Hannah and the Highlander (24 page)

A shudder racked her from head to toe and she collapsed on his chest. His arms came around her, strong, tight bands. He cradled her close, pressing tiny kisses on her brow and murmuring into her hair. He tipped up her chin and stared at her, then thumbed at the tears on her cheek.

Hannah blinked in surprise. Was she crying?

Why?

Ah, but she knew why. This joining had been so much more than a physical tangling. It had been something ever so much more.

She knew, because there was a tiny tear in the corner of his eye as well.

 

CHAPTER
TWELVE

He awoke her with a kiss. An enthusiastic swab of his tongue over her mouth. And then her cheek. And then the shell of her ear.

It wasn't romantic as much as … slurpy.

And drooly.

Hannah opened her eyes to glower at her husband for making her so damp first thing in the morning and …

Well, it wasn't his handsome visage that greeted her.

Unless he had grown fur. And a snout. And a lolling tongue.

With a growl, she pushed Brùid off her—he was looming over her with a paw on either side of her head, the better to lap her with. He didn't make it easy for her, tipping his great head this way and that so he could continue slathering her with canine adoration.

Or perhaps he was hungry.

She finally managed to wrangle the hound off of her and sat up, glancing at Alexander's side of the bed.

It was illogical to be disappointed that he was already gone. She should have expected it.

It was illogical to be annoyed to find a letter on the pillow where his head should have been.

Hannah picked it up with a sigh and waggled the parchment in Brùid's direction. “This better be good,” she muttered.

Brùid grinned.

In something of a snit, she ripped the parchment open and began to read.

Her heart skipped a beat at the first line and then, as she read on, her fingers went numb and her body softened. Her annoyance drifted away like smoke on a breeze.

Because he had written her a love poem.

Well, not a love poem, per se, but close enough.

Hannah

I love her hair, like ebony silk

Her skin, so soft, like mother's milk

Her gift, a smile

Her laugh, a song

A kiss for which my heart does long

She speaks to me with dancing eyes

In their warm depths the answer lies

With a glance, she does my heart cajole

For there I see her pure bright soul

Hannah sighed.

Romantic? Most certainly. And it rhymed. She preferred poems that rhymed. In fact, it should be written into law that they all did.

There was something scribbled beneath the verse in tiny print. She held it closer to read it and a laugh burst from her.

He'd written:
And I do love brown.

Of course he did.

The thought flittered through her mind that she should go find him in his tower and … thank him for this poem, but she remembered the ferocity on Fergus' features when he'd declared that no one bothered His Lairdship in the mornings and she decided against it. She could be patient. She could wait for him to finish his work.

Ballocks.

She was his wife.

If she couldn't distract him from his work, what was she good for?

*   *   *

Alexander frowned at the report before him.

It wasn't bad enough that he'd received a truly concerning report from his men in Dounreay, one that he needed to respond to immediately.

It wasn't bad enough that reports were coming in from Olrig, that the bastard had started clearing his land. Hell, homeless refugees had already begun showing up at the gates.

It wasn't bad enough that Alexander's mind was beset with worry over Caithness' demand that he do the same in Dunnet.

It wasn't bad enough that as he struggled to concentrate he very much wanted to be elsewhere. Preferably in bed. Making love to his wife.

But now he could smell her.

Smell her.

She had, indeed, sunk into his soul.

It surprised him that it had happened so quickly, but then again, it was Hannah. He'd wanted her on sight. That she continued to delight him, enthrall him, as he came to know her better should be no great shock.

But bluidy hell. He couldn't make love to her, couldn't find her and yank her into his arms as he so yearned to do—until he finished his work.

He had several reports to review and matters that required his attention, including the new wool mill in Brough and another squabble in Lyth … not to mention the ever-growing flurry of letters from the neighboring barons urging him to join their ranks. Beyond that, he'd lit upon a plan to propose to Caithness, an option to the Clearances the duke seemed so intent upon, and Alexander wanted to sketch out the details. There was so much to do, and so much depended on his effectiveness as a manager. Especially now.

This was no time for distraction, even as delectable as she was

With a sigh he pushed away from his desk and stood, stretching his neck with a crack. He'd been working for hours. Answering letters, writing out orders for supplies, and plowing through these endless reports. He was exhausted and—

He stilled as his gaze snagged on a movement by the door; someone was perched on the landing just outside his office.

He took a step closer to investigate—though he knew who it was; he could
smell
her, after all—and she glanced up. A smile flooded her face.

“Hannah, what … are you … doing there?” He didn't intend for his voice to be so sharp, but it must have been, for her smile dimmed. He held out his hand to her in recompense. “Come in.”

She hesitated. “I doona want to bother you.”

Ah, but she did. Bother him. But only the best possible way. “Come in.”

“Fergus said I shouldna.”

Alexander took her hand and pulled her to her feet and then, because he couldn't resist, he yanked her into his arms and kissed her. He intended it to be a quick kiss—he did have a lot of work to do—but it lingered.

Ah, he was glad she'd come. He'd needed her.

And Fergus be damned.

Though he did mean well.

Fergus had always been Alexander's champion, although, nowadays, he was often more diligent than he needed to be. Old habits did die hard. Besides, there had been a time when that diligence had saved Alexander's life, and he would never complain about it.

When the kiss ended, Hannah sighed and looped her arms around his neck. “Will you be working verra much longer?”

Alexander glanced back at the desk and winced. “Aye.”

“You should let me help you.”

He tried not to snort, but it escaped. She had no idea how difficult his work was, what a burden. It was a weight he would never want her to bear, and as he was her husband, it was his responsibility to protect her from the worry it all entailed. He would do whatever it took to protect her from that onus.

But it was sweet of her to offer.

Her brow rumpled. “I can help you,” she insisted. She opened her mouth to add more and he kissed her again, although he shouldn't have, because she was distracting.

“You … shouldna be here,” he sighed. He kissed the tip of her nose to soften his words.

“I'm bored.”

He gaped at her.
Bored? Lord in heaven above.
He would love to be bored. “You could ride.”

“I canna ride all the time.” She put out a lip. “The servants won't let me do anything—”

“You are … a baroness.”

“I'm used to being busy. For heaven's sake, Alexander, at Ciaran Reay I did everything.”

He chuckled.
Surely not
everything
.
When she frowned at him, he cuddled closer. “I can think of … something for you to do.” Again, not wise to even jest about it. There were several pressing issues on his desk that had to be handled at once. So he amended, “Tonight.”

While he invested the word with a sultry tone, she wasn't mollified in the slightest. “I want something to do now.” She sucked in a determined breath. “Alexander—”

“Aye?”

“There is … something that has been bothering me.”

His throat tightened. “Aye?”

“Fergus said the library is
expressly off-limits
.”

His bowels clenched with a ferocity that stunned him. Why it hit him so hard he didn't know. Or perhaps he did.

He did not like to think of that library.

Ever.

Once, it had been a magical room, filled with his father's prized collection, each tome lovingly acquired and attended to. The very smell of it evoked memories of hours spent at his father's knee, learning to read and exploring the treasures on those shelves. But when his father died, all that had changed. His uncle had wasted no time in turning that sanctuary into his own depraved haunt.

A shudder rippled through Alexander as a cold finger traced his spine. Now the room held only repulsive memories. Nightmares. Alexander had locked the doors when his uncle finally met his maker and hadn't opened them since. No one was allowed in there, not even to clean. The room had housed Dermid's squalor for years.

Hannah wrapped her arms around Alexander's neck. “I should verra much like to visit the library. I should verra much like something to read. Surely that isna too much to ask.”

“H-Hannah…”

“Alexander.” She nestled closer.

She was warm and soft in his arms. He knew damn well what she was doing, and while he didn't much mind being seduced, the thought of unlocking that room was beyond him. He very much wanted to give her everything she desired, but he couldn't give her this. At least, not yet. He wasn't ready to brave his ghosts in that library. He doubted he ever would be. The thought alone made his gut churn.

“What-what kind of … book would you like?” He glanced over at the shelf on the wall, filled with almanacs and dusty volumes about crop rotation and animal husbandry.

She fluttered her lashes. “Do you have any … poetry?”

“Not … I.… Not here.”

“Hmm. I read a verra pretty poem this morning.” She nestled against him. His cock stirred.

“Did you?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“Did you … like it?”

“Aye.” A whisper.

“I shall have to write you more.”

“I would like that.” She leaned back. “In the meantime, is there something else I could read? A room, perhaps full of books, I could visit?”

He winced.

He could just hand her the key, he supposed, but the room had been closed up for years. He had no idea what manner of disaster she could find. Mice at best. Dermid's howling ghost at worst.

Indeed, though it was not a logical thought, the locking of the doors had been akin to trapping the specter of his uncle in a hell of his own making, locking the memories away. Alexander despaired of letting them rage free.

He waved at the shelf of boring tomes. “Help yourself.”

She sauntered over and surveyed the meager offerings. She picked up one and flipped through it in a desultory fashion. Her sigh was heavy as she set it back on the shelf. “I've already read this one.”

Really?
He leaned closer and checked the title.
Agricultural Tenancy
by Harlan Arbruthnot. No wonder she'd sighed. That one had been deadly dull.

She tapped another on the spine.
The Beauties of England and Wales.
“This one as well.”

“This one?” He indicated another, his newest, a treatise on the impending industrial revolution.

She wrinkled her nose. “I found his conclusions rather simplistic.”

Hell.
So had he.

Alexander studied his wife. She'd told him she liked to read histories and scientific books, but he'd never imagined she would want to read books like these. “What did you think of Cantor?” He lifted the slender tome on the use of fertilizer in field regeneration.

She tapped her lip. “Interesting. But not as interesting as a piece I read on the methods used by the ancient Mayans.”

Alexander blinked. “The … ancient Mayans?”

“They used fish. Fascinating.”

He loved the way her face lit up as she told him more, though he remembered reading something about that as well. He was enthralled by the animation of her features, the way her eyes glowed … the way her lips moved.

It occurred to him he should probably buy her some books. Or he could brave the library and bring her more.

And he would. Just not yet.

For now, he just wrapped his arms around her and occupied her with other pursuits.

*   *   *

Hannah bit back her smile as she strolled through the bailey, hugging to her chest the book Alexander had given her. After they'd made glorious love—in his sanctified office—he'd hunted through his shelves to find her something she had not read. Oh, it wasn't one she particularly wanted to read, but that was hardly the point.

He'd given it to her. With a kiss.

She had it in her mind to spend the rest of the morning in the garden, reading or pretending to read. She'd probably be thinking about him.

Their relationship really was warming, if the tryst in his office was any indication. He'd let down his guard enough to allow her in … at least a little. The thought thrilled her.

A flurry of activity, a familiar face, in the stable yard captured her attention and she changed her course. “Rory!” she called.

The lad stalled in the act of tightening the straps on his saddle and glanced up at her. His usual tranquil smile was replaced with a gloomy frown.

“How are you doing?” she asked as she came up to him. She had seen neither hide nor hair of him since they'd arrived in Dunnet, and she was so pleased to see him she decided to defer the lecture she'd been planning—about how he really should keep his distance from Lana—until later.