Operation

by Barbara Bretton

He saw the faintest shadow of movement behind the curtains in his room. A willowy figure paused for a moment, silhouetted by the bedroom lamp, then disappeared from view. But not from his memory. He remembered too well how she’d felt in his arms, the way her slender body had accommodated itself to him, how perfectly they’d fit together. And more than that, he remembered the way she’d made him feel.

  He turned from the window and polished off the last of the single malt, but nothing dulled the sharp stab of hunger deep in the pit of his belly.

  A man had the right to sleep in his own bed, but that fact somehow didn’t wash with the look he’d seen in his wife’s eyes. She feared him—or was it herself she feared? He didn’t know why that thought came to him. It must be the whiskey speaking. Whiskey made a man wonder about things that were no concern of his. The lives they’d led before no longer mattered. Wasn’t that what they’d said in those endless pages of legal documents that passed for commitment these days? The child was what mattered, making certain he or she was cradled in the secure arms of a mother and father who would always be there.

  But it wasn’t the child he thought about now. It was the woman.

  * * *

  DUNCAN HAD certainly spared no expense when it came to remodeling the master bath, Sam thought as she climbed from the enormous sunken tub and reached for a towel. She sighed with pleasure as she wrapped the warm bath sheet around her damp body. A heated towel rack—now there was a great invention for you. She wondered if Duncan had thought to add that particular touch or if some high-priced interior designer had come up with it.

  Not that it mattered, she told herself as she quickly blew dry her hair. He was a decidedly sensual man. All you had to do was take one look at his sculptures and there could be no doubt of that. He understood the shape and flow of the human body in a way that was carnal but somehow never crossed over into being lewd.

  She knew little of the man but had absorbed the artist through her eyes and skin. His touch was everywhere she looked in the room. The nubby texture of the curtains, the rough wood paneling, the blazing fireplace smelling of heather and pine. She pressed a second towel to her face and breathed deeply, imagining she caught the scent of his skin in the warm fabric and then realized what she was doing and dropped the towel to the floor.

  She dried off quickly, then folded both towels and placed them on the bench next to the tub. Her nightgown was still draped across the foot of the bed in the other room. She hated to leave the humid warmth of the bathroom, but the quicker she slipped on her nightgown, the quicker she could slip into bed and be sound asleep when—or if—Duncan came to join her.

  She swung open the door and found herself face-to-face with her husband.

  “Duncan!” Her voice was high with surprise. “I didn’t—” Her words died in her throat as she saw the look in his eyes. She wanted to step back into the safe womb of the bath or at least make an attempt to cover herself, but she couldn’t move beneath the heavy measure of his gaze.

  Everything Duncan was or had ever dreamed of being faded before the radiance of his new wife’s naked body. She glowed with some inner light, as if the power and glory of the moon had found its center within her soul.

  He wanted to tell her she was beautiful but he was afraid he would say that and more. She stood perfectly still, her arms at her sides, and she didn’t turn away. Her skin shimmered in the firelight, a smooth expanse of finest marble made warmly human by the kiss of the gods. Her breasts were larger than he’d remembered them, the areolae and nipples dark rose and tempting. Her hair fell softly across her shoulders, a shimmering mantle of gold. And her belly, that glorious round swell—

  Her voice came to him through a fog of desire. He wondered how long she’d been talking to him.

  “Duncan, would you please hand me my nightgown?”

  A swath of ivory silk lay curled at the foot of the bed. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger and handed it to her. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air around him.

  “Thank you,” she murmured then raised her long, lovely arms overhead and let the nightgown slither its way down her body.

  It seemed a crime to cover her nakedness, he thought. She was perfect in every way a woman could be perfect—and possibly in a few ways unique to her.

  The gown caressed her breasts and accentuated the womanly swell of her belly. It suggested more than it revealed and, overall, the effect it had on him was nearly as powerful as her unexpected nakedness. If she knew this, she gave no indication. She carried herself with an air of reserve that touched his heart even as it puzzled him.

  She stood at the foot of the bed and met his eyes. “Which side would you like?” she asked, her tone formal and polite.

  “I dinna care,” he said truthfully. “’Tis your choice, lassie.”

  Her cheeks reddened and she walked to the far side of the bed and carefully turned down the spread. “This will be fine,” she said, “if you have no objection.”

  “I have none.” He watched as she sat on the edge of the mattress then removed her watch and placed it on the end table. She swung her long slender legs onto the bed then quickly pulled the covers up to her shoulders. “You’re going to sleep early,” he observed.

  “Yes,” she said, still stiff and formal. “The doctor said I should get as much sleep as I possibly can.”

  He nodded and turned away. “Then I’ll leave you to your rest, Samantha.” It was only then that he realized in her bedtime ritual she hadn’t removed his ring.

  * * *

  SAM LAY AWAKE in the darkness for what seemed like hours.

  This is what you wanted, she told herself. A big wide bed with nobody in it but you.

  She could somersault from one side of the bed to the other and have room to spare. Certainly she was in no danger of bumping into Duncan. She could still hear the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway. There’d been something almost final about the sound, as if some last piece of a puzzle had finally snapped into place, revealing the whole for everyone on earth to see except Sam.

  She’d come so close to calling him back. What would it have taken, really? Two or three words at the most and he would be by her side right now. She could have been in his arms, cradled against his big broad chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat instead of her own.

  But that wasn’t part of the deal, she told herself. If she started looking for emotional attachments where there were none, she’d only be setting herself up for a terrible fall. Besides, she had something much more important to think about than her own foolish heart. She had the baby to consider and the safe and secure future that had made this marriage of convenience sound like such a wonderful idea in the first place.

  Better she learned to accept the way things were and not waste time or energy dreaming about some impossible romantic ideal that, up until this pregnancy, hadn’t been part of her vocabulary. Once the baby came and her hormones returned to something approximating normal, then she’d be her old self again. Practical, down-to-earth, and about as romantic as a pair of old shoes.

  She groaned and buried her face deep in her pillow.

  Until then, she’d just have to suffer.

  * * *

  IT WAS PAST TWO when Duncan came to bed after spending some long and unproductive hours alone in his studio. He moved quietly about the room, retrieving various items from his overnight bag, careful not to wake his sleeping bride. He took a long, hot shower, letting the water pound mercilessly on the knotted muscles of his back and shoulders, but to little effect. It would take more than water to release the tension coiled inside him.

  The castle was different with her in it. In the space of a few hours, she’d somehow managed to turn his familiar surroundings into a place he no longer recognized, and she had done it without changing a thing. He felt disoriented and strangely exhilarated, as if he’d returned from a long journey to find someone else there living his old life.

  He showered until the
hot water ran out then toweled off with greater care than usual. Even brushing his teeth seemed to require more attention. Finally he ran out of ways to delay the inevitable. The time had come to climb into bed next to his radiantly beautiful wife and pretend he didn’t want her with his entire heart and soul.

  He switched off the bathroom light, then opened the door. The faintest shimmer of moonlight filtered through a crack in the drapes, just enough so that he could make out the slender line of her leg where the cover had fallen away. Something stirred deep inside him, deeper even than the drumbeat of blood. He wanted more than to make love to her. He wanted to gather her close to him and keep her from harm.

  And those feelings of tenderness did more to scare him than lust ever could.

  * * *

  HE THOUGHT she was asleep.

  Sam lay perfectly still as he moved about the room. She’d been wide awake from the moment he first came upstairs. She’d lain there, rigidly still, while he’d stripped off his clothes, then while he took the world’s longest hot shower. The smells of steam and soap still perfumed the cool air of their bedroom.

  There was something endearing about his stealth. He was obviously trying his best to keep from disturbing her, and his concern touched her. She held her breath as he turned down the covers on his side of the bed. The mattress dipped when he climbed in then shifted again as he settled beneath the sheet and blanket. It didn’t take a great leap of imagination to figure out that he was probably stark naked over there. If ever a man wasn’t the pajama type, it was Duncan.

  Not that it mattered. Naked or clothed, it made no difference to her.

  And maybe if she told that to herself another hundred times, she might begin to believe it.

  He shifted position twice. Each time he did, she had to grip the blanket tightly to keep from sliding across the mattress toward him. She heard his low exhalation of breath as he punched his pillow into place, and her entire body was galvanized by the sound. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt the way she had the first time he kissed her.

  At this rate she wouldn’t survive their first week of married life.

  * * *

  SAM’S DREAMS that night were a wild Technicolor splash of erotic images that seemed to spring from some hidden corner of her heart, a place she’d never known existed until now. She felt Duncan’s hands skimming her body, caressing her hips, the inward curve of her waist, the flare of her rib cage. She felt his weight pressing her deeper into the soft mattress, the way he positioned his body between her thighs. She felt herself melting, opening, drawing him closer and closer until their bodies joined together in that ancient dance.

  She could hear the sounds he made when he climaxed. She could smell herself on his skin. She could feel the delicious stretch of accommodation as her body fit itself around him. It was all so real, so wondrously real that when she awoke that morning, she was shocked to find herself alone.

  The covers on Duncan’s side of the bed were more or less back in place and except for the badly rumpled pillow, she couldn’t have proven he’d been there at all. In a way she was glad he wasn’t there. After the dreams she’d had, she would have had trouble facing him without blushing a fiery shade of red.

  She reached for her watch on the nightstand. A few minutes after seven. She tried to figure out what time that would be in Houston but her brain refused to cooperate. Besides, Houston time wasn’t an issue any longer, was it? She was in Scotland now, and it was time she made the adjustment.

  She made her way downstairs a little while later. Her stomach felt a bit shaky, but so far it seemed to be nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d been incredibly lucky so far when it came to morning sickness. If this unsettled feeling was the worst of it, she wouldn’t question her good fortune.

  She poked her head into the dining room. The table was highly polished but unset. She glanced at the sideboard. Nothing going on there, either. Lucky’s housekeeper made sure breakfast was ready and waiting by seven every morning, come hell or tornadoes. Of course, this wasn’t Texas. For all she knew, maybe she was supposed to make her own breakfast. She didn’t know the first thing about castle etiquette, and Mag was the last one she’d ask.

  She stepped into the dark hallway. She caught the faintest scent of bacon and followed her nose down the corridor to where it opened into a huge stone kitchen blessed with every shiny modern appliance you could imagine. A pot simmered on the back of the enormous stove. She lifted the lid and a blast of highly spiced steam rushed up at her. She dropped the lid and, hand over her mouth, made it out the back door just in the nick of time.

  “Och,” said a flinty voice behind her, “just as I thought. A baby is on its way.”

  Sam pushed her hair off her face and rose to her feet “Yes,” she said, not feeling terribly friendly. “Congratulations. You were right. You must be overjoyed.”

  The little crone reached out and placed a hand against Sam’s flat belly. “Three months?”

  “Almost,” Sam said. She wanted to brush the woman’s hand away but suppressed the urge.

  “The sickness is a good thing.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me.” She had hoped the worst of morning sickness would pass her by but apparently her luck had run out.

  “Sickness means a healthy baby,” Old Mag said, fixing Sam with one of those fierce-eyed stares.

  “Isn’t that an old wives’ tale?”

  “And what would you know about old wives,” Mag countered, “being a new wife yourself?”

  There was something comical about so much ferocity in such a tiny package, and to her dismay, Sam barely stifled a laugh.

  “The other one wouldn’t laugh if she swallowed a goose feather.”

  “The other one?”

  “Aye, the first missus.”

  Sam had totally forgotten that this wasn’t her husband’s first marriage. Talk about denial.

  “He told you about her, didn’t he?” Old Mag asked.

  “He told me he’d been married before.” Which was true enough. A mistake, he’d said, and one they’d quickly rectified. She hadn’t thought to pursue it. It didn’t seem like any of her business.

  “A coldhearted one, she was,” Mag said. “Nearly broke his heart with her ways.”

  “I don’t think you should be talking about this with me,” Sam said. His past wasn’t any business of hers. The old woman made it sound as if he’d been deeply in love with his first wife, and Sam found she didn’t want to hear any of it.

  “One look in those eyes and you knew she would not make him happy.”

  “You could tell just by looking at her?” Let it drop, Sam. Don’t encourage her. This is none of your business.

  “’Twas almost easy as knowing about your baby.”

  Sam couldn’t deny that the woman had been right on that score.

  Mag leaned a little closer. “When she found out that she—”

  “Stop, old woman!” Robby burst into the room. His cheeks reddened as he nodded hello to Sam. “I’ll have no sweetie wife of mine spreading stories.”

  Sam’s eyes went wide with curiosity as the elderly man turned toward her and smiled.

  “Morning, missus.”

  “Good morning, Robby.” She glanced from Robby to Mag. “You two are married?”

  Old Mag gave him a look of fond disgust. “As if anyone else would have him.”

  “You talk too much,” Robby said to his wife in a tone of husbandly displeasure. “You don’t have work to do?”

  Mag said something quickly, in a burr so thick that Sam could understand none of it. Robby had no trouble, however, and he fired back a salvo of his own that set his wife to wagging her finger beneath his bony nose.

  Sam listened, fascinated, as they exchanged words, wondering how on earth two such different personalities had managed to stay married. Robby, apparently content that he had prevented a disaster in the making, gave Sam a big smile then went off to do something in the garage. Sam followed Old Mag int
o the kitchen.

  She stood near the door, waiting for some clue as to who was supposed to do what, but Old Mag buzzed about the room, paying her no mind at all. Finally Sam went over to the enormous stove and poured herself a cup of tea.

  “Honey if you want it,” the woman said, pushing a honey pot toward Sam.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, “but I don’t use honey.”

  “Sugar, as well.”

  “I don’t use that, either.”

  “You be needing to eat for the baby, lassie. You’re too bony.”

  “I don’t think upping my sugar intake is the way to do it.”

  Mag looked at her curiously. “Your tongue is sharp.”

  “So is yours,” Sam returned.

  “Aye,” said Mag, nodding her head. “But few would tell me so.”

  “Not too many tell me so, either.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, lassie.”

  The two women looked at each other for what seemed an eternity before Sam spoke. “You know that bread you served with supper last night?”

  “Aye,” said Old Mag, “I would hope I did. I baked it myself.”

  “Do we have any more?” Sam asked. “I’d love to make some toast”

  “Toast?” Mag made a face. “You need more than toast to fill your stomach.” She gestured toward the enormous table in the middle of the room. “Sit down and let me fix you a proper breakfast.”

  The thought of a proper breakfast was enough to make Sam’s stomach turn inside out for the second time that morning, but there was no way she could refuse Old Mag’s offer. Not if they were going to live together under the same roof.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not kind at all.” Mag sniffed. “You don’t know your way about my kitchen. ‘Tis faster this way.”

  Which put Sam firmly in her place. Actually she found she didn’t mind a bit. She’d rather know exactly how Mag felt about her than waste a lot of time worrying and guessing—then managing to do the wrong thing anyway.