Read Online The Highlander by Elaine Coffman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elaine Coffman
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a babbling drunk. I keep having the compunction to speak, even when I have nothing to say. Perhaps I swallowed too much seawater. I hear it does strange things to the mind."
He took her in his arms and pulled her close. "Is that better?"
"No, it is worse. My heart is beating so fast, and I feel I must speak faster to match pace."
He pulled back enough to see her face and saw immediately the inner chaos, the conflict of emotions that fought for control. He felt an odd sort of curiosity to keep her with him long
enough to see which one would emerge the victor. Would it be the pride of overcoming tears of humiliation, or the final succumbing to the power of breathless desire?
"Your sister's dress fits me perfectly," she said, looking down to smooth the fabric that did not need smoothing, not that it mattered, for he knew she was only mentally groping for something else to say.
"Aye, lass, I am not a man to miss such as that."
He knew his inquisitive visual caress sent a responsive wave of pleasure rippling across her. He was glad it unnerved her. He wanted her senses acutely tuned to him. He wondered if she, like him, relived the moments when the two of them lay on the floor in front of the fire, and if the recalling of it swirled around her like an opium cloud, desensitizing her and making everything else in the world seem oddly distant.
He was so wrapped up in the nearness of her and his own desire, that he did not at first notice the fine beads of perspiration that suddenly appeared on her face, or the absence of color there.
He was about to ask how she was feeling when she gave him an empty look and said very softly, "I don't think I feel very well."
And she fainted dead away.
Six
I shall not say why and how I became, at the age of fifteen, the mistress of the Earl of Craven. —Harriette Wilson (1786-1846), British writer and courtesan. Opening of book. Memoirs of Harriette Wilson (1825)
He caught her before she hit the floor.
He gathered her close and carried her up the winding staircase, castigating himself as he went. He should have noticed the change in her before she collapsed. He could have given her a chair, or a glass of wine, but he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts.
He carried her into her room and placed her gently on the bed. He stood over her, watching her beautiful breasts rise and fall with each breath, and was about to splash a litde water on her face when she stirred and said, "Non... non.. .non... Je ne veux pas me marier.''
I do not want to marry? Was she betrothed? And if so, to whom?
He dipped a cloth in water and bathed her face and, as he did, he wondered what demons tortured her, or if she would recall what she said when she awoke.
She looked so small and terribly young lying in repose, and he felt a strong sense of protectiveness toward her.
He should take her to Monleigh Castle.
He knew that, but he could not bring himself to do it. He wanted to keep her here with him, to have her all to himself, if only for a little while. It was simply that he wanted to be alone with her, for as long as he dared to think he could get away with it. Opportunities for a man of his class to be alone with a woman were practically nonexistent and, when he returned to Monleigh with her, there would be few opportunities to be with her alone there, in the midst of all the family members and clansmen crowded about.
It was at this point that he found he was glad for her fainting spell, for it sanctioned his decision to keep her here a few more days.
He studied her delicate features, the flawless skin and the perfectly shaped features that lodged so symmetrically on her oval face. She had unbelievably long lashes, and he wished they would flutter and her eyes would open.
He placed his hand on her forehead to be certain she had no fever, and the moment his fingertips brushed her skin, she mumbled something and opened her eyes.
She blinked a few times, and he imagined she had
He took her in his arms and pulled her close. "Is that better?"
"No, it is worse. My heart is beating so fast, and I feel I must speak faster to match pace."
He pulled back enough to see her face and saw immediately the inner chaos, the conflict of emotions that fought for control. He felt an odd sort of curiosity to keep her with him long
enough to see which one would emerge the victor. Would it be the pride of overcoming tears of humiliation, or the final succumbing to the power of breathless desire?
"Your sister's dress fits me perfectly," she said, looking down to smooth the fabric that did not need smoothing, not that it mattered, for he knew she was only mentally groping for something else to say.
"Aye, lass, I am not a man to miss such as that."
He knew his inquisitive visual caress sent a responsive wave of pleasure rippling across her. He was glad it unnerved her. He wanted her senses acutely tuned to him. He wondered if she, like him, relived the moments when the two of them lay on the floor in front of the fire, and if the recalling of it swirled around her like an opium cloud, desensitizing her and making everything else in the world seem oddly distant.
He was so wrapped up in the nearness of her and his own desire, that he did not at first notice the fine beads of perspiration that suddenly appeared on her face, or the absence of color there.
He was about to ask how she was feeling when she gave him an empty look and said very softly, "I don't think I feel very well."
And she fainted dead away.
Six
I shall not say why and how I became, at the age of fifteen, the mistress of the Earl of Craven. —Harriette Wilson (1786-1846), British writer and courtesan. Opening of book. Memoirs of Harriette Wilson (1825)
He caught her before she hit the floor.
He gathered her close and carried her up the winding staircase, castigating himself as he went. He should have noticed the change in her before she collapsed. He could have given her a chair, or a glass of wine, but he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts.
He carried her into her room and placed her gently on the bed. He stood over her, watching her beautiful breasts rise and fall with each breath, and was about to splash a litde water on her face when she stirred and said, "Non... non.. .non... Je ne veux pas me marier.''
I do not want to marry? Was she betrothed? And if so, to whom?
He dipped a cloth in water and bathed her face and, as he did, he wondered what demons tortured her, or if she would recall what she said when she awoke.
She looked so small and terribly young lying in repose, and he felt a strong sense of protectiveness toward her.
He should take her to Monleigh Castle.
He knew that, but he could not bring himself to do it. He wanted to keep her here with him, to have her all to himself, if only for a little while. It was simply that he wanted to be alone with her, for as long as he dared to think he could get away with it. Opportunities for a man of his class to be alone with a woman were practically nonexistent and, when he returned to Monleigh with her, there would be few opportunities to be with her alone there, in the midst of all the family members and clansmen crowded about.
It was at this point that he found he was glad for her fainting spell, for it sanctioned his decision to keep her here a few more days.
He studied her delicate features, the flawless skin and the perfectly shaped features that lodged so symmetrically on her oval face. She had unbelievably long lashes, and he wished they would flutter and her eyes would open.
He placed his hand on her forehead to be certain she had no fever, and the moment his fingertips brushed her skin, she mumbled something and opened her eyes.
She blinked a few times, and he imagined she had
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