The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely #8) - Anna Campbell Page 0,34
stared down at her. He too looked like a stranger. An alluring, dangerous stranger. But his voice was full of familiar kindness. “Good or bad odd?”
“Good.” Although her essential honesty made her add, “I think.”
The soft laugh that always made her heart melt soothed her disquiet. “You’re meant to feel that way.”
When he stepped back, she made an incoherent protest and caught his arms, too stirred up for pride. “Don’t stop.”
He smoothed her short hair back from her face and gave her a smile of surpassing sweetness. “I won’t stop. In fact, I’m planning much more.”
Half an hour ago, that might have daunted her. Now his words only sparked a rush of excitement. “This isn’t like horses.”
He laughed again. “No, not entirely. May I undress you?”
The breath whooshed out of her lungs so fast that she saw spots in front of her eyes. “If…if you’d like to,” she managed to squeak out.
“Thank you.”
She braced for him to start removing her clothes, but instead he stepped back and unbuttoned his black velvet coat and shrugged it off, tossing it over the back of the chair near the fire. When he untied his neck cloth, she noticed his hands were shaking. Then with increasing urgency, he tugged his loose white shirt over his head. Neck cloth and shirt joined the coat over the chair.
“Oh, my…” she sighed, as her gaze devoured his bare chest.
At Appin, she’d seen the grooms and fieldworkers without their shirts. Here at Glen Lyon, a stableboy was exposed to a masculine world no countess ever entered, despite Laing’s best efforts to protect her. None of those men could compare to Quentin MacNab’s magnificence.
As she surveyed her husband, every drop of moisture dried from her mouth and her stomach tightened with more of that painful longing. “May I…may I touch you?” she stammered, eating up the sight of that powerful chest with its light covering of tawny hair.
She’d never noticed before the way that hard muscles formed ridges over a masculine abdomen. Quentin looked strong and deliciously appealing.
A faint smile curled his lips. “I’d like that.”
She placed unsteady hands in the center of his chest. His hair was a pleasant prickle under her palms. At the contact, he inhaled on a long hiss.
She raised an uncertain gaze to his. “Is this all right?”
“Och, aye.”
Encouraged, she spread her hands. He was so warm. Heat radiated up her arms and sizzled down through her body to that place in the pit of her stomach where she felt empty and needy. She bit her lip as she slowly discovered the hard ribs and firm belly and finally the flat brown nipples that peaked under her touch, just as hers did when he kissed her.
This close, she heard his ragged breathing. When she touched his nipples, he stopped breathing altogether. Tentatively she rubbed them, and he released a broken groan.
“You’re torturing me.”
He didn’t sound like he minded too much. With sudden daring, she leaned forward and kissed the middle of his chest. His scent enveloped her, familiar after the night in the hut and his kisses tonight. Herbal soap. Healthy male. Something musky that her instincts told her was arousal.
“You smell wonderful,” she murmured into his skin.
He caught her head between his hands and tipped her face up for another kiss, this one clumsy with need. She slid her hands up his chest and linked them behind his neck, as she met him with every ounce of the untried passion that turned her blood to flame.
When he raised his head, he stared down at her with an expression that thrilled her. He looked as if he was just as overwhelmed by the fire rising between them as she was. “I’m trying not to frighten you.”
She smiled. “I’m not frightened.”
“I’m glad. I never want you to be frightened when you’re with me.” He smiled back. “Will you turn around so I can unlace your dress?”
With no hesitation, she shifted to present her back. Emily had lent her a beautiful cream velvet gown for the wedding. “It would be easier to undress me if I was still a stableboy.”
He gave a grunt of amusement, as he tugged at the fastenings with an impatience she could feel. “Even the unconventional Countess of Appin couldn’t get married in breeches.” He paused. “And with you looking so lovely standing by my side in front of the minister, it would be ungracious to complain about needing time to undress you.”
“I thought you looked lovely, too.”
“Thank you.”
When humor deepened his