The Ghost by Greyson, Maeve (best motivational books to read .txt) 📕

his heart, he felt he had. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Brenna felt the same.

Chapter Thirteen

Damn her shaking hands.

Brenna plucked at the satin ribbons holding the lace-covered stomacher in place. Thank heavens, the MacCoinnich women had neither had the time or materials to add additional whalebone to either it or the gown’s bodice. The pasteboard sewn inside the triangular-shaped cloth had some give to it, making it somewhat easier to escape her elaborate cocoon.

“Thank God Almighty,” she said as the snug bodice relaxed and the gown sagged away. Bearing in mind Mercy’s warnings about fragile parts and not wishing to dishonor their loving act of kindness and hard work, she eased off the sleeves and stepped free of the silky mound. With the greatest care, she draped the lovely creation across a large leather trunk in the corner. Still encased in the lace-layered underskirt, extra petticoat, stays, and chemise, she hurried to the window beside the bed and pushed both panes open wide. Fluttering her damp neckline, she bent forward, hoping to direct the breeze to where she needed it most. She closed her eyes as the cool night air kissed her overheated body. “Saints alive, that feels so much better.”

Her conscience tweaked her. Shame on her. Making her husband wait for that which was rightfully his. All his words came back to her. How all that mattered was her happiness. And a marriage bed should never hold fear or humiliation. As far as she was concerned, the man had earned sainthood when he had sworn he would wait as long as she needed. He had meant it, too. She had seen the truth of it in his eyes.

Mind made up and determination stoked, she pushed away from the window and set to untying the waistbands of her underskirts and petticoat. She refused to allow those Sassenach bastards of her past to ruin this chance at happiness. They had taken all from her she would allow. “No more!” she swore from between bared teeth.

“It will be different with Magnus,” she assured herself as she took off her stays and tossed them on top of the rest of the layers she had piled on another trunk. She peeled off the damp chemise and ever so carefully removed the finest stockings she had ever worn. A stronger breeze gusted into the room, washing across her nakedness as though blessing her intentions.

With the washbowl filled, she soaked a cloth, wrung it out, then patted it across her heated flesh. A wry thought came to her. Her attempt at cooling down would all be for naught if her hopes and plans worked as she had played them out in her head. As she emerged from the private area, partitioned to conceal the chamber pot and washbowl stands, she clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms. The room had far too many candles lit for her liking. While she enjoyed peeking at Magnus’s breathtaking bareness, she feared her determination and courage weren’t quite ready for him to see her in the same state. At least not in the blinding brightness of several blazing candelabras. She paused, second-guessing herself after snuffing most of them out. Would he need some light? Two candles remained lit. She moved one to the mantel and placed the other on top of the high dresser on the other side of the bed.

The room was dim but still lit enough for safely moving around, especially with the soft light of dusk and the rising moon casting a silver-blue path across the floor.

“My wine.” She glanced around, searching to find her glass. There. On the table beside the bed. She drank down every drop, then wished she had brought the bottle as she stared at the empty goblet, then placed it on the table. A change to her plan was needed to mend the oversight. Her stomach gurgled and churned, threatening to send the drink back out. After pulling in and blowing out several deep, calming breaths, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. “M-Magnus,” she called out, cringing at her ridiculous nervous stutter. “Could ye come here?”

“Aye, lass.”

The deep rumble of his voice sent a rush of heat through her that no cool cloth in existence could ever ease. “And bring the wine!” she added, then clicked the door shut, vaulted across the room, and dove into bed. Wiggling her way under the sheets, she clutched them up over her breasts and scooted back into the pillows piled against the headboard. Breath held, she waited, straining to pick up the slightest sound of movement in the other room.

The door swung open. Light from the sitting room flooded the bedchamber, its wide golden channel illuminating the bed. Brenna blinked at the sudden brightness. Fool! She had forgotten about light from the door. Scooting deeper into the pillows, she pulled the covers higher. With a nervous flick of a finger, she glanced toward her glass. “Would ye mind pouring more wine for me?” God help her, she sounded like a squeaking mouse.

Slow and seductive, Magnus moved across the room, his expression unreadable in the shadows. The light from the sitting room outlined his muscular form through the light weave of his lèine. After he filled the glass, he set the bottle beside it. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he picked up the drink and held it to her lips. “M’love,” he said softly as he tipped the goblet so she might sip. Then he took it away and set it back on the table. He made no move to rise, just sat beside her. Silent. Motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Fortified by both the wine and his gentleness, Brenna risked touching his arm. “Might ye remove yer lèine again?” She swallowed hard, then held her breath.

Without speaking, he stood and stripped it off over his head, then returned to his seat.