The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,93
Cook to ensure you are pleased this night.”
“You asked?”
“Hmm. I may have told him that his longstanding reputation hinged on this meal.”
“Oh, my. ’Tis a wonder he spoke to me at all.”
“He’s a good man. He was one of my mother’s favorites.”
Emma reached out, finding a regal setting with a china plate, silverware, a serviette, and a wineglass. Beyond was a loaf of bread. “’Tis still warm.”
“Cook misses nothing. But I requested no soup and no service. You see, wife, I wanted you all to myself with no interruptions.” Ciar’s chair scraped the floor as he sat. “Allow me.”
She placed the serviette in her lap and folded her hands atop. “I want complete details of everything before us.”
“As you may be aware, I’m slicing the bread.” After the grating of the knife stopped, he put a piece on her side plate. “You’ll find the butter on your right.”
Perfect.
“And you guessed right with the lamb—’tis a succulent rack of lamb with a ring of peas and pearled onions in the middle, swimming in rosemary sauce.”
Emma spread the butter and licked her lips. “Delicious.”
Liquid sloshed in her glass.
“And the Burgundy is from the Dunollie private reserve.”
“But from France.” She sipped. “Oh, my. ’Tis like silk on my tongue.”
“Only the best for you, mo leannan.”
Together they ate their fill, topping off the meal with a wild strawberry–and-vanilla pudding. Having supervised the kitchens at Moriston Hall, Emma knew exactly how dear vanilla was.
Emma rubbed her stomach. “I am filled to the brim.”
“Come here.” Ciar tugged her fingers. “You’re too far away from me.”
“I was just thinking the same,” she said, her heart skipping a wee beat as she slid across his lap.
He held a glass to her lips. “We’d best sample the port.”
She sipped. “Mm.”
“My thoughts exactly. But try this.” He moved his lip to hers, and as she opened for him, a delightful yet powerful liquid filled her mouth.
Kissing her, he swirled his tongue around before she swallowed. “What was that?”
“A bit of whisky steeped with port. Did you like it?”
“Very much.”
“But we mustn’t drink too much—’tis as potent as a sleeping potion.”
She took the glass from his fingertips and set it on the table, pushing it away. “I’m not yet ready to sleep.”
“Nor am I.”
Smoothing her hand from his chest to his brooch, she unfastened it. “Make love to me.”
* * *
When Emma’s sultry voice expressed the words he’d needed to hear for sennights, Ciar forced himself not to rip the wedding gown from her body and haul her to the bed. He’d dreamed of this moment for so long.
“I want this night to last forever,” he whispered into her ear. “A memory to cherish throughout eternity.”
“I will be with you forever.” Emma stood and began pulling the pins from her hair.
Ciar circled beside her, making quick work of the task. “I also gave your lady’s maid the evening off so that I could have you entirely to myself.”
A delightfully sultry smile spread across her lips. “As you said, no interruptions.”
When Her Ladyship’s coppery tresses cascaded in waves around her, he gathered them over her shoulder and inched behind her. “Have I told you how stunning you looked today?”
“Aye.”
He began untying her laces, savoring every moment. “I want to have a portrait of you painted wearing this gown so I will never forget.”
“Oh.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “If only…”
His stomach squeezed. He knew what she meant—she’d never be able to see it herself. “What would remind you most of today?”
She turned her ear to her shoulder and slid her fingers into his view. “I have the honor of wearing this exquisite ring. The stone is so smooth. It reminds me of a rose petal.”
“You are such a treasure.” As each lace eased, a little more of her scent ensnared him—fresh, floral, and womanly. Betty had bound the stays so tight, Ciar wondered how Emma had been able breathe without swooning all this time. When he unlaced the final constricting ribbon, she inhaled deeply. He ran his hands from her long neck out to her shoulders and urged both bodice and stays to drop, fluttering kisses along her nape.
As he stepped in, her skirts brushed the tip of his cock. Even through his kilt, he was exceedingly sensitive to touch. His eyes rolled back and he worked faster, unlacing the ties at her waist and sending the skirt to the floor. His impatience grew as he released not one but three petticoats.