“There was nae past experience!” Just my hands and Treenis and my imagination!
To her surprise, he scoffed. “I ken ye were nae virgin, Lara, and I dinnae judge ye for it.”
“What? How could ye ken that?” Especially when ‘twas wrong?
With his hold on her hand, he yanked her closer, tugging her off-balance so she fell against him. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her palm. She shivered.
“ ’Twas the way ye ken what I liked, lass,” he murmured against her skin, holding her gaze intensely. “The way ye took my whole cock deep, deep inside ye. Remember that, Lara?” He grinned wickedly. “Ye called my name, begging for me.”
She lifted her chin, refusing to allow him to see how weak her knees had gone. A burst of liquid heat had settled between her thighs, and Blessed Virgin, but it took everything in her not to throw her arms around him again and command him to fook her right there on the desk.
But he would likely take that as an agreement to his proposal.
His proposal, which had been offered for all the wrong reasons.
“I’ll no’ ask ye the name of the bastard who loved ye and left ye, Lara,” he murmured against, sending shivers up her arms. “But once yer my wife, ye have to forget him.”
‘Twas all she could manage to do to mutter, “There was nae—.”
“It matters no’. Marry me, bear me a son, and ye could become the next Lady Oliphant.”
That claim—that horrible, wonderful claim—was what gave her the courage to straighten, to pull her hand from his, and to push away.
Everything she’d done since she’d stepped into this room and rubbed his shoulders, she’d done to show him the joy in life. Show him how to relax, how to find his own happiness.
And here he was, still talking about becoming the next Laird Oliphant.
“Ye dinnae want to marry me because we fooked, Alistair.”
“Aye, I do, and we dinnae fook.” His eyes narrowed. “What we did was make love, and if ye cannae tell the difference, I’ll be glad to show ye.”
Aye, please! Her body seemed to scream, but she swallowed down her lust.
‘Twas one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do in her life, to step back farther, to put more distance between them, when all she wanted to do was touch him. “Ye want to marry me because of yer father’s ultimatum. Ye want a chance at being the next laird.”
He frowned. “Aye, I do. But I could marry anyone if I didnae—”
“Nay, ye couldnae.” She shook her head and took another step away. “I ken ye asked Kiergan to woo ye a wife, and he said nay. Ye didnae have time to find a wife. Well…” She shrugged. “Now ye do. Ye’ve delegated, ye’ve given up control. Go find a wife who fits yer standards.”
He was still frowning, but now crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Why should I, when ye’re right here? Why should I find another lass to marry, when I ken how compatible ye and I are, and ye might be carrying my bairn as we speak?”
It took everything in her not to reach for him. Instead, she gripped the wool of her skirt, curling her fingers toward her palms to capture the sensation of his lips against her skin.
“Because those are the wrong reasons, Alistair,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.
“Then tell me the right reasons?” His breath burst out of him on a frustrated huff. “Tell me!”
She shook her head, and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “If ye have to ask, Alistair, ye’re no’ ready.”
“Lara—”
But she couldn’t stay and listen to another word. Not once during his proposal had he said, “I want to marry ye because I love ye, Lara, because I cannae live without ye and cannae imagine ever loving another lass.”
Was it selfish to want to hear those words? Was it foolish?
Mayhap. But ‘twas what her heart was telling her.
With a sob, she shook her head and fled the room.
Chapter 8
“And none of this would matter quite so much, if ‘twas no’ so bloody cold!”
Alistair, who was listening with only half an ear to his great-aunt’s griping as he helped her down the stairs, murmured an appropriate, “Aye, Aunt Agatha.”
The old woman, taking this as a blessing to continue her complaints, grumbled, “The stockings that are so popular these days arenae nearly warm enough. I have to wear two pair! And ‘tis the middle of summer!”
Holding onto her elbow, Alistair helped his great aunt across the upper landing and began their descent to the great hall below. Agatha—his father’s aunt—loved to complain, but it often meant little. He’d spent less time with her in the last few years than he should, and when she’d seen him coming out of his solar this evening, she’d latched onto his arm and demanded he escort her down to the meal.
He complied, but he feared he would be bad company tonight. After that strange conversation he’d had with Lara earlier today, he wasn’t sure what to think or how to feel. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d turned him down. Why? Because of his reasons? How could his reasons have been wrong? He wanted a wife and wanted to protect her. Those were good reasons for marriage, were they no’?
Of course, his bad mood meant little to his great-aunt.
“My hands are the worst. Like ice, feel them!” She shifted her grip until she was the one clutching his forearm. They were cold. “Aye, like ice. Soon I’ll have to wear two sets of stockings over my hands as well as my feet.”
“Hand stockings, Aunt Agatha?” Alistair asked, paying only half attention.
During their slow descent, his eyes were scanning the room, and he knew why: he was looking for Lara. She wasn’t there, but Da was. He was standing near the hearth with his head bent low, speaking to someone.
“Hand stockings, lad, pay attention! I’m going to cut five finger-holes into a set of stockings and slide them over.” She waggled a set of fingers. “I think ‘twill work.”
Dragging his attention back to her, Alistair lifted his brow. “That would work, Aunt. Positively brilliant. Ye rival Malcolm when it comes to strange new inventions.”
She snorted. “Who do ye think came up with the idea? That lad’s no’ as stupid as the rest of ye. If they can keep my foot-fingers warm, they’ll keep my hand-fingers warm!”
“Foot fingers?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Foot fingers! Ye know, the thingies on the ends of— Toes! That’s it, toes.”
Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, Alistair hid his smile. “Aye, toes. The fingers of the feet. But yer hand-stocking willnae keep yer finger-fingers warm, will it? Since ye’ve cut the holes into the stocking?”
“Mayhap if I fashion five wee-er stockings—a sort of sausage casing—I can sew them to the openings.”
“Congratulations, Aunt. Ye’ve invented gloves.”
She paused, then shrugged. “Well, I didnae say I was the first to wear hand-stockings, did I? I simply think they need a better name.”
“Gloves,” he repeated again dryly. “And they’ll come in handy during the winter too.”