A Scot Mess: A comedy of errors, page 5
Their brother shrugged. “Sure. I’ve been hearing it for at least a year, which I thought was bloody strange, seeing as how I dinnae sleep in the keep much these days.”
Finn met Kiergan’s eyes, and as one, they turned to Malcolm—who shrugged, as if to say he wasn’t sure why Rocque would be hallucinating, and mayhap they shouldn’t tease him.
“Doooooooooooooooooooooommmmmm!”
“Oh, come off it, Aunt Agatha,” Kiergan mumbled.
“A toast!”
Finn wasn’t sure who the first one to call out the words had been, but soon, most of the clan was slamming their cups against the table and calling out. He saw Malcolm blow out a breath and glance toward the ceiling as he mouthed, “Thank God,” but Kiergan groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
It was Da who stood first, lifting his flagon and turning to Finn. Knowing what was expected of him, Finn draped his arm across the back of Fiona’s chair and took her hand in his other. This picture of intimacy garnered some cheers and hoots.
When she blushed, he grinned.
“A toast!” William Oliphant cried, lifting his flagon high. “To the fair Fiona MacIan, who has graced us with her, uh…her grace! And her brother, who will make a strong ally! And to my son, Finn, who is surely my favorite, seeing as how he’s about to finally make me a grandda!”
God bless her, Nessa reached out and pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Oh, sit down, ye auld goat.”
As the clan erupted into cheers and laughter, Fiona’s cheeks turned as pink as her lips, and her fingers tightened around his. But when he met her eyes, worried she might be mortified at Da’s talk of procreation, all he saw was anticipation.
Oh.
Had he thought himself rock hard before?
The knowledge she wanted him—wanted his bairns—was enough to make him light-headed. Or mayhap that was because his brain was missing most of his blood.
Her tongue darted out, dragging across her lower lip, and Finn couldn’t help himself. Damn all these people watching, he had to taste her.
He was leaning toward her, ready to capture her lips with his, when his elbow was jostled by Rocque as he stood up.
“To Finn and Fiona! May ye make lots and lots of babies, and become a good laird, so I dinnae have to!”
Finn jerked upright once more, remembering where he was and what was going on, just in time to see Rocque throw back his head and guzzle down all the ale in his flagon, to many cheers from the clan.
Malcolm took that as his cue and stood with his own flagon. “To the fair Fiona, who would make a good Lady Oliphant, assuming Finn can charm his way into her arms!”
This time it was Finn who flushed at the laughter. It was the tightening of Fiona’s fingers around his which reminded him she cared for him already, and he clung to that knowledge.
On Malcolm’s heels, Kiergan thrust himself to his feet, having forgotten his flagon. When Lara handed it to him with an indulgent smile, he winked down at her and smiled. “Thank ye, love.”
Lifting the flagon high, he turned to the clan.
“To my brother, Finn, the bravest among us! The institute of holy matrimony is no’ to be trifled with, but he cares naught for rules, and plans to”—he waggled his brows suggestively—“trifle as much as possible.”
Before the crowd could react, Kiergan thrust his flagon toward Finn, the ale splashing over the side. “To Finn! We’re so pleased that unsightly rash of yers cleared up!”
As the great hall erupted into laughter and jeers, Finn surged to his feet to throw himself across the table at his brother. Only their father’s words stopped him.
“Come now,” Da boomed, slapping Stewart MacIan on the shoulder. “I have the betrothal papers in my solar. Let us read them over.”
As Fiona’s brother nodded and stood, Da jerked his chin at Alistair. “Come, lad, ye might as well witness this. ‘Tis yer hand on the contract, and yer solar these days as much as mine.”
Finn’s free hand was curled into a fist, ready to break Kiergan’s nose, but it was the glare Alistair shot his twin, which halted Kiergan’s teasing more than anything. Kiergan might be the prankster of their group, the brother who would never settle down…but none of them could defy Alistair’s cold “behave yerself” warning.
When Alistair nodded to Finn, telling him to come along, Finn exhaled. Suddenly, Kiergan’s jokes didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. Not when he was about to look over his betrothal contract.
But before he could leave, Fiona tugged on his hand. She’d stood with him when he’d surged to his feet, and now pulled him toward her, so she could whisper in his ear.
“Will ye tell me how it goes?”
Her trust, her willingness to build a life with him, despite not being allowed to sign her own betrothal contract, humbled him.
Quickly, he brushed a kiss against her cheek. “Of course, my love.”
Her eyes were twinkling with excitement—and anticipation—when she smiled up at him. “I will leave my door unbarred.”
And that, more than anything, had him hurrying to get this betrothal business over with.
Chapter Four
She and Skye had been placed in Finn’s room, and wasn’t that interesting?
Oh, Finn wasn’t staying in it, because propriety.
But as was common when clans hosted guests, they were put in rooms belonging to members of the household. Alistair had given up his room to Stewart, and Finn’s room had gone to the MacIan twins.
Of course, she hadn’t realized whose room she and her sister had been placed in initially, but as soon as she and Skye had moved in, Fiona had noticed a sense of familiarity in the items furnishing the room. She’d asked one of the maids and discovered the room belonged to Finn and Duncan, although as Finn had mentioned, Duncan rarely stayed here, preferring his space at the forge.
As Fiona paced and waited for news of her betrothal, her eyes fell on little reminders of Finn, and she was comforted.
Arranged on a shelf beside the window was a ledger and stylus, which contained records of his trades and notes about important reminders, carefully arranged in Finn’s hand. She straightened the spare Oliphant plaid which was folded in a small trunk, and inspected the two small swords hung on the wall. Fiona dragged her fingers along the edge of a well-worn table, and wondered if he’d sat here, in the light from the window, and calculated his next market journey.
She should have felt some guilt over snooping, but she didn’t. Not at all.
This room was familiar in more than it reminded her of Finn, she realized, but because it also reminded her of her own room back home.
Nay.
A smile tugged at her lips as she stopped to stare out over the now-dark landscape.
At home, she’d shared a room with Skye her entire life, and Skye wouldn’t know the meaning of “organized” if it bit her on the arse. Her clothing was hung any which way, and she was constantly searching for nick-knacks she’d put down somewhere.
But this room was organized the way Fiona would have organized her room, if she didn’t have to worry about Skye’s boots being thrown in the middle of the room, or the table being dragged around to suit whatever sparring move her twin wanted to practice at any given moment.
Staring out the open window, Fiona wrapped her arms around her middle.
Would this soon be her permanent room?
After she married Finn, would they live here together?
They obviously thought alike and were compatible…
But was that enough?
Was that enough to base a marriage on?
With a sigh, she reached for the shutter and swung it closed. Even summer nights in the Highlands could be chilly, and who knows how long it would be until Skye returned from the stables to join her in bed.
Her sister was more than a little obsessed with her horse’s health, which made sense, considering how she gained money for the MacIans. But when Skye had heard what Fiona had said to Finn at supper, about leaving her door unbarred, Fiona’s sister had stammered and said she’d be in the stables.
Indefinitely?
The thought of marriage might make Fiona’s palms go all clammy, but the thought of bedding was something else entirely. Swallowing, she latched the shutter in place, wondering if Finn would come to her that evening.
Would he keep her warm?
She placed her hand on her neck, remembering how his lips had felt there, last year. He’d kissed her since she’d arrived at Oliphant Castle of course, but nothing like the way he’d kissed her in Wick when they’d been alone.
Like the way he might kiss her tonight.
She could feel her pulse pounding at the base of her throat as she dragged her hand lower. Imagining it was him touching her, she cupped one breast gently, trying to feel her nipple through the material of her gown.
Nay, it was too thick.
Her touch still felt good, but not as good as his.
In a flash, decision made, Fiona reached for the ties of her gown and wriggled out of it. As she tossed it over the chair—God help her, lust had made her as untidy as Skye!—she kicked her shoes off and reached for her breasts again.
This time, both hands cupped herself, the thin linen of her chemise all that stood between her palms and her skin.
It was…better. Her heart was pounding faster, higher somehow. Her throat was thick with wanting, as her thumbs brushed against her nipples.
Not good enough.
Dragging one hand lower, she shivered with need when her fingers swept across her stomach, then cupped her mound through her under gown.
With a moan, she dropped her head back.
And that’s when the door opened.
She was standing there in the middle of the room, half-naked, cupping her tit and her cunny, and the door opened!
Whirling around, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved, or horrified, to discover it was Finn, who was staring at her the way a starving man might eye a wheel of cheese.
Comparing yerself to cheese…?
Verra romantic.
Without a word, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
Then he barred it.
Fiona’s knees went weak at that blatant signal.
Then he was stalking across the room toward her, although he stopped just out of arm’s reach.
Why did he stop?
Did he not want her?
Or—according to the look in his eyes—did he want her too much?
When he spoke, his voice was raspy. “I should’ve knocked. I ken that, and I apologize. I’m used to just walking in, and I cannae regret it.”
She licked her lips, trying to make her voice work. “Wh— Why?”
His hungry gaze dropped to the neckline of her chemise, which had been pulled lower by her—her touches.
“Because then I might’ve missed something important.”
“What’s that?” she whispered.
His voice dropped to a low growl when he met her eyes once more. “The knowledge ye want me as much as I want ye.”
Mayhap he would’ve reached for her then—Lord knew her body wanted him to, and the hunger in his eyes told her he might—had she not blurted out, “How did it go with my brother?”
When he blew out a breath and dragged one hand through his hair, she almost cursed herself.
Why had she asked that?
Because she was genuinely curious to discover if she was betrothed?
Or because she was nervous about what might soon happen between her and Finn?
Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, he turned away. He stepped toward the little shelf, his careful movements showing his control, and reached up with one finger to align the end of the ledger with the shelf’s edge.
And she had to smile, as the movement was so similar to hers.
“We are no’ yet betrothed,” he finally said.
Fiona blurted, “Why?” before she could consider the ramifications of his words.
He sighed again as he placed his fists on his hips and tilted his head toward the ceiling. As his back faced her, she admired the taut muscles of his shoulders, but also knew it meant he was holding himself in check.
A part of her—an increasingly big part of her—was jumping up and down and yelling at him not to hold himself back.
Shut up, she told that part, at least until I get some answers.
“Yer brother cares for ye, Fiona.”
His words were so unexpected—the fact Finn had to tell her that, not the fact Stewart cared—Fiona could only respond with something which sounded like a, “Guh?” before she could stop herself.
Now ye’re making sheep sounds?
Finn hadn’t turned, and she wondered if he was laughing at her.
“Stewart pointed out to my father that he—and ye—had only just arrived. He hadnae seen the two of us together long enough. He didnae ken me as a man, other than what ye’ve told him. He wants to wait to sign the betrothal contract until he’s sure this is what ye want.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few days.” Finn whirled then, a haunted look in his eyes. “This is what ye want, is it no’?”
“Ah—” She blinked. “Aye. Of course.”
“Ye hesitated.”
Did she?
“Nay, I did no’.”
With a nod, he started toward her, moving uncannily like a wildcat stalking its prey. The intense, hungry look in his eyes had Fiona stumbling backwards, even while that part of her who wanted this was screaming at her to grow a backbone.
She compromised with an embarrassing little stumble before she stopped, certain that part of her was rolling its eyes.
Wait, could her subconscious roll its eyes at her?
And then she wasn’t thinking at all, because he’d stopped in front of her, close enough to touch. Close enough to smell. Close enough she could reach up and wrap her arms around his neck and drag him down for a kiss.
If she wanted to.
I want to!
“Aye, ye did.”
What in damnation were they speaking of?
“Did what?” she had to ask.
“Ye hesitated. I asked ye if this—this”—he gestured between them, the back of his hand brushing against her breast as he did so—“was what ye wanted, and ye hesitated.”
She swallowed. “Finn,” she whispered, looking into his eyes and suddenly feeling very brave—mayhap it was that part of her which was now jumping up and down in anticipation? “Finn, I can say with absolute certainty, at this moment, I want this verra, verra much.”
The throbbing heat at her core was proof enough.
And then—thank the saints!—he placed one hand on her hip and lifted the other to brush against her neckline where the linen just barely covered her skin. She tilted her head to one side, allowing him better access.
“Are ye sure this is what ye want, lass?” he murmured. “No’ this heat, this attraction, but a lifetime with me?”
It was hard to think when he was touching her like this. “I’ve only kenned ye a few days.”
It wasn’t an answer, but it was true.
Two days last autumn, and now she was ready to yoke herself to him for the rest of their lives?
Luckily, he had more sense than her and didn’t stop touching her. “Only a few days?”
She hummed, even as she tilted her head in the other direction, as he dragged his fingertips up to the sensitive place behind her ear. He’d remembered she loved his touch there.
“Fiona MacIan, my heart has kenned yers forever.”
She suspected the noise she made then, as she melted into him, was something which sounded like, “D’aww!”
And although she’d closed her eyes, she could hear the smile in his voice, when he said, “I’ve written to ye all winter. Most marriages are founded on much less.”
“I ken.” She swallowed and forced her eyes open. What point had she been trying to make? Oh, aye. “But do ye want me?”
His hand stilled as he reared back. “What? How could ye ask me that?”
How could I no’?
“I ken I’m no’ the most beautiful woman—”
“Yer beauty has naught to do with why I love ye, lass.”
With a fierce frown—for her benefit, and Fiona relished the realization that she could tell the difference—he dropped his hand to her hip, holding her in place. She didn’t have time to be disappointed before he was leaning toward her.
“I love ye, Fiona MacIan. I love yer mind.” Leaning close, he brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I love yer spirit.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “And I love yer heart.”
This kiss he placed where it belonged—on her lips—and it was just as sweet as the one in the courtyard had been hot.
When Fiona’s blood began to pound, he pulled back.
“How can ye ask if I want ye, lass?” His tone was serious as his dark eyes darted between hers. “I love ye.”
“Oh, Finn,” she whispered, certain she was melting. Her doubts were also melting right into a big puddle of desire.
And that’s when he used his grip on her hips to pull her closer, to press her pelvis against him, allowing her to feel the great glorious press of his hardness against her.
Oh my.
“I want ye verra, verra much, Fiona,” he said, in a choked voice.
And God help her, but she wanted him too.
Verra, verra much.
He lowered his chin so his gaze bore into hers, and she stopped breathing.
“But although I want ye verra verra much, I’ll no’ bed ye…”
Damnation!
He took a breath—a deep breath, which only served to press all of his wonderful hardness against her—and continued, “I’ll no’ compromise ye, until ye are sure ye want me in return. Want me no’ just tonight, but—”
To hell with this!
With a triumphant moan, Fiona reached up, grabbed the hair over his ears, and pulled his lips down to hers.
Excellent.
Aye, this kiss was excellent. The way his tongue played with hers was excellent. The way his teeth grazed her lips was excellent. And his little groan of surrender was excellent too.
And then she was being lifted in the air, although she wasn’t sure if that was simply another trick her mind was playing, until he dropped her onto the bed.
