Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(59)

“Mary,” she answered to Cleo’s question. “Can I get you anything, my lady?” She clearly wondered why Cleo was lingering out in the chill and wanted her to be gone if the anxious glitter in her blue eyes indicated anything.

“No. Thank you. Just exploring. Don’t let me keep you from your task.”

With a considering look, Mary nodded and returned to her work, lowering back to the ground. Her movements were stilted though, measured, and Cleo knew she wouldn’t relax as long as Cleo stood there . . . pretending not to watch her. Pretending not to care.

Whatever solace she had hoped to find in the garden vanished. Turning, she slipped back inside the music room. Discarding the afghan, she resumed her exploration, eventually stumbling upon a library.

Unlike the music room, this room appeared long neglected. Logan’s family’s fondness for music evidently didn’t translate to reading. As she walked the length of one vast wall of shelves, she swiped a finger along a dusty spine. She browsed the books, noting that the selections were quite dated. She would have to see about acquiring some current titles. No doubt the family tutor would appreciate some of the more current titles to introduce to Logan’s siblings.

She found a volume of Jane Eyre and settled herself before the fire that someone had started in the room. The rain was falling steadily now, an occasional burst of thunder breaking the patter. For all that, it was a lulling cadence and she snuggled beneath the pashmina blanket draped on the back of the sofa. Soon the words grew blurry and unfocused and she surrendered to the heaviness of her eyelids.





Chapter Twenty-five

A sharp rattling woke her. Blinking, she propped herself up on one elbow. The book on her chest slid to the floor with a thud.

A maid tending the fire whirled around at the sound. “Oh, apologies, my lady. I didn’t mean to wake you. Just wanted to rouse the fire a bit so you didn’t grow cold.”

“That’s fine,” she murmured with a croaky voice. Sliding her legs to the floor, she brushed a hand over her mussed hair, wondering how long she’d been asleep. For all she knew, it could be the next day.

She parted her lips, on the verge of inquiring the hour when another figure entered the room.

Instantly, her body sprang alive with awareness. He was wet, she could see, his dark hair molded like a slick helmet to his head. His clothes hung heavy with moisture on his large, muscled frame.

Logan froze as his gaze landed on her. There was worry in his expression that faded away at the sight of her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. No one’s seen you since breakfast.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable tension rose up between them. She flicked a glance at the maid. Caught staring, the girl’s freckled face blushed and she quickly looked away, returning her attention to the fireplace.

Cleo faced her husband again. Husband. The word jarred her—nearly as much as his gleaming gaze. Those gray eyes searched her, looking, it seemed, for something.

She fidgeted with the folds of her skirt. “I fell asleep.” She motioned to the sofa where the rumpled blanket sat piled in a heap. “I didn’t mean to cause alarm.”

“The castle is big. I worried you’d lost your way.” He motioned to the door. “I’ll escort you.”

With a glance for the maid who was inordinately focused on stirring the fire, Cleo moved past him and through the door. Hands laced before her, she walked, sliding him a glance as he fell into step beside her.

“You’re wet,” she announced and winced at the obviousness of her comment.

“The rain cut our work short for the day. I’ll have to visit the other crofters another time.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she suggested, feeling unaccountably nervous. Tension swirled on the air between them, even more pronounced now that they were alone, away from the maid’s curious gaze.

“Perhaps. I need to oversee some of the renovations on the west wing.”

She nodded and slid him another glance. He stopped, looking down at her with that devouring way of his.

An answering tremor racked her.

He spoke her name, quickly, so softly that she barely registered the utterance. His face, the carved lines achingly handsome, the eyes deep with a hunger that she felt echoed deep into the core of her . . .

It undid her.

They moved as one, reaching for each other, coming together in a desperate tangle of arms and lips. His weight pushed her back against the wall, rattling a framed painting near her head. She didn’t care, didn’t even look up.

Cleo wrapped her arms around his neck and clung as if some great force might pull her away, separate them. Their mouths consumed each other, kissing, sucking . . .

He groaned her name. “I have to have you, Cleo . . . please . . .”

And this sent none of the usual panic racing through her. It thrilled her, excited her . . . intensifying the ache at her core. Because she felt the same way. She pressed herself against him and moaned when she realized she could get no closer.

His hand came over her breast and she whimpered in frustration, loathing the barrier of her gown. She wanted them back in their room, in that colossal bed that had so terrified her at first. It terrified her no more. Strangely, she was devoid of fear or hesitation or the usual doubts. She wanted him between her thighs. She needed that final closeness—him filling her and taking away the aching emptiness inside.