, all I can think about is stone walls echoing in that horrid place.”
Ian moved to stand behind her, close enough to catch the scent of chamomile and honey that clung to her hair. “What else dae ye miss?”
Och, foolish things,” she said with a self-depreciating laugh. “Mornin’ light streamin’ through colored glass… the sounds of me sisters arguin’ over breakfast… even me faither’s lectures.”
“They’re nae foolish if they matter tae ye.”
She turned then, and Ian realized he’d moved much closer than he intended. She was near enough that he could count the freckles scattered across her nose like miniature constellations.
“Ian,” she said softly, his name on her lips sounding like a prayer.
“Aye?”
“Earlier, when ye were describin’ what love looks like…” her cheeks flared pink. “Ye kenned it, didn’t ye? That ye were describin’ me .”
“Aye,” he admitted quietly.
“Why?”
Ian reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “Because, I needed ye tae see what I see when I look at ye, Rhona. What I’ve been seein’ fer weeks now, even when ye seem stubbornly determined tae hate me.”
“I dinnae hate ye,” she whispered.
“Nae? What was it then?”
“Fear,” she admitted. “Fear of what ye make me feel. Fear fer wantin’ somethin’ that could never be.”
“And now?”
“Now…” her hand came up to cover his where it rested against her cheek. “Now I’m tired of bein’ scared.”
The kiss that followed was nothing like their first desperate embrace after the village raid. This was soft, tentative, a question asked and answered with the gentle press of lips. Ian felt her sight against his mouth, felt the last of her resistance melt away.
“Rhona,” he murmured against her lips. “Are ye certain? Because fer me, there will be nay turnin’ back.”
Instead of answering him with words, she rose on her toes and kissed him again, deeper this time, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Ian groaned low in his throat, his arms coming around her to pull her closer.
She fit perfectly against him – soft curves pressed against solid muscle, her heart beating fast enough that he could feel it through the thin fabric of her dress. When she broke the kiss to look up at him, her lips were swollen and her eyes dark with desire.
“I’ve never…” she began, then stopped, heat flaring in her cheeks.
“I ken,” Ian said gently. “We’ll go slow… and if ye want tae stop at any point–”
“I willnae,” she said with quiet certainty. “I want this. I want ye.”
The raw admission undid him entirely. Ian kissed her again, pouring all of his longing and tenderness into the touch of his lips against hers.
His mouth moved against hers with desperate hunger, his tongue sweeping past her parted lips to taste the sweetness within while his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her closer until every curve of her body was pressed against his hard frame.
Her response was eager, bordering on desperate, as if she were trying to memorize the feel of him.
When his robust, battle-roughened hands found the laces of her dress, she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she helped him, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked at the fastenings.
The blue wool pooled at her feet in a whisper, leaving her standing before him in nothing but a thin chemise that revealed the dusky shadows of her nipples beneath the pale linen, the gentle flare of her hips, and the long lines of her legs.
Ian had to close his eyes for a moment at the sight of her.
“Och, lass,” he breathed. “Ye’re bonnier than a Highland sunrise.”
The rest of their clothing followed slowly, reverently, each newly revealed expanse of skin worshipped with gentle touches and soft kisses.
His linen shirt joined her dress on the floor and when he pulled the chemise over her head, baring her completely to his hungry gaze, Rhona’s breath caught audibly at the sight of him in return – his broad shoulders marked with the scars of battle and the intricate tattoos that traced his torso now fully revealed.
Her eyes drank in the sight of his powerful chest, the hard ridges of muscle around his stomach, and lower, where his impressively thick manhood jutted proudly from its nest of dark curls, already rigid and heavy with need for her.
Her fingertips traced the Celtic knotwork that spiraled across his chest, the sharp intake of breath he gave at her touch impossible to avoid.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, marveling at the way the ink seemed to flow like water over the hard planes of his muscular torso.
“Nae as bonnie as ye,” Ian murmured, his hands spanning her waist as he lifted her effortlessly.