suffer,” he said. “Not even in sleep.” He turned to her, and when he saw the understanding in her expression, relief washed through him.
“I needed your warmth, but I was too proud and too afraid to admit to it.”
He turned back to face the ceiling beams, staring up at the wisps of smoke gathering in the thatch.
“I dreamed about it, you know,” she murmured.
“Did you?”
“Aye. I dreamed that someone was near, keeping me safe and warm. It felt so right, in my dreams. In life, though . . . well, I spurn such closeness, even from people I know. I’m accustomed to being on my own, you see.”
“As am I.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Her voice dwindled and she tried again. “I find I like the feeling of you lying beside me. It’s . . . comfortable.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“It feels safe.” She made a small noise of confusion. “It’s an odd feeling.”
He gazed up at the ceiling in complete understanding. “Aye.” They lapsed into a companionable silence, comfortable and warm, the lengths of their bodies touching lightly as they lay side by side.
“Did you love your husband?”
Logan frowned, wondering where the hell that question had come from, and why he’d asked it. He didn’t even want to know the damned answer. He gave himself a mental smack on the forehead and spoke in a tight voice. “Forgive me. You don’t have to respond.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I did love him, but I was very young. I think of love differently now.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen when he died. Eighteen when we married.”
“Ah.” That made her about twenty-f our. Five years younger than he was.
“I’ve changed since then, I suppose.” She laughed softly. “I never imagined I could enjoy roughness in a man . . . but you’re rough all over, and I like it in you.”
He cut a sidelong glance at her. “Is that so?”
“Duneghall was very kind and tender with me, always . . . But perhaps that’s why I never . . .”
Her flush flared crimson in the firelight, and it was beautiful. He pressed his lips to where the red slashed over her cheekbone.
“Bonny Maggie,” he said against her skin.
Something—a hint of mischief, perhaps—flickered in her eyes, and she turned the conversation around abruptly. “What about you? Have you taken many lovers?”
“Er . . .” He pulled back. “That is not something most women wish to know.”
“I do.”
“Not so many, and none . . . none I would have married.”
She turned to face him, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Why not?”
Because they weren’t you. Banishing that thought, he shrugged. “They didn’t want commitment from me, nor did I wish for it from them. They were lasses to warm a man on a cold night . . . not to spend a lifetime with.”
“I see.” She looked thoughtful.
It was difficult to keep from touching her. Whenever she was close, his fingers itched to feel her skin against his own.
“You make me feel so . . . different.”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Different from how anyone has ever made me feel.” She paused. “Special.”
She was special. The most special, precious thing he’d ever seen. Raising his hand, he fingered one of her soft curls, then brought it to his lips and kissed it. He pulled it straight and released it, fascinated by how it bounced back. She watched him, her lips tilted in a soft smile.
Tenderly, he touched her plump bottom lip with his fingertip. He trailed his hand across her red-splashed cheekbone and down her nose, marveling at how it turned up slightly at the end. Then he gently traced her bruised eye and her arched, dark eyebrows. Finally he pressed his lips to the freckle between her brows.
She lay passively, studying him, the expression in her blue eyes unfathomable. He continued his exploration with his lips, moving around her hairline to her rounded jaw and then over the soft, silky skin of her neck. As he slid his lips over her
“I needed your warmth, but I was too proud and too afraid to admit to it.”
He turned back to face the ceiling beams, staring up at the wisps of smoke gathering in the thatch.
“I dreamed about it, you know,” she murmured.
“Did you?”
“Aye. I dreamed that someone was near, keeping me safe and warm. It felt so right, in my dreams. In life, though . . . well, I spurn such closeness, even from people I know. I’m accustomed to being on my own, you see.”
“As am I.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Her voice dwindled and she tried again. “I find I like the feeling of you lying beside me. It’s . . . comfortable.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“It feels safe.” She made a small noise of confusion. “It’s an odd feeling.”
He gazed up at the ceiling in complete understanding. “Aye.” They lapsed into a companionable silence, comfortable and warm, the lengths of their bodies touching lightly as they lay side by side.
“Did you love your husband?”
Logan frowned, wondering where the hell that question had come from, and why he’d asked it. He didn’t even want to know the damned answer. He gave himself a mental smack on the forehead and spoke in a tight voice. “Forgive me. You don’t have to respond.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I did love him, but I was very young. I think of love differently now.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen when he died. Eighteen when we married.”
“Ah.” That made her about twenty-f our. Five years younger than he was.
“I’ve changed since then, I suppose.” She laughed softly. “I never imagined I could enjoy roughness in a man . . . but you’re rough all over, and I like it in you.”
He cut a sidelong glance at her. “Is that so?”
“Duneghall was very kind and tender with me, always . . . But perhaps that’s why I never . . .”
Her flush flared crimson in the firelight, and it was beautiful. He pressed his lips to where the red slashed over her cheekbone.
“Bonny Maggie,” he said against her skin.
Something—a hint of mischief, perhaps—flickered in her eyes, and she turned the conversation around abruptly. “What about you? Have you taken many lovers?”
“Er . . .” He pulled back. “That is not something most women wish to know.”
“I do.”
“Not so many, and none . . . none I would have married.”
She turned to face him, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Why not?”
Because they weren’t you. Banishing that thought, he shrugged. “They didn’t want commitment from me, nor did I wish for it from them. They were lasses to warm a man on a cold night . . . not to spend a lifetime with.”
“I see.” She looked thoughtful.
It was difficult to keep from touching her. Whenever she was close, his fingers itched to feel her skin against his own.
“You make me feel so . . . different.”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Different from how anyone has ever made me feel.” She paused. “Special.”
She was special. The most special, precious thing he’d ever seen. Raising his hand, he fingered one of her soft curls, then brought it to his lips and kissed it. He pulled it straight and released it, fascinated by how it bounced back. She watched him, her lips tilted in a soft smile.
Tenderly, he touched her plump bottom lip with his fingertip. He trailed his hand across her red-splashed cheekbone and down her nose, marveling at how it turned up slightly at the end. Then he gently traced her bruised eye and her arched, dark eyebrows. Finally he pressed his lips to the freckle between her brows.
She lay passively, studying him, the expression in her blue eyes unfathomable. He continued his exploration with his lips, moving around her hairline to her rounded jaw and then over the soft, silky skin of her neck. As he slid his lips over her
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