Harriet was panting. “I think I chased the stags away,” she said, hoarse like an old man.
“They ran scared,” he acknowledged. “You have a mighty roar.”
Her gaze locked with his, and it was one of those transcendent gazes that look inside a man and see him, while letting him see her in return, and the sense of connection turned his knees soft. An old reflex stirred in him to raise an ice wall against such weakness.
That evening at the Braemar inn, Lucian persuaded her to try the Royal Lochnagar whisky, and when she felt overwarm and giddy, he escorted her upstairs to their room and carried her over the threshold to the lumpy bed. He did not make her scream. He loved her slowly, tenderly, and held her so tightly, every inch of his hot skin was pressed against hers as he glided in and out of her, causing her to overflow with longing. When she ran her hands down his back and urged him closer still, a wild look entered his eyes, and he kissed her deeply until all she felt, heard, and tasted was Lucian, until she cried out with sweet relief while her peak pulsed around him in never-ending lazy waves. She watched with some confusion when he abruptly withdrew from her and spent himself against her belly with a groan.
Later, he stretched himself out on his side and drew idle circles around her navel with a calloused fingertip. “Your belly is the softest thing I’ve ever felt,” he said.
She raised her head, pleasantly lazy. “Softer than silk?”
“Yes. As soft as flour.”
“How romantic.”
His expression was serious. “As a boy, I sometimes stuck my fingers into the flour when the women were making bread, just because it was so whisper-soft. But this …” He pressed down lightly, sinking his fingertips into the pliant curve.
“Bread making,” she said feebly. “I have thought that sometimes, you look at me as though I were something to eat.”
A dark emotion was banking in his eyes. “I’ve known hunger,” he said. “And I have never been as starved as I am for you.”
She wanted to make love all over again when he said such things. They were making love now, she felt, though it made her anxious to think that word. Lucian still hadn’t said that he loved her, a fact that kept advancing on her bliss like an enemy determined to conquer.
She placed her hand on the cool, smooth skin of her belly. “Why did you finish here?”
His voice was drowsy. “If I keep spending inside you, I’ll put a babe in you sooner rather than later.”
The thought of growing round and encumbered with his child brought an unexpected, deep sense of satisfaction, the primitive kind that defied logic and resided purely in the body. The moment her mind worked again, a twinge of uncertainty curled in her chest. She would be thoroughly bound to him. Her throat tightened.
“I thought you wanted an heir,” she said, looking at the ceiling.
“I don’t want to share you,” came his reply. “Not for a while.” Then he leaned over her, his gaze alert. “Unless you hope to be a mother soon. I should have asked, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But it’s sweet, being wanted just for myself.”
He rolled over, and they were both looking at the ceiling. The back of his fingers grazed hers. “I want you,” he said.
It was almost an I love you. The curl inside her chest became a knot. Sometimes, the almost things and phrases only drew attention to the fact that the ultimate gestures and declarations had been avoided. She lay stiffly by his side, her neediness grating on her. It reminded her of Hattie at the Friday dining table, eager for approval. Besides, she had been the one who had sworn to never, ever love him, so she could hardly nurse grand expectations now. Yet here she was, nursing these very expectations—and they were already big and looming. She had thought being in love would be a warm, joyful state of being. Now she found it could also feel like balancing on a ridge in high winds, where she felt breathless and too uncertain where to step or what to say lest it all came crashing down.
Chapter 29
Back in Drummuir, she was running out of glass plates, distilled water, and chemicals. She would have to pay another visit to St. Andrews to purchase more supplies before she could complete her project.
She had spent her last three plates on Anne holding her parasol, and she was washing said plates in the solution beneath the special red-light lamp in the side chamber. Her heart was beating as fast as though she were six years old again and unwrapping Christmas presents.
“Lucian,” she called. He was in the main room, poring over his tunnel map.