Page 65 of A Virgin for the Icy Laird
Like a needle tugging a loose thread in place, her thoughts rearranged themselves in coherent blocks.
Finding Laird MacDonnell was a priority.
She retrieved a single horse from the stables and rode into the night. By the time she reached MacDonnell Castle, she found Mrs. Donnelly ordering the sentries to close the gate.
They all halted at the sight of her.
“Lady Isla!” Mrs. Donnelly gasped.
Isla jumped down from the horse, breathing hard. She had not stopped in the last two hours.
“Are ye alright?”
“Nay, I am nae. Take me to the Laird. I must speak to him at once.”
16
Adair could not believe himself. He was thirty years old, not a schoolboy after his first tryst.
Why then have his eyes not closed since he returned to his chambers?
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the morning light filter in beneath the door. Each strip of gold felt like an accusation.
He was painfully invigorated, despite the lack of sleep, only because of last night’s encounter.
Blast it!
He was no child. He should not be rushing into his breeches because his betrothed was presumably wandering the corridor adjacent to his.
Stop it!
He pushed his feet into his boots.
Daenae ye dare wash yer face!
He dried his face over the washstand and looked at the pooling water, disappointed.
Whatever ye do, daenae put on yer shirt. Nay, stop it. Stop!
So he stood in front of the outer chamber door, freshly washed, breeches secured, shirt buttoned to his neck, plaid draped over his shoulders, hand on the knob.
Finally, he let the voice lead him. He took off the plaid as instructed. Placed his signet ring into the box on his bedside table. Replaced his shirt with the one from last night, letting the strings come loose over his chest. And took himself far away from his beguiling betrothed—to the sparring room.
His intention was to push her out of his mind. Put a stop to the humiliating surrender of his body. If he did not find control, he would find her first. He had told her he could not give her the sensitivity their entanglement demanded just last night. He could not show up at her door just hours later like an addle-brained paramour seeking romance.
The distraction worked for a moment.
His brain coasted, animatedly working against the sandbag, sweat dripping from his hair, down his neck, and into his shirt before he pulled it off.
He decided to rest when he thought he was safe. He held the bag to his chest, stopping its motion, and tried to catch his breath. Then he remembered how he had spread her apart on his desk and lifted her legs to his shoulders.
He pushed off the bag and squeezed his skull.
Boxing would not work. It only created room for titillating images in his mind. He needed to be busy. Financial reports always kept his mind busy.
He snatched his shirt up from the floor and left the room. He would need to bathe, then dress, then lock himself in his study till his boyish whims were satiated. Until then, he shall survive a strenuous toilette tormented by smells, sounds, and textures that were enough to drive a layman mad. He was already a man proving to be quite a lay.
“Adair!”
