He prayed for the unthinkable-understanding. "I have decided to comfort you."
"You have?" She looked thrilled.
"Yes, I have. However, you're going to have to explain this duty to me first so I'll know how to proceed. You may begin."
"This isn't the time for jests."
"I wasn't jesting."
"You're really telling me the truth?"
The scowl on his face told her he didn't like being doubted. She hurried to calm him. "Yes, of course you're telling the truth. You're a laird, for heaven's sake. You wouldn't ever lie."
"Will you get on with it?"
She nodded, but didn't say another word.
"Brenna…"
"I'm thinking about it," she cried. "Your impatience is making me nervous. How to give comfort is rather difficult to explain. I don't want to make a muck of it."
She lapsed into silence again for what seemed like an hour. He couldn't understand what was taking her so long. He hadn't asked her to solve an impossible riddle, for the love of God. Why was she acting as though he had? He honestly didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to stand there without touching her. Couldn't she see what she was doing to him? No, of course she couldn't. She was fully occupied thinking about comfort, of all things. She seemed to have forgotten how to speak. She'd forgotten she was half naked too, but he hadn't. The second she stopped holding her gown together over her chest, the gap in the material widened enough for him to see the gentle swell of her breasts.
It almost killed him to look away. He suddenly realized that if he didn't get her covered up at once, he was going to completely lose his sense of discipline. He would run his fingers down her smooth, enticing skin, gently, of course, and then rip the thin-as-air gown off her.
She sure as hell wouldn't be thinking about comfort then, would she?
Connor quickly wrapped the plaid around her. He draped one long end over her shoulder, spread the material wide to cover her breasts, and secured the wool with the roped belt he'd carried along. The back of his hands deliberately brushed across her bare skin, not once but twice, while he dressed her, and damned if he didn't feel as though he'd been struck by hot lightning.
Covering her up didn't make his primitive urges go away. Now all he wanted to do was tear the plaid and her gown off her.
He stared into the distance instead.
"I'm pleased you're thinking about this."
She certainly gained his full attention with her remark. "You are?"
"Yes."
He gave her a hard look. "Exactly what do you think I'm thinking about?"
"Comfort."
He didn't laugh. She wouldn't understand why he was amused, and God help him, he'd probably tell her.
"You still haven't explained what you want from me."
"When you were younger, didn't your mother…"
"She's dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"Because she died. What about your father? Didn't he ever comfort you."
"No."
"Why not?"
"He's dead. That's why not."
"Connor, wasn't there anyone you could turn to when you were a little boy?"
He shrugged. "My brother, Alec."
"Did he ever comfort you?"
"Hell, no." He was disgusted by the very idea.
"Wasn't there anyone who cared about you?"
He shrugged. "My stepmother, Euphemia, but she was in no condition to ever comfort me, or her own son, Raen, for that matter. My father's sudden death destroyed her, and she's been in mourning ever since. She cannot even bear to come back to my land. Her pain is still terrible."
"She must have loved your father a great deal."
"Of course she did," he answered impatiently. "Does comforting take long?"
How in heaven's name was she supposed to know the answer to that question?
"I don't think so," she decided. "Some husbands simply pat their wives on their shoulders as they walk past them to let them know they care about their feelings. My father did that very thing all the time, but now that I think about it, I must admit I'm not certain if he was offering my mother comfort or showing her affection."
She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. Trying to make him understand was turning out to be more complicated than she'd expected. She tried to think of another example to give him. "Perhaps other husbands put their arms around their wives and…"
"Which do you prefer?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He repeated his question in a brisk, will-you-hurry-up tone of voice. "Do you want me to pat you or put my arms around you?" He was hopeless. Comfort needed to come from the heart, and Connor needed to feel it before he showed it. She guessed it was also an acquired art, learned after years of being loved and cared for by family members. And if she weren't so rattled about what was going to happen to her tonight, she probably would be able to explain it all quite nicely.
She couldn't even remember her new name now. "This isn't a lesson in sword fighting. You have to be sincere, spontaneous… and…"
She didn't continue because she couldn't think of anything else to say.
"You really don't have any idea what you're talking about, do you?"
She let out a long sigh. "No, not really."
He wasn't amused. "Then why in God's name have we been standing here?"
"I didn't realize how impatient you were, and I… Now what are you doing?"
"Lifting your hair up from under the plaid."
"Why?"
"I want to."
"Do you always do what you want to do? You do, don't you?"
"You'd be flat on your back now if I always did what I wanted to do."
She quit trying to push his hands away. There really didn't seem to be any reason for her to continue to argue with him anyway. Admittedly, she couldn't stop him from touching her-he was at least twice her size and strength, after all-but she protected the fragments of her pride by pretending she was in control of what was happening to her.
He made quick work of his task, and his hands were surprisingly gentle when he touched the sides of her neck. A shiver of pleasure raced down her back, and though it was a nice sensation, what was even more pleasing and surprising to her was that he corrected what bothered him instead of criticizing her. She had grown up constantly being told what was wrong with her-God only knew, something always did seem to be amiss-then being ordered to correct the flaw. She knew Connor wouldn't be any different. It was only a matter of time before he got the hang of it and fell into the same routine as her parents and brothers and sisters.
Connor wasn't going to wait any longer. He took hold of Brenna's hand and started walking toward the bed he'd prepared. He was a little surprised she didn't fight him now.
"I might as well warn you now that I'm rarely put together," she suddenly blurted out.
"Your appearance doesn't matter to me."
"It doesn't?"
"Of course not."
She thought about that for a moment or two before realizing they were walking back toward camp.
"Where are we going?"
He heard the panic in her voice. God, he hated being patient. Were all virgins this impossible?
"What can I do to end this ridiculous fear of yours?"
"You could start by not snapping at me. It isn't ridiculous."
"Answer me."
"You could say something I might find… pleasant and hopeful about…"
"Mating?"
He thought of a thousand answers to give her, but all of them focused on how he would feel.
"Your hesitation worries me," she whispered.
"It won't kill you."
"It won't kill me? That's it?"
He smiled over the outrage in her voice. "You'll like it. Eventually."
She gave him a look that told him she didn't believe him. She kept walking though, and that was all he cared about at the moment.
"It's messy, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't."