Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York

Author:Sabrina York
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781466878563
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

CHAPTER TWELVE

When he closed the door, his excitement, his ardor, rose. He was possessed of the urge to yank her into his arms and cover her mouth with his. Possessed of the urge to take her here, now, against the wall like a beast.

But he would not.

He would allow her to make the first move. He needed to know—to know—this was what she chose. And if it was, above all, he needed to be gentle.

He didn’t know if he had it in him. But he would try.

As he stood by the door, holding himself at bay, she surveyed his chamber, though it was very like hers. A bed. A chair. A fireplace. His pulse pinged in his temple. And yes, in his cock, which was stiff as a pike. Just the thought that she was here, in his rooms, was enough to arouse him.

When she turned and gifted him with a shy smile, he nearly melted into a puddle on the floor. “Thank you verra much for saving me, Lachlan,” she said in a prim voice.

“My, ahem, my pleasure.”

“He must have thought it was his room. He just barged in. The locks on these doors are no’ verra sturdy.”

“Nae. They are no’.”

Hell. Now that the time was here, he suddenly didn’t know how to proceed. Neither, it seemed, did she. Then again, she’d had quite a fright. It seemed only right to soothe her before he pounced. He wished he’d saved the toddy so he would have had something to offer her to calm her nerves, but he hadn’t. Instead, he waved to the chair by the fire. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”

“Sit?”

“To collect yourself.” He couldn’t have her fainting on his carpet. That would do no one any good.

She nodded and crossed to the chair, settling in it daintily. He tried not to notice how sheer her nightgown was as she passed before the fire. But damn, it was. “I was verra frightened.”

“I’m sure you were.” He came to stand beside her. She tipped up her chin and stared at him.

“You were verra impressive.” He liked the light in her eyes. The quirk of her lips. Then her gaze flicked down to his bare calves and her smile broadened. “I do like a man in a kilt. But I canna help wondering…”

He swallowed heavily. “Wondering what?”

“Were you sleeping in it?”

Holy hell. She was a tempting minx. “I, ahem, had not gotten around to changing.”

“Ah.” Her lashes flickered. “And what is it dukes wear to bed?”

A knot formed at the core of his being. And tightened. How could he tell her most nights he wore a linen nightshirt? Occasionally trimmed with lace? Nae, he couldn’t. Besides. He wouldn’t be wearing it again. Ever.

Instead, he prevaricated. “What do Scotsmen wear to bed?”

“I doona know.” A flush rose on her cheeks and chagrin washed through him. Of course she wouldn’t know. She was a maiden. “Though I imagine they sleep … in nothing.”

Holy God. Heat gushed through him. Nothing. He would love to sleep in nothing with her soft skin pressed against his.

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