My Heart's in the Highlands by Angeline Fortin (best english novels for beginners .TXT) 📗

the waters of the firth, and the glory ofIan’s strong arms around her. He would press her back against thelower embattlements and kiss her gently, making love to her mouthwith his lips and tongue. His powerful hands would massage hershoulders and back but that was all.

Hero knew that he held himself firmly incheck, reining in his passion, but still he never went anyfarther.

Each night, he would finally break away fromher, as if he couldn’t bear her touch at all. His normally warm,chocolaty eyes would burn through her like hot black coals full offeverish want, and he would escort her to her rooms, leaving herwith a tender kiss on her cheek. He was forever a gentleman, nomatter how Hero tried to encourage him. What her father had saidhad touched her deeply, and Hero wanted to embrace the life she hadremaining and she wanted to do that with Ian for however long fatewould allow her.

An affaire du coeur. It was somethingshe had never dreamed of engaging in. Indeed, after almost tenyears of facing a marriage bed she would have happily avoided wereit not for her desire to have a child, the very idea of pursuing asexual relationship was foreign to Hero. Somehow, though, she knewthat sharing a bed with Ian would not be abhorrent but ratherextraordinary. The very thought thrilled her beyond measure. Shewanted to touch him and have him touch her in return. She wanted anelusive something she knew he could give her.

If only she had the experience she wasobviously lacking to relate her willingness to share those thingswith him.

If only she had the courage to simply say italoud.

Because she wanted him as badly as she knewhe wanted her. And without a doubt, he did want her. She could feelit in the way his heart beat in unison with hers, hear it in hislabored breathing, feel it when his hands trembled. She just didn’tknow what he was waiting for.

Ian was certain he was going slowly butsurely insane. A slow seduction, he had decided. Were he to take itany slower, the frustration of his unmitigated hunger would be hisend. Never had he wanted so badly. Just looking at Hero these pastdays was nearly enough to send him over the edge. Having herpurring with delight in his arms yet knowing he would not, couldnot act on that desire had become a painful nightly torment.

With one hand absently swirling his brandyaround the bowl of his snifter while the other propped his chin up,Ian sat in his armchair and stared up at her portrait above thefireplace … as he had many nights before. Lonelier nights beforeHero had come to Cuilean.

Even before he had met her, she hadfascinated him in a way that was beyond explanation or reason. Itwasn’t just a portrait any longer, though it was still a work ofexquisite art. Now, he looked at the portrait and saw Hero, hercleverness, her wit.

His future. His past.

Pushing out of the chair, Ian set his glassdown on a nearby table and walked for the first time through theshadows, through his dressing room, and into the marchioness’sdressing room on the other side. Immediately, he was assailed bythe scent of Hero’s perfume that against all likelihood stilllingered in the air. He closed his eyes and inhaled before openingthem once more.

Unlike the dark, masculine décor of thelord’s bedchamber and wardrobe, this room was decidedly feminine.The walls were a soft green with crisp white moldings and elaboratedentils. Adam had built in the wardrobes along two sides of theroom, the white doors delicately carved with motifs of the hearthand home. A large window dressed with floral curtains dominated thethird, overlooking the pleasure gardens to the south of the castle.A fireplace with a complimentary white mantel and a pink marblehearth filled the remaining wall, and beside it in the corner stooda large, oval, white ceramic bathtub, its copper pipes rising fromthe floor beyond it.

Ian imagined Hero there easily. He could seeher humming to herself as she bathed, running a sponge over herlegs as she raised them from the soapy water. Slowly,seductively.

Pulse quickening, Ian continued through thedressing room to the marchioness’s chamber. These were her rooms.He could see Hero’s influence in every detail and suddenly wonderedif she missed the rooms she had inhabited for almost a decade.

The room was feminine and luxurious butpractical as well. The décor of the dressing room was a directcompliment to that of the bedchamber. The walls were the samegreen, the curtains, moldings, and fireplace similar but far moreelaborate. A plush Persian rug of green, gold, and rust covered thewood floors. Numerous gold-framed paintings filled the walls, adisplay of Hero’s love of art. An embroidery hoop stood next to acomfortable chair near the fireplace. All around the room werethings that told the tale of Hero Conagham, but Ian noticed allthose things only peripherally, for all his attention was ensnaredby the bed that dominated the room.

It was a large four-posted rosewood bed withsimple yet elegant carvings on the posts and headboard. A canopyarched above it dressed in a tailored green that matched with thewalls, while the curtains and bed coverings matched as well, withpillows adding splashes of pattern and muted color. But for thefringe along the edge of the blanket folded at the foot of the bed,there were no frills and no lace to be seen. The room was simplyelegant, as was Hero herself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ian couldn’thelp picturing Hero there. In that bed. Her bed. He wondered whatside she slept on or whether she slept in the middle. He imaginedsharing that bed with her, holding her in his arms after theirpassion was spent, and felt his arousal stir at the thought.

Images of her surrender haunted his nights.Her luscious skin brushing against his, her breasts in his hands,his mouth on her body, while his body demanded that he take, thathe devour. She would be beautiful in her passion, he wagered. Butwas it meant to be his? Given the naiveté he had already noted, itleft Ian wondering if he had read the signs of