The taste of him, hot, spicy, masculine, was like a spark to dry tinder. She leaned into him, wanting more, and twined her arms around his neck as he teased her lips apart and took possession of her mouth. He gathered her hard against him, deepening the kiss. Heat rose from his body. Heat and a clean, masculine scent that she inhaled hungrily.
She heard a little humming noise, and realized it was coming from her, and then she forgot everything, except the taste and feel and scent of him.
She stroked her palms blindly over his skin, over his chest, and his arms, enthralled by the feel of his firm, masculine flesh. Ripples of sensation poured through her, her knees weakened and she clung to him.
And then, abruptly he released her—put her away from him and stepped back, breathing heavily. She reached for the bed post and held onto it; her legs were all jelly. She, too was panting. "Wh-what's wrong?"
He gave a raspy laugh. "Nothing's wrong, It's just . . . I gave you my word."
She blinked stupidly at him, her senses still in turmoil.
"You asked for two weeks' grace, remember? For courtship."
"Oh." Her gaze dropped to the front of his drawers, where some interesting action seemed to be happening.
"Yes, 'oh'." He turned away from her and stared out of the window. "So hop into bed now, and go to sleep. I'll join you in a wee while."
"But—"
"I shouldna have started something I canna finish." She hesitated, and he added in a hard voice, "Bed, Jeannie. I'll no' ask you again."
She bit her lip, and climbed into the bed. If he'd asked her a moment ago, while she was blissful in his arms, she would have said yes to him, wouldn't have thought twice about it. But he'd given his word, and he was a man who prided himself on never breaking it.
She was hot and rumpled and her body was sticky, and humming with a deep restless hunger. She wanted him something fierce, but she climbed into bed without a word and lay there, feigning sleep.
A good while later she felt him climb in beside her, but he didn't touch her, not this time. There would be no big warm body curled around her tonight.
What madness had caused her to ask for a fortnight? Her body ached for him now.
THE NEXT MORNING, ALONE again in the big bed, Jeannie lay thinking about decorative hangings for the hall, and the village women she'd now met, particularly Bridget, who'd made Jeannie's beautiful shawl. Recently widowed and with a brood of bairns to feed, Bridget wasn't the only widow with bairns. They needed to earn money.
But Uncle Charles was dragging his feet. He was simply indulging her, she decided. He had no faith in the ability of the local women to achieve his vision or meet his superior standards.
Time to bite the bullet. After breakfast she sent Mairie out with a message to invite the best weavers in the village to take tea with herself and the old gentleman that very afternoon, and to bring their finest weavings with them. They came, but instead of the enthusiasm Jeannie expected, she found herself facing quiet resistance.
The women, dressed in their Sunday best, were polite but reserved, speaking only when spoken to, barely nibbling on the biscuits and cakes Cook had prepared. None of them made a move to bring out their weavings, even when she invited them to lay them out on the side-table.
The old gentleman didn't make it any easier for her either, acting very much The Nobleman deigning to meet with Peasants, an attitude Jeannie hoped the women would forgive. Or at least overlook.
But it was hard going.
After the tea had been served, and laborious conversation made, Jeannie marshaled her courage and addressed them all. "Thank you for coming. As some of you have seen, I'm doing what I suppose most new brides do, making over my husband's home." A few women nodded, grateful for the extra work her activities had provided.
She continued, "But stone walls make for a cold home, and I'd like to remedy that. This beautiful shawl that Mrs. Fraser made is so lovely." She smoothed the blue shawl around her shoulders. "I understand you are all excellent weavers, and I'm sure you've all heard of what a fine artist the laird's uncle, Mr. Sinclair, is. So I thought, if we put the two together . . ." She explained her vision of the project, a series of wall hangings designed by Uncle Charles and woven by the women.
While she spoke, Uncle Charles sat back, buffing his nails in a bored manner and sighing from time to time in a world-weary manner, making it clear that this project was not his idea. And that she was casting pearls before swine.
Jeannie felt like strangling him, but forced herself to continue brightly on. When she'd finished, there was a long silence.
Finally one of the women cleared her throat. "'Tis a grand idea, my lady, but the thing is, most of us already sell our weavings in Edinburgh. And all our own designs." From the way she was pointedly not looking at Uncle Charles, it was clear she was less than impressed with his airs and graces.
Uncle Charles sat up. "In Edinburgh?"
"Aye," Bridget Fraser joined in. "To a fine, exclusive shop down there. And they pay us in cash." She glanced at Uncle Charles.
Jeannie said quickly, "Och, did I not mention that we'll be paying in cash, too—and at a better rate than the man in Edinburgh." Cameron had told her about that, and mentioned he planned to see if he could improve the women's terms of trade.
"What shop in Edinburgh?" Uncle Charles demanded.
