Her face turned toward his fingers, as though searching for the warmth they would find there. “I don’t know what to say.” Uncertain eyes met his, looking for direction. For assurance.
“Ye’ll find it here.” Liam could tell his words had stunned her.
“Why?” she breathed. “You cannot trust me.”
Did she mean that he should not trust her? Or that he was incapable? Something about the secrets held in her eyes brought to mind paintings of Renaissance angels hinting at the great, divine mystery.
Why, indeed?
Because he wanted her close. Because the sound of her soft and husky voice did things to him physically that the most exotic whores had failed to provoke. Because she’d only just done what no other seemed brave enough to do. She’d stood against his ire. Put him in his place.
She’d provoked the fire of his temper, of course. But then—somehow—she’d put it out.
“Because, in my blood, before I am the Marquess of Ravencroft, a British title given to my ancestors, I am the Laird of the Mackenzie clan of Wester Ross. Like I said, we lairds have provided sanctuary to anyone who seeks it, even our enemies, and especially against the British. Highland hospitality is our sacred duty.” Though he felt as though his smile would crack from disuse, he attempted one, and judging by the complete change in her features, he was pretty certain he’d succeeded.
Her eyes became impossibly wider and one breath of disbelief followed another. “But I am British.”
“Am I correct in assuming that so is whomever ye’re hiding from?”
After a protracted, level look, she nodded. Her first concession, which ignited a spark of hope.
He noted that her hand had relaxed from where she’d gripped his handkerchief, and he began to gently dab her palm. Once the dried blood was gone, it was impossible to tell where the thorns had punctured her.
“I thought you were going to—” She swallowed when he looked at her, and seemed to forget what she was going to say, so he concentrated on her palm. “I thought you were going to dismiss me.”
Not a fucking chance in hell would he allow her to leave.
In lieu of that, he said, “Sanctuary aside, I think ye’re good for Rhianna and Andrew.”
“You do?” He found the surprise in her voice both bemusing and endearing.
“I just spent an entire day with my children, and after only a week, their behavior was better than it’s ever been.”
Her pleasure at his compliment was palpable, and Liam let it spread over him like a cooling balm.
“I’m so delighted to hear it. I was worried that progress has been rather … gradual.”
“We Highlanders are a stubborn, hardheaded lot. Gradual is the best ye can expect from us by way of progress.”
“You don’t say.”
Liam glanced up at the dry note of levity in her voice.
There it was. That smile. The one that made her eyes glimmer with the brilliance of the jade sculptures he’d admired in China. It was all he wanted out of this day … and he’d been the cause.
Liam had thought himself too old, too cynical to ever again experience a marvel at his own sense of achievement.
Would wonders never cease?
Apparently not, when it came to his governess.
It was then he noticed her shiver. In fact, her lips had lost some of their rosy color, and some fine veins had become visible beneath her pale, nearly iridescent skin.
She was cold, he realized.
“Come, lass, let’s get ye inside.”
“Yes, that sounds wonderful.” Bending down, she used the hand not clutching his handkerchief to gather the scattered pile of flowers and herbs she’d dropped.
Berating himself, Liam crouched to help.
She flicked a grateful look at him, and Liam noticed that her eyes caught at his shoulders and held, then traveled down the places where his arm strained against his shirtsleeves.
“Blast.” She grimaced, and dropped the rose she’d clutched at, as well as his handkerchief.
A thorn remained in the soft pad of her finger, and she reached for it with a wince.
“Och, lass.” Liam beat her to it. “These roses are a jealous flower.” Cupping her hand with his, he pressed a thumb into her palm to secure it before plucking the thorn out quickly, to cause her the least amount of distress.
A tiny drop of blood welled from her fingertip.
Liam had no other handkerchief to offer her, and didn’t want to use the one on the ground, so he did the only other thing he could think of, and slid her finger into his mouth. Closing his lips around the insignificant wound, he watched her reaction with rare pleasure.
She froze, her eyes growing round as two glowing moons.
His body’s reaction was just as astonishing, and just as instantaneous.
Her finger was cold inside the heat of his mouth, and he fitted his tongue against it, warming her with a soft sucking motion. He enjoyed her quick intake of breath with a predatory thrill.
She tasted of the sea. A bit of brine mixed with lavender. Liam could see the pulse jump against the thin, delicate skin of her wrist. Could feel the quiver of sensation that washed up her arm when he gave another gentle pull with his mouth.
No more blood welled from the wound; he would have been able to taste it. But he couldn’t seem to let her go. Instead, on a dark whim, he ran his tongue up the underside of her finger and reveled in the startled catch of her breath and the dilation of her eyes.
It was then he realized just what a colossal mistake he’d made.