“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Brodie said.
“Excellent,” Rafe said. “Well, I’m off to bed. Unlike you Scots, a full bottle of sipping whiskey leaves its mark on me.” He grinned and left for his bedchamber.
“It’s a good thing we were here,” said the housekeeper. “The poor man had no idea what to do with the girl. Offered her a glass of that whiskey to calm her nerves!”
“Oh dear,” Lydia said. “Mrs. Llewellyn, is there an empty bedchamber we could use for Isla?”
“Yes, Miss Hunt.” The housekeeper bobbed a quick curtsy and went to attend to that task.
“Let me go see how the girls are faring.” Lydia left Brodie in the corridor as she slipped into the bedchamber. He could hear Lydia gently teasing the girl and Fanny giggling inside. And after a few minutes, when he was allowed to enter, he was astonished by the sight of the small girl now robed in an overlong nightgown. Her big blue eyes seemed so ancient, and her dark-brown hair lay in wet tendrils over her shoulders. Fanny was gently running a comb through the tangles.
“Isla, this is Brodie Kincaid,” Lydia said. The little girl blushed deeply and half hid behind Lydia’s skirts.
Lydia looked down at Isla. “We have a lovely big bedroom for you, sweetheart. Would you like to see?”
“How many people will I have to share the bed with?” the girl asked in a whisper.
“No one, my darling. Just you,” Fanny said. She and Lydia shared sympathetic glances.
“Aye, Isla. You have an entire room all to yourself. Come and let me show you.” Brodie held out a hand, and she came to him after a coaxing push from Lydia. The child’s hand was so small and soft that he felt like a giant as he curled his fingers around hers. He led her to the room next door, which Mrs. Llewellyn had informed him was ready for the child as she left.
Isla’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the tall four-poster bed. Brodie lifted her up and set her on it, then retrieved a red velvet cushioned footstool and set it against one side of the bed.
“You can climb on this to get in and out of bed.”
Isla stretched a dainty little foot toward the footstool and touched it. She smiled up at him shyly.
“Time for bed.” He pulled the bedclothes back, and the child climbed beneath them. Brodie tucked her in and on impulse bent and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, wee one. Tomorrow will look brighter. I promise.”
“Good night.” Isla sighed, her eyes closed, and she surrendered to sleep.
Brodie blew out the candles in the room and stepped outside, where Lydia was waiting.
“Do you think she will be all right?” she asked.
“If not, we are nearby.” Brodie reached for her hand. Lydia laced her fingers through his as they walked to their bedchamber.
“Heavens, I am quite fatigued,” she sighed as he closed the door.
He pulled her into his arms. “You have been through a lot tonight, lass.” He simply held her at first, stroking his palms up and down her back. When she pressed her lips to his neck, the tension in him returned, only one caused by desire rather than fear.
“I’m not too tired to . . . you know,” she confessed in a whisper.
“Neither am I,” he reassured her. He was all too aware of where their bodies touched. He wanted, needed, to sink into her welcoming softness.
Brodie stole slow, sweet kisses as he moved her up against the wall. He trapped her wrists above her head with one hand, and his other hiked up her skirts as he wrapped one of her legs around his waist. Then he freed himself from his trousers and guided his shaft into her. She moaned at the deep penetration.
“That’s it, lass. Tell me how it feels,” he encouraged in a hoarse whisper.
“Oh,” she gasped as he thrust in quicker and harder. For the next several minutes, they didn’t speak as he took her hard against the door. There was a primal need he felt to claim her again, to feel connected to her after having almost lost her tonight. He released her wrists to cup her bottom and have more control over their movements. Lydia dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched her back as he made love to her.
A soft cry escaped her lips as she came, and her inner walls fluttered around his shaft, threatening to drown him in sweet ecstasy. He had never bedded a woman who had felt as good as Lydia, and it wasn’t simply a physical reaction. When he joined his body with hers, it felt like there were no secrets in the space between them. It was just perfect, and nothing in his life had ever been perfect before.
“I love you,” Lydia whispered suddenly.
He stilled as his own release began to fade, but the warm glow inside him didn’t vanish. It only grew stronger as their gazes met.
“You don’t have to say anything, Brodie. I just wanted you to know. I’ve always believed in speaking the truth of my heart.” Her face flushed. “I honestly don’t even know how I fell in love with you, but I did.”
“I . . .” He carefully weighed his words. “I am honored, lass. You give me a great gift with your love.” He couldn’t return the words, but she deserved the truth. He was honored by her love. Once they were in bed, he settled her into his arms, and for one brief moment, he dared to dream. Dared to dream of saying the words back to her.
17
Rafe Lennox awoke to the sensation of being watched. Long before he opened his eyes, he became convinced he was not alone in his bedchamber. Experience had honed his senses, and he felt that unmistakable tingling at the back of his neck. He cautiously opened one eye, resisting the urge to reach for the pistol under his pillow. He swept his gaze over the room and quickly found the spy.
Little Isla was at the foot of his bed, her large blue eyes fixed on him. Somehow, that made him jump worse than if it had been an actual intruder. He calmed himself, reminding himself she was no threat. In fact, she was a bloody adorable scamp, now that all the dirt and grease had been scrubbed off her. Her hair, which had been dark-brown last night, was now a softer, more lovely russet color.
Now wide awake, Rafe winked at Isla. “Morning, sweetheart.” She smiled shyly back at him but said nothing. “Are you all right?” He hadn’t been around a lot of children growing up, other than his youngest sister Joanna. To him, children were from another realm and difficult to comprehend.
“Please, sir, may I have something to eat?” Isla’s sweet brogue was as pretty as she was. Well, hunger was an easy enough thing to relate to. Suddenly possessed by a paternal instinct, he nodded.
“Of course, pet. And please call me . . . er . . . Uncle Rafe.” That sounded right. He suspected it wouldn’t be long before Joanna made him one officially, so Isla would be good practice.
Isla waited by the window, her tiny palms pressed against the glass as she looked down into the gardens below. Rafe dragged himself out of bed. He gently urged the little creature into the corridor so he could dress. Once he was ready, he came out and led her downstairs. He informed a passing footman that they wished to eat as they entered the dining room. The child’s eyes widened as she took in the expensive furnishings, the warm oak-paneled walls, and the portraits of his ancestors. The Lennox family had been half-Scottish even before they had joined with the Kincades by marriage.