The universe had sent her
there
, to
him
. To this man who rendered her insides to mush whenever he spared her one of his rare smiles. How could the universe be wrong?
She frowned, unwilling to contemplate leaving. “The food. It’s getting cold.”
“Och,” he said with a start. “That was ill-done of me. The food. Of course.”
“Will you show me what else you brought me?” She dug deep, trying for a smile.
“Aye,” he said, readily accepting the change in topic and mood. “You’ve the beef with claret. A pot of auld reekie—”
“Old
what
? Old stinky?”
“No!” He barked a laugh, and her chest swelled with pleasure.
“Auld
reekie
, lass. Called thus because it hails from Edinburgh. ’Tis simply chicken soup with whisky.”
“Oh, yum. My aunt made the best chicken noodle soup.” She inhaled deeply. “Total comfort food. Though I doubt she laced it with whisky.”
“I thought it best for your nerves. I had them prepare you a whisky toddy as well.”
“Wine, whisky, whisky . . . I’m sensing a theme here.”
“Indeed.” He took the decanter of wine and poured two glasses. “And to crown this theme, I’ve unearthed a bottle of our host’s finest claret.”
She gave a dreamy sigh. “You have no idea how much I’d love a glass of wine. Or I guess maybe you did. Wait,” she said, taking the glass from his hand, “how
did
you know?”
“Well, if your intemperate condition upon arrival was any indication . . .” He gave her a sly smile.
“Oh.” She made a face. “That’s
so
not like me. And it wasn’t wine anyhow.
That’s
the problem. I’d been drinking sangria. Wine with sugar and fruit added,” she clarified, noting his quizzical look.
“Oho.” He raised his glass to her. “And that is so much worse than mere wine?”
“It is,” she protested, leaning over to swat him on the arm. “The sugar will get you every time.”
She glanced down at the spread between them. “Speaking of sugar . . . What is
that
?”
“Ah. That, Felicity, is gingerbread. And this,” he said, uncovering another treat, “cherry cake with whisky.”
“More whisky,” she mused. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mister Rollo?”
“It’s
Lord
Rollo,” he deadpanned.
She thought that, just then, she might be lighting the room with her glow. She craved uncovering Will’s sense of humor even more than she craved a hot shower.
She pulled her eyes from him, turning her focus to the bowl of beef stew he’d ladled out for her. She dug her fork in and stirred, and the most heavenly aroma filled her senses. “I think my mouth is actually, literally watering.” She closed her eyes, moaning as she took a bite.
“Ohmygosh.” Her eyes shot back open and she set to rifling through the bowl to spear a bit with her fork. “What is this?” She leaned over and, without thinking, held it to Rollo’s mouth.
“I . . .” He looked at it, uncertain.
“Come on, just taste it,” she said, hoping he’d open his mouth soon, because she was about to feel pretty silly.
His gaze met hers, and what she’d put out there as a blithe gesture became something charged, erotic.
The flickering light caught Will’s hazel eyes just so, making them seem golden. He opened his mouth slowly, leaning forward, and Felicity flashed to a thousand different fantasies. Of him leaning toward her, just like that, to taste
her
. Taking her hand in his, opening his mouth just that way, to kiss her palm. Her neck. Her, all over.
He wrapped his lips around the fork. She watched them, those fine, perfect lips, slowly taking the food into his mouth.
The sensation of wet heat widening her, opening her, suffused Felicity. She tensed her thighs, suddenly aware of a maddening need she had to satisfy.
His eyes pierced her with their intensity. What would he be thinking? She faltered, began to pull her hand back.
Will touched her wrist, gently took the fork from her fingers. His touch burned her skin.
He cleared his throat. “That was a turnip. But you’re doing it all wrong.” His voice was husky, ragged. “The neeps are best”—he carefully dug in his bowl, snagging careful proportions of stew—“when you get just enough with the onions”—he brought the fork to her lips—“and the meat.”
She opened her mouth and tasted. “Oh, yes,” she groaned, and saw his body gird at the sound she made.
He wanted her. She saw it in his eyes, there in the lamplight, feeding her carefully.
“More,” she urged him. She would show him how much he wanted her, how it was okay to want her. Just the thought of it had her body throbbing. “Feed me more.”
Hesitating, he fed her one more bite, then grew silent. The air was electric, as if they’d crossed some invisible threshold from which there was no return.
Rollo was quiet as he finished his meal and Felicity saw his eyes flick to the door. “No way, Viking.” She’d seen the sex in his eyes. They flashed back to hers, surprised. “No retreat yet.”
“I . . .” he faltered.
He wanted her, and so he also wanted to flee. Will’s eyes shot to the door.
Uh-oh.
He straightened, his hands shifting to his thighs.
He was getting ready to leave. She wouldn’t let him.
Here goes nothing.
“You’re not going yet.”
Felicity rose, slinked to his side of the table, and settled onto Will’s lap.
“What are you . . .” Rollo’s body didn’t just still, it seized, every muscle hardening to stone. His hands gripped the edges of his chair, as if bracing for impact. “What are you doing?”
“I want that cake,” she said, her sultry tone suggesting a whole lot more than cherry cake. Felicity leaned forward to cut a slice, using the opportunity to nestle her rump more snugly in his lap. She knew she’d shocked him, and there was no going back now. Because she would kiss her Viking before the night was out. “There’s nothing wrong with a little cake, is there?”
His eyes ran down the length of her, concealed in slightly soiled pink silk. They landed on her feet, peeking pale and delicate from beneath her hem, and he thought he wasn’t so sure there was nothing wrong.
This felt so good, there
had
to be something wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said, mistaking his silence. She waggled her feet, and her shifting weight atop his thighs was pure torture. “I hope it’s okay. My bare feet I mean.”
He realized he’d never in his life seen a woman’s naked foot before Felicity’s. His mouth went dry.
“I can’t bear to wear those tight little slippers. I never wear shoes inside.”
Rollo couldn’t move. He thought he might have actually tried, but he couldn’t budge. It was a wonder he was able to breathe.
“And I totally need a pedi.”
“A . . . ?”
“A pedicure.” She raised a leg, wiggling her toes. Her dress shifted a few inches up her calf.
He had no idea what she was chattering about.
He couldn’t imagine a more perfect foot. Surely there didn’t exist toes more perfect, more adorable, than these.
He inched his hands to the sides of his thighs. He was so close to stroking her legs. He imagined sweeping his palms down to touch that sweet, pale foot.
“Look at me, Will,” she whispered.
There
—she’d spoken his name again. Her voice was cloaked in sweetness and innocence, and it set his body on fire. She gave him a little smile and parted her lips.
She whispered to him, was whispering such sweet things, he thought perhaps he’d died and transcended to some glorious heaven, a place of his dreams peopled only with this exquisite, lone angel.
“Do you think I’m kissable, Will?” She gently took one of his hands, studied it, then held it in hers.
God help me.
His whole body quickened.
Did he think she was kissable? God help him, did he ever. He’d been fantasizing about it from the very first. Kissing her, touching her, nuzzling her . . .
Ravaging
her.
But he’d not thought it could ever happen.
“Because,” she said in the barest whisper, “I think I’d really like to kiss you now.”
Chapter 10
She leaned in. There it was again, that shimmer of gold in his eyes. They were hooded. Dark and hungry.
Oh yeah.
He wanted her. She could see it. Her whole body thrummed, felt poised for some great change.
He moved. She panicked for a moment, thinking that he might try to leave. But then she saw he was merely shifting. Taking his hand from the side of his leg, bringing it to rest lightly around the back of her neck. His fingers wove under her hair, found her skin.
You’ve got it in you, don’t you, Will Rollo?
Her skin beaded tight at once, her whole body ready for him, rallying to his touch. The feel of his skin against hers was heady. It was a simple connection, yet it roused some deep-down craving, stirring her to a fever pitch.
Oh wow . . .
What else could those fingers do?
“Please, Will,” she whispered. She needed more.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, stroked them back out, and Felicity luxuriated in his touch.
For so many weeks, they’d been in such close proximity, and yet miles apart. But now,
this
. Her heart hammered in her chest.
More
, she thought. She wanted more.
She still held his other hand in hers. She studied it. It was large and strong, with a thick ridge of callus from decades of gripping his cane. Felicity traced the lines on his hand, lightly ran her fingertips over the thickened skin at the top of his palm. How would that hand feel chafing over her nakedness, those powerful fingers gripping her flesh?
A sudden stab of desire made her flinch, and she gripped his hand, brought it to her chest. Just close enough to feel the uppermost swell of her breast.
“I . . . ” His voice cracked. He took his hand from her and clenched it, rubbing his fingers together as if to savor the memory.
“Och,” he rasped, shaking his head. Reaching a fingertip to her face, he gently traced the slope of her cheek. “You’re too lovely.”
“Please . . .”
Please, please kiss me, touch me, grab me.
“You’re too . . .” He leaned closer, his eyes devouring her every feature.
Now, Will, oh please, now . . .
“Och, God help me,” he uttered, his voice hoarse with need. Darkness clouded his features, and she glimpsed a lust so keen and so powerful Felicity felt it would submerge her, sweep her away.
She leaned closer still. Her body hummed, desperate for him. His perfect, perfect lips parted. She felt his breath on her mouth.
“Kiss me.” Her voice was the barest whisper even to her own ears.
He licked his lower lip, and sparks crackled low in her belly. Too much, he was too much, too unbearably, unwittingly sexy.
Joy filled her, expanded her. She was about to kiss her Vik—
“Mum?” There was a sharp rap at the door. “I’ve the hot water you requested, mum.”
A pained sound escaped her throat.
Dammit. Damn damn dammit.
“Mum?” There was another knock, louder now. “Are you all right there?”
“I . . .” Felicity cleared her throat. She pulled back, holding Will’s gaze for a heartbeat. He was raw. Vulnerable, despairing. And then his eyelids slid closed, shuttering himself to her once again.
Damn it.
“I’m fine,” she called testily. With one last look at him, she rose from his lap. “Coming.”
Three maids bustled in, but Rollo couldn’t focus. He wasn’t certain if they’d just saved him, or doomed him to an eternity of anguished need.
His world swam red. He was steeped in desire. His blood boiled with it. His body, wild and hard, his every nerve, mad with it.
He’d spent a lifetime with every impulse of his flesh utterly, deliberately, painfully suppressed. But a thin fissure had begun to crack along that façade, and it was as if he could hear the hounds of hell baying on the other side. The needs of a man,
his
needs, demanding satisfaction, demanding relief, in a cacophony of raging desire.
Dark lusts, primal urges, secret desires, all focused on Felicity. Only Felicity.
“Apologies, mum. With all the food preparations, your bath slipped my mind.” Rollo heard the women shuffling around, felt their curious gazes on him.
There was the sound of a metal washbasin clanging onto wood. “ ’Tis so late, I hope you don’t mind, t’won’t be a full bathing. Just a wee splash. Though we can arrange a nice hip bath tomorrow, to be certain.”
He leaned forward. Gathered his feet under him. Took and clutched at the head of his cane. Somehow pulled himself to standing.
“Will, wait.” Her voice was furtive, urgent at his back. But he could only shuffle forward to the door.
He shouldn’t have taken it so far. What could he have been thinking to take it so far? He needed to get out of there. Tamp down his hardened groin with a bellyful of whisky.
“Please.” She pleaded with him now. He felt the maids’ eyes on them and knew it would be the talk belowstairs.
But he couldn’t spare her a look. To glance back now would only twist the knife in his heart.
He heard the heavy slosh of water in the bucket. The slap of droplets spilled on the floor.
In his mind, water rolled down her naked body. She’d stand straight, hands combing through her hair. Her breasts would bead in the chill air. She’d cup and wash them, her palms chafing over sensitive nipples. He pictured her delicate fingers. They’d stroke between her legs, cleansing, probing.
God help him.
Gritting his teeth, he shuffled to the stairs. He’d limp his cursed body down, where he’d sit, and drink, alone.
Jamie Rollo walked into the pub, ready to get soused. His family’s castle was but a day’s ride away, and he always required a good girding with whisky before facing his brother.