Devils Own (Clan MacAlpin 2)
Her cheeks went pink, and he sidled unnecessarily closer. He was becoming quite fond of those blushes.
Reaching high, she plucked a tin from the top shelf. Her body shifted in his hands, and the slide of fabric over firm flesh roused him.
He swallowed a curse. What kind of base rogue was he that he grew excited over a woman reaching for a tin of flour?
He guided her as she stepped down from the stool, her tin in hand. “Wait,” he said, coming back to himself. “Flour? I thought we were reading. ”
“It’s where I keep my book. ” Something wicked glimmered in her eyes, making him wonder again what sort of thoughts might be dancing through her mind.
There were, it seemed, many mysteries surrounding the quiet Elspeth. He glanced at the lump of cloth in her hand. “You store your books in flour?”
“No, just my sonnets. ” She patted the fabric, sending a cloud of flour in the air. “It’d do no good for my father to find them. ”
“You provocative little thing,” he said, raising a brow. “Poems that you keep secret from your father? That’s not a book of sailors’ verse, is it?”
“Shakespeare. ” She unfolded the cloth, revealing a tiny leather-bound book, trying—and failing—to subdue a proud grin.
They went to sit in their usual spots, and she opened the book at once, flipping through to a particular spot. “I thought … this sonnet … Sonnet 29 … put me in mind of you. ”
“Of me?” He gave her a wink. “Is it a love poem?”
“No!” She turned red as a beet, as he knew she would. Teasing color into her cheeks was becoming a most diverting pastime. “They aren’t love poems. Well, some are love poems, yes. Many. Many are love poems. ” She flipped through the pages, looking agitated. “They’re varied. ”
“Be easy, Beth. ” He put out his hand. “I’m curious to read it. ”
He began eagerly, but it was slow going, this sonnet, and by its midpoint, his voice had grown cold, his recitation suspicious. This was the poem that reminded her of him? It seemed a cursed ode to misfortune and envy.
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate …
He glanced up to challenge her choice, but when he did, he saw that she was listening to him with her eyes shut. She held her head canted at a slight angle, as though attuned to some whispering angel only she could hear.
The picture of her held his stare. Though her skin was luminous and pale as porcelain, that wasn’t what appealed to him. She was always so serene, and now she was doubly so, sitting and savoring her sonnet. After his long years of barbaric captivity, he longed to be near such gentleness, such quiet reserve. It was like entering a warm and tranquil pool after spending an eternity pummeled by hostile tides.
With Elspeth near, his rage abated, leaving him calm to his very soul. He’d always been restless—even as a young lad—but she was so peaceful, her presence was a balm, soothing him, melting his agitation and resentment, leaving peace in its wake.
What contentment a man might find, coming home every night to such a woman. What a loving wife she’d make someone, someday. Would she raise her children with such equanimity, such patience?
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry … do you need help? Shall I sound a word?”
He tensed. He’d almost forgotten—he was the illiterate outsider. Loving wives and contented homes weren’t in the stars for men like him.
He didn’t answer her, and so she pressed, “Aidan, why did you stop?”
He stopped because it was a damned cruel poem that hit too close to the mark. He stopped because Elspeth had the knack for seeing clear to his blackened heart, when all he’d wanted to do was keep it hidden away forever.
He skimmed ahead, taking in such lyrical nonsense as larks, and daybreak, and love. Sweet poetry wasn’t for one like him. Sweet girls either. He snapped the book shut. “This is foolishness. I’m not sentimental. ”
She sat for a time, contemplating him. Just as his discomfort was becoming unbearable, she told him quietly, “On the contrary. I have the feeling you’re quite sentimental. ”
Her kindness threw him. He shoved the book at her. “Beweep? Good Lord, woman, is this how you understand me?”
“Please don’t misunderstand. ” She opened the book, flipping back to the page. “May I?” she asked gently.