Highlander Claimed. Juliette Miller
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Название: Highlander Claimed
Автор: Juliette Miller
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
Серия: Mills & Boon M&B
isbn: 9781472010988
isbn:
“Nay, never.” In fact, before this adventure, I had never been away from the Ogilvie keep before, or at least not that I could remember.
The steam of the bath did odd things to my thoughts, hazing them in subtle incoherence, as if I was not wholly aware of this place. I felt almost alarmingly dazed and distant, and I missed Wilkie. My fingertips yearned to feather themselves over the scar-roughened textures of his skin. My mouth watered at the thought of his taste, the exploration of his tongue.
As though in answer, I heard Wilkie’s voice, calling to me from his chambers. My name.
“I should go to him,” I heard myself say.
I rose from my bath, feeling wildly unsteady, looking for a drying cloth.
“Nay, Roses,” urged Ailie, gently easing me back into the bath. “You cannot possibly go to him like this. Finish your bath, then we’ll take you to him.”
But there was a crashing noise coming from Wilkie’s chambers, as if he was up and bumping into things. He was looking for me, calling to me.
“I must,” I said, stepping from the bath, barely noticing my nakedness and the drip of the bathwater onto the floor, such was the muddled and needy state of my mind. “He needs me.”
More banging noises could be heard from Wilkie’s chambers.
“What’s he doing in there?” asked Christie, to no one in particular. I heard another crash and a groan. My name.
I was becoming frantic, making my way toward Wilkie’s door as Ailie acquiesced, wrapping a dressing gown around me, not bothering to dry me first. “Here, then, Roses. Wait. Let me tie it.” She pulled the tie tight around my waist just as I was able to open the door.
And Wilkie was there, reaching the door at the same time. When he saw me, his eyes widened. He was flushed, his blue eyes blazing. Behind him, several chairs were overturned, and the furs of his bed were disheveled; some of them had fallen to the floor. He was dressed only in his underclothes. His wound was rebloodied from his exertions, and a small line of dark red had bled through the bandages.
Before I could even react to him, I was surrounded in an all-encompassing clinch against his big, fiery body. He buried his face in the damp strands of my hair, weaving his fingers through it almost painfully, inhaling deeply, holding me close as though trying to pull me into himself. “God in heaven, deliver me,” he murmured, clearly overcome by delirium. “I need you, angel.”
He was unsteady on his feet and leaned us against the wall, swaying slightly as though he might fall.
“Wilkie!” cried his sisters.
I tried to pull away from him, to lead him back to his bed. But he wouldn’t budge. He was thoroughly unconcerned by my robe, my wetness, the inappropriateness of our coiled embrace, and his own aggravated injury. He held on to me tightly, blindly pressing his face into my neck, breathing heavily of my scent.
“’Tis dark indeed without your sunlight, Roses,” he rasped gruffly, quietly, into my ear. “Come back to me.”
“I’m here, warrior,” I said, unsettled both because I wanted to calm him and also because the worried faces and hands of his two sisters were pulling me away from him. They were leading Wilkie back to his bed and me along with him, as he would not loosen his hold on me. They were wiping at his wound and calling for Effie. I felt disengaged from them, focused only on Wilkie and his clear delirium, and also my own, and his strong refusal to follow any request unless I was within his grasp. I held on to his hand as he was eased back into his bed. All was hazy, as though I was channeling Wilkie’s fever, following him into it, deeper and deeper, to lead him once again back into the light.
I was aware only that I was holding his hand. Abstractly, I noticed that Christie was settling me into a cushiony chair next to his bed, draping me with furs, giving me a sip of tea, as Effie arrived and once again attended to Wilkie. My focus was entirely on the hold of his hand, the heat and strength of it, the rough texture of his fingers. As my consciousness drifted from me, I grasped his hand as tightly as he was clutching mine. It took effort, maintaining my grip even as darkness overtook me. If I could just hold on to that hand. I would be strong and safe. Warmed by the sun. Alive. And I would not be alone. If I could just hold on...
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