Page 57 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Are you asleep?” she whispered, curving a lazy circle now over his heart with her forefinger.
“Nae. I’m gathering strength for another go.”
“Mm.”
Just the way she said that went a fair way to making him hard again. “I’m thinking we spent a long afternoon at the museum and stood for quite a long time ogling those naked Greek statues ye like so much.”
She chuckled, the sound reverberating into his chest. “I think I prefer the Scottish version, actually.”
He damn well hoped so, because he had no intention of parting from this English lass. What had begun as a mild curiosity had altered and deepened. In fact, he meant to keep hold of her until he could put a ring on her finger and tell all the world that Charlotte Hanover belonged to him. Forever.
***
Charlotte rested her head on one elbow to watch Ranulf pad naked and magnificent to the bedchamber door. Pulling it open, he leaned into the hallway. “Owen!” he bellowed. “Sandwiches!”
“Very regal,” she commented, as he returned to his big bed and settled back against the headboard.
“I’m hungry.”
That was no surprise, considering his exertions. And she was rather famished, herself. “Are we dining in the museum’s tea room, then?” she asked, shifting a little to run a finger along his ribs. Touching a man’s skin—his skin—was indescribably arousing.
“Aye. And I assume we’re sipping tea from dainty cups and nibbling at wee sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off.”
“Yes, we are. And then I think we’ll take a leisurely stroll among the sarcophagi and mummies before you return me home.”
He slid down the bed until their faces were even. “I like the British Museum. What other sights around London could ye show me,leannan?”
“What does that mean?Leannan?”
Shrugging one shoulder, he captured her right hand and brought it up to examine it carefully. “Ye know, Debny has some horse liniment that would likely do ye.”
She grimaced. “I do not want to smell like horse liniment.”
One by one he kissed her fingertips. The sensation, the gesture, made her shiver. “We’ve been slathering it on fer years. Bumps, scrapes, sprains—it cures everything, according to Debny.”
“I prefer to suffer, thank you very much.” Charlotte flexed her hand. “You aren’t going to tell me whatleannanmeans, then? I can ask Winnie, you know.”
“Ye’re a persistent lass, Charlotte.” He tugged her over his chest again, wrapping his strong arms around her. “I suppose the best translation would be ‘dear friend,’” he drawled.
That sounded very nice. What it didn’t sound like was a term someone would use to describe a partner in a one-time union resulting from simple mutual attraction. Of course, at this moment there was nothing at all simple about how she felt. Or how he felt against her. Indeed, the only simple fact was that she didn’t want this to be the one and only time she shared his bed.
“What’s this, then?” she asked, tapping her nose and trying to distract herself from unhelpful thoughts.
He tilted his head to look down at her face. “Ye’ve a yen to learn Scottish, then, do ye?”
“It’s a pretty language.”
Before either of them could question if she had more on her mind or not—something she certainly couldn’t even answer to her own satisfaction—his door rattled. “M’laird,” Owen’s voice came, “I’ve yer sandwiches.”
“Leave ’em on the floor.”
“Fergus already ate one of ’em on the way up here.”
“Oh, fer Saint Andrew’s sake,” Ranulf muttered, and slid out from beneath her again. Striding to the door, he pulled a blanket from the back of a chair and knotted it around his hips. Unlocking the door, he stepped into the opening. “Ye keeping the maid occupied?” he asked, taking the tray of food from the footman’s hands.
“She’s been as tight as a nun, m’lord, looking at us like we all smell rotted.”
Charlotte abruptly wondered if she wasn’t asking too much of Simms. The maid had been in her employ for the last seven years, since she’d turned eighteen, and in all that time she didn’t think she’d ever done a single thing for which she’d needed to enlist Simms’s discretion.
