Page 56 of Claimed By a Savage Scot
Emotion thickened her throat. But before she could frame an answer, they were interrupted by a hard knock at the chamber door.
Malcolm muttered a curse beneath his breath.
“Me laird?” called a voice from outside. “Ewan asks tae see ye in the study.”
Malcolm closed his eyes briefly as though the interruption pained him physically.
“I’ll come presently,” he called.
“Very good, me laird. I’ll tell him.”
They waited until the messenger’s footfalls died away.
Sad they were being pulled back so abruptly from their magical bubble into the real world beyond the chamber door, with all theproblems that came with it, she nevertheless smiled faintly at him. “Duty calls.”
“Aye, it has a bad habit of daein’ that just when ye most wish it wouldnae,” he muttered darkly, climbing from the bed with a sigh of reluctance. Catriona felt the loss of his warmth and solaced herself by quietly admiring the lithe power of his body as he crossed the room and disappeared behind the screen. She smiled as she listened to the unfamiliar, intimate sounds of him going about his ablutions.
When he reappeared a few minutes later, she could see his hair was damp and that he had done his best to comb the thick, dark curls into some semblance of order. She admired the attempt, though it had not been altogether successful in taming its natural unruliness. It was still adorably tousled, a sensual reminder of how she had tangled her fingers within it during the throes of passion several times throughout the night.
She watched as he strode towards the armoire, his muscles flexing with every movement, flung open the doors and began to dress, putting on clean braies and a snowy white shirt. He was pulling on a pair of tartan trews, which outlined his long, muscular legs in a fashion that made her want to run over and rip them from his hands, when he suddenly stopped and turned to her.
“Shite, I just remembered, Kenneth Forbes and Lady Sorcha are supposed tae be arrivin’ sometime today.”
Catriona blinked at him. “Today?”
“Aye, today. Unless somethin’ delays them on the journey.” Malcolm fastened his trews and raised an enquiring brow at her. “Daes our deal still stand?” he asked, tucking in his shirt.
Catriona nodded, a little piqued he would even ask. “Of course! I wouldnae promise tae help ye and then change me mind,” she replied. “’Tis me way of fightin’ back against Sinclair.”
She was perturbed by the unwelcome little stab of unease pierced her at the mention of Lady Sorcha. Sorcha’s clan was rich and powerful. She was a noblewoman. Unwed. Young. Beautiful perhaps. The sort of woman Malcolm deserved rather than one who was probably about to bring Sinclair down on his head.
As if sensing her thoughts, Malcolm crossed back to the bed and cupped her cheek, looking down at her with his dark, chocolatey eyes.
“I can see ye thinkin’. Dinnae fash yersel’, lass.”
“I’m nae fashin’,” she lied, frowning a little at being so transparent to him yet melting beneath his gaze just the same.
His mouth curved knowingly. “Liar.”
Heat flooded her face, earning a low chuckle from him. Then his expression softened once more, making her heart clench with love.
“I must go. But we’ll speak again later, me beautiful Cat.”
Despite her lingering jealousy, she could not help smiling. “Aye, later,” she said, adding pointedly, “At supper... with Lady Sorcha Forbes.”
He laughed and kissed her tenderly on the lips before going to put on his coat and winding hisbreacanabout his shoulders. She watched him stuff his feet into his boots and strap on his weapons, thinking him even more deliciously handsome than before. Finally, he blew her a final kiss and went out.
The moment the door shut behind him, Catriona touched her lips and let out a slow breath.
Marriage! Tae be Malcolm’s wife? Tae be taegether every night as we were last night?
The thought of it was at the same time thrilling... and terrifying.
From the study window, Malcolm watched the courtyard below. Catriona had come outside and was standing with several of the clan women near the washing lines, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, auburn braid hanging over one shoulder as she laughed softly at something one of the older women had said.
Jesus, she fits in here so easily, like she belongs in me keep.
The sight stirred something dangerous in his chest—something warm and aching and frighteningly close to hope.
