The relief in Patrick’s smile betrayed how much her cooperation mattered. “And tonight perhaps you can tell me just what happened in Scotland all those years ago.”
She supposed he had a right to know that, too, although she wasn’t quite ready to confess every youthful sin to her son.
After Patrick left, she made another pot of tea and sat down before the fire. Once she dressed, she had to check the animals, but that wasn’t urgent. Yesterday, she and Patrick had made sure that they had water and plenty of fodder. Yesterday, when she’d imagined this was going to be a Christmas like all the others she’d spent at Muirburgh. Even on Christmas Day, a farmer’s work never stopped. But Rhona always organized things so the holiday meant light duties.
Then she had to get the dinner on. Patrick would be starving when he got home, if he started the day with only a piece of fruitcake. He was always starving anyway. She often looked at that lanky body and wondered where all the food went.
Malcolm had been a similarly long and lean stripling, although over the years, he’d filled out to fit his frame. Too well for her peace of mind. Despite his thinness, that strong, sinewy body was hard and masculine and virile. Last night when she’d seen his bare torso, she couldn’t take her eyes away from him, and her palms had itched to discover just how his skin would feel under her hands.
She’d learned to see Patrick as an individual, separate from the man who she believed had betrayed her. But it was still a shock to confirm how much her son looked like his father. Not to mention how much like Malcolm he was in other ways. The expressions on his face, his gestures, the tone of his voice, the way they both lounged in a chair with catlike grace.
Patrick was right about one thing at least. Giving up her hatred had freed her in so many ways, not least in her willingness to see her son as the product of the love she’d given his father.
She sighed and finished her tea and the piece of shortbread she’d picked up. The house was silent, which meant Malcolm must still be asleep. She was glad he had a chance to rest. It hurt to imagine what life had been like for him, as he’d searched as far as America for her and his son. No wonder he looked like he’d been tested to the limits. She was also glad that this Christmas had gifted her with the chance to discover the truth about those tragic events back in Dun Carron.
And perhaps, just perhaps, she might be glad that Malcolm was here on his own account, although she suspected her productive, quiet life on her farm might never be the same.
It took Rhona a bit more than an hour to organize the dinner. She’d done a lot of the preparations over the last few days. For most of the year, she had help in the house, but she’d sent the cook and the maids home for Christmas. Burnside Farm was prosperous, and Rhona had got used to having servants when she was in London.
How things had changed since she’d struggled to tend to her father back in their ramshackle cottage in the Highlands. Christmas in London had been a matter of giving orders to the housekeeper, overseeing decorations for the house, then playing hostess to the often riotous celebrations. These days, the holiday was much quieter, with just her son to share her festive table.
Except today for the first time, her family would be complete. Which made her wonder if Malcolm was awake. Even if he wasn’t, she should check the fire in his room. The storm might have blown out, but it was freezing outside.
She made more tea and carried a cup down the corridor, noticing the drop in temperature the moment she left her cozy kitchen. Carefully, she opened the bedroom door and padded into the darkened room. The fire had burned down but provided light enough for her to see that Malcolm remained unmoving under the mountain of bedclothes. He didn’t stir as she set down the tea and crossed to add some wood and stoke up the fire.
The tenderness that threatened to turn her good, practical brain to porridge surged. Last night, he’d been so weary. Too weary for a man still only in his mid-thirties.
She should leave him to sleep, but she couldn’t resist creeping closer to the bed. The roaring fire meant she could see him in perfect detail. He looked so much like Patrick that her silly heart flipped over and powerful emotion closed her throat. She reached out to smooth the untidy dark hair back from his forehead. When his thick eyelashes flickered up to reveal fathomless black eyes, she lifted her hand.
Unalloyed pleasure glowed in those eyes as they settled on her. A smile so sweet curved his lips, that her doubts melted away to gooey syrup. For this brief instant, he was once again the handsome, ardent boy who had held her heart.
“Good morning, Rhona,” he said softly.
The rich velvet baritone of his voice played a sensual melody up and down her spine. He reached out his hand and without thinking, she took it. The sure grip reminded her that she trusted him again and he’d never wronged her.
It also sent a shock of heat rippling along her arm and made her heart start to skip about like a spring lamb in the sun. “Good morning, Malcolm,” she murmured and couldn’t help smiling back.
Before she could question the wisdom of what she did, she fell to her knees and leaned forward to place her lips on his.
The kiss was fleeting, but the shock of it cracked through her like a gunshot. Lips tingling, pulse drumming in her ears and making her deaf to anything else, she pulled away.
For a long moment, she stared into heavy dark eyes, reading surprised pleasure there. His grasp on her hand tightened. He shifted up in the bed, and his other hand snaked out to catch the back of her head.
“Come here,” Malcolm whispered. With a gentle ruthlessness she couldn’t resist, he drew her up until his lips met hers.
Chapter 9
Malcolm knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was too good to be a dream. Most of his dreams since he’d lost Rhona had verged closer to nightmares. Horrid, haunting, terrifying fantasies of her lost or in pain or dying.
He shifted in the bed until he could slide his arms around her where she kneeled on the floor. She curved into his embrace and with dizzying swiftness, the kiss turned carnal. Her mouth opened and when his tongue slipped inside, she sucked on it with immediate eagerness. She tasted of cinnamon and butter and passion.
When she pulled away after far too short an interval, he bit back an agonized groan. He was already hard for her, and she must know how he burned. He’d burned for more than twenty years, most of that in frustration and misery.
He braced to hear her tell him that she wanted to stop, that kissing him was a mistake.
What came out of her mouth wasn’t an outright rejection, at least. “Wait,” she said in a choked voice.
Wait? He felt like he’d spent his whole bloody life waiting. As he let her go, he stifled another groan.
Rhona rose and for one brief, vile moment, Malcolm expected her to walk out and leave him. Life hadn’t encouraged optimism. He pushed back until he sat up against the pillows, the quilts pulled to his waist. If Rhona caught a glimpse of how rampant he was, he feared that she’d run away screaming.
She unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders, then fumbled with the flannel nightdress. The billowing white garment was designed more for warmth than seduction, although he was powerfully seduced.
As he watched her, every drop of moisture dried from his mouth. Could this be? He didn’t dare speak, for fear that he might make her change her mind.