His Ree.
“Cormac?” Marjorie's voice was muted, but he'd become so attuned to her, she could probably whisper from far away, and he'd still hear.
He braced himself for the sight of her. Attuned indeed. He was painfully aware of her, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. “Aye?” he asked, raising his head slowly.
It was late, and the fire had burned low. Marjorie stood in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. Her hair was long and loose, and she'd dressed for bed. Though she had a tartan shawl wrapped tightly around her, a white night rail billowed about her legs. The fabric was fine, and it clung to the slope of her thighs.
He could pull her to stand before the fire. He could push the shawl from her shoulders. She'd stare up at him with those mysterious eyes. The gown would be sheer.
Cormac clenched his hand hard around his glass of brandy. Damned brandy. Whiskey was what a
man really needed.
What he wouldn't do for a bottle of whiskey and a good clout over the head.
“I wanted to make certain… “ She hesitated, and then stepped into the room. Her bare feet were pale and delicate.
“Of?” The word came out sounding gruff. He slugged back the rest of his drink, welcoming the burn in his throat.
“Do you have all you need, then? Are you hungry?” she added in what struck him as a hopeful voice.
Damn her hope. Damn him and her both. He cut his eyes back to the fire, away from the sight of her. “Not hungry, no. ”
“Can you not sleep?” Her voice was gentle. She stepped closer, and he smelled the fresh, floral scent of her bath.
Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head back against the chair once more. He'd never be able to sleep now.
“Please, Marjorie. Go back to your room and do not fash yourself on my account. ” She didn't leave, though. He could feel her. Her presence charged the air, like a coming storm.
“Not once have I sat in this room and not thought of him,” she said.
The rustle of her nightclothes told him she was sitting in the chair opposite him. The firelight would
illuminate her. Would he be able to see the color of her skin beneath the white gown?
Cormac couldn't help but open his eyes. She was watching him. Good Christ, but she was beautiful. Orange light warmed her skin. He dreamed of touching it, just a quick stroke with the backs of his fingers. She'd be soft, like the petal of a flower.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Cormac? Sit here like this?”
“Nursing my demons. ” He raised his emptied glass in a mock toast. He wanted to get up and refill his brandy, but his body betrayed him. He'd stiffened the moment she walked in the room.
“Go rest now. ” She gently took the glass from his hand. “You said yourself, it's up at dawn to explore the docks. ”
He studied her, staring at him so unabashedly. Marjorie knew him well. Speaking of the task at hand was probably the only thing that could tear him from his reverie. “Aye, I'll be off to the quays at dawn. ” Her eyes narrowed. “We'll be off at dawn. ”
He'd be damned if he let her risk her pretty hide down at the Aberdeen docks. But he was tired. Tired to his bones in a way that had naught to do with any physical exertion. He refused to let her go with him in the morning, but he'd not fight that particular battle with her just then.
“Ree. ” He let himself say her nickname, low and intimate, and it felt illicit on his tongue. Apparently there were a few things he was incapable of fighting that night.
“Cormac. ” She watched him expectantly, her chin jutted high, and it reminded him of the girl he'd adored. But there was nothing girlish about the way her shawl slipped further from her shoulders.
He couldn't stop his eyes from grazing down. With the firelight behind her, Marjorie's legs were outlined clearly through her gown, nude flesh beneath gossamer white. His groin tightened further. Clenching his teeth, he looked back at the fire. “Good night, then. ”
“Good night, Cormac,” she whispered softly and drifted from the room.
He stared at the flames, listening to Marjorie's light tread on the stairs. He stared long after she'd have gone to bed. Staring at the fire reminded him of who he was. Of his mistakes, of his sins. Of what he was incapable of having.
Most importandy, staring at the fire kept him farther away from the temptation waiting upstairs. A beautiful woman, who'd be a balm to his soul and a spur to his loins.