The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,8
away. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He grasped her wrists and drew her fingertips to his cheeks. “Carry on.”
Steeling his mind, Ciar made himself impervious to her gentle but overly familiar touch as she carefully explored the landscape of his face, spending an inordinate amount of time examining his crooked nose, broken more than once.
Surely she will recoil in shock soon.
He let out a long breath when she moved on to his eyes. Though his relief was short-lived when she examined the skin beneath. It was as if the pads of her fingers could detect the dark circles from spending two restless nights on the trail as he and his men had ridden to Achnacarry. With delicate brushes, she examined his thick eyebrows. Did she like what felt, or did she find him a troll with brutal features? After all, most would agree troll was an apt descriptor.
When Emma slid her fingers into his hair, she gasped. “Oh, my, your locks are thicker than mine.”
Before she went further and brought him to his knees with her beguiling touch, he again grasped her wrists. “I’m a wee bit of a hairy oaf, I suppose.”
“Not at all.” She wrenched a hand away and fingered a lock at the edge of his cheek. “’Tis fabulous.”
“Emma,” Betty warned, “you’d best take a step back now. You mustn’t be too familiar.”
The corners of her mouth tightened. “Very well.”
As the lass lowered her hands, Ciar caught her palm. “So now that you’ve seen me, are you disappointed?”
“Not in the slightest. Your face is quite…quite interesting. Masculine.”
Ciar hadn’t been gifted with an attractive mien. He looked more like the black Irish side of his kin, with hair the color of obsidian and a beard that needed to be shaved twice daily to keep it in check.
The lass started to draw her hand away, but he held it firm. “You, lassie, are far bonnier than I.”
“’Tis kind of you to say, but—”
“No arguments.” He bowed and politely brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I am Dunollie, and my word must be taken as gospel.”
* * *
Wrapped in her robe, Emma tapped her cane across the floor of the chamber she’d been appointed to share with Betty. She had to do something to keep her mind off Ciar MacDougall. Goodness, the back of her hand still tingled where he’d kissed it. Not that she’d never been kissed on the back of the hand before, but there was something about His Lairdship that stirred her blood every time he was in the same room—or courtyard.
She’d learned something new about him under the night sky—something that had made her mouth grow dry and her knees wobble. The laird was a deeply passionate man even if he did not care to own to it. She’d felt the powerful beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, the tightness of the skin around his mouth. Most of all, she’d sensed the strength of his passion in the way his breath caught when he feared she would not like what she “saw.”
But she liked it too much. Her dilemma? She must never admit to a soul how much what she’d uncovered had intrigued her, enticed her, made her want to know more.
“Betty, do you find Dunollie attractive?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent. Everyone commented on Emma’s expressions. Even Janet said she was as readable as a placard. But mayhap if she pretended to be preoccupied with learning the lay of the chamber, Betty wouldn’t notice exactly how curious Emma was about the man.
“Hmm.” The maid’s voice came from across the room where she was stowing her gown in the portmanteau. “I’ll say His Lairdship is robust and perhaps a bit rough-hewn.”
“Rugged but attractive?” she asked, nearly squeaking as she pondered such a delicious prospect.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to meet him alone in a dark wynd, mind you. Though by the girth of his shoulders, I imagine your brother was wise to make Dunollie a fast ally.”
A smile stretched the corners of Emma’s mouth as her cane tapped a piece of wooden furniture and, by the rattle of ewer and bowl, she knew exactly where she was standing. Though her discovery was not what made her grin. Ciar’s hands had been coarse and powerful, and so much larger than hers. However, she’d never admit such a thing to Betty.
Emma rapped again. “’Tis eight paces from the end of the bed to the washstand.”
“Very good, and how many from the bed to the door?”