MacLaren's Bride (The Heiresses Book 2) by Debra Dier

Author:Debra Dier [Dier, Debra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dierington Press
Published: 2016-02-21T18:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Meg stood by a window in her bedchamber, staring out at Loch Laren. Morning sunlight glinted on the rolling waves. Across the water, mist still shrouded the highest peak of Ben Lyon like a filmy silk scarf. When she was a girl she had dreamed of living in this beautiful place, as Alec’s wife. Strange, how fate had slapped her right across the face.

It had taken hours to fall asleep last night, her wedding night. When at last she had managed to drift into slumber, Alec had invaded her dreams, stripping away her clothes, taking her into his arms, exercising his connubial rights in ways that shocked her waking mind. What was worse than recognizing the dark side of her dreams was the horrible facts she had to face: she had participated in those carnal acts with wicked abandon. How in the world could she hope to keep him at arm’s length for a month? Should she even try?

“Good morning.”

Meg pivoted at the sound of Alec’s voice. Heart hammering against the wall of her chest, she faced the man standing in the doorway that connected her chamber to his. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to escort you to breakfast.” Alec moved toward her, keeping his right hand behind his back. His black riding coat hugged the wide breadth of his shoulders. Breeches hugged the muscular curves of his long legs before plunging into a pair of shiny black boots. Power and grace. With his impeccable white shirt and cravat, he managed to blend elegance with his own heady brand of dangerous masculinity.

Meg touched the base of her neck, where the lace of the old fashioned rose colored-gown she wore allowed him no glimpse of her bosom. Fortunately, she had dressed before he had intruded. Still, he had stripped her bare yesterday.

He lowered his gaze to where she held her fingers pressed to the base of her neck, his lips tipping into a wicked grin that told her he had a rather fine memory when it came to her body. Unfortunately her own memory teased her with the lingering remembrance of his hands and lips upon her flesh.

“I don’t recall inviting you to enter my chamber.”

“I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.” He stepped into the column of sunlight spilling through the windows, so close she could smell the tang of soap on his skin. He drew his hand out from behind his back. “I picked these for you this morning.”

Her breath caught at the sight of the simple bouquet of purple heather. She took the flowers from his hand. The ivory satin ribbon he had used to tie the stems brushed the inside of her wrist, the flowers still moist with dew. Although the flowers didn’t carry a strong fragrance, the heather held a slight, herbal scent that brought back memories.

“I remember you always liked the scent of heather.”

She remembered far too much—dreams and hopes and memories of a gallant young man. She breathed in the delicate fragrance, recalling the first time he had brought her a bouquet of heather.

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