Page 49 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“Aye, and it’s nae kind to tease a fellow, so… so will ye?”

She gave him a long-suffering look, and Muir sighed. Well, really, he supposed he ought to know better by now.

He got to one knee and reached for her hand, looking up at her and realising in that moment that there was no one else he wanted. Delia was his choice and would still be his choice if had every woman in the country to pick from. “Delia, would ye do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

She hesitated, glancing once more at the now distant figure of Rona.

“Luella told me about her,” she said. “And that she had set her cap at you years ago. But I heard too how capable Miss Telfer is. There are those who think you’d make a fine match.”

Muir’s eyes widened in alarm. “Me and Rona? Then they’ve nae the sense they were born with. God above, she makes a fine farmer and nae doubt some man will be lucky to wed her, but my wife? Nae, lassie. Rona is nae the woman I’d want to spend the rest of my days with and raise a family. If that’s my choice I’ll stay a bachelor and I thank ye, but I’d far rather marry ye, Delia, and live with a woman who makes me happy, who makes me smile and makes me think, and is clever enough to learn everything about the farm and the sheep and take me to task if I ever underestimate her again.”

“That’s really, honestly want you want?” she asked him, her eyes shining.

“Aye, it really, honestly is and I feel a proper pillock on one knee surrounded by sheep, so will ye put me out of my misery, lassie?”

She laughed and shook her head at him before giving a tolerant sigh. “Then, yes, Muir Anderson. I will marry you.”

Muir gave a shout of delight and got to his feet, swinging her up into his arms and spinning her around while she shrieked and laughed. When he finally set her down again, she was dizzy and clung to him, which suited Muir just fine as he kissed her until she was breathless.

“Let’s have our picnic,” she said when he finally released her. “I’m famished.”

“So am I,” Muir replied, holding her gaze and making her blush, but he took her arm and guided her to the barn where he’d left the basket. It was a quiet spot and one they’d often used over the past weeks. The sun shone through the large barn door, which he left open, but it was out of the wind with a fine view over the countryside.

Delia sat down, watching him as he settled himself beside her before she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. Surprised, but pleased, Muir waited until she drew back.

“I thought ye were famished?”

“So were you,” she countered boldly, and kissed him again, pressing her hands to his chest, pushing. Obediently, Muir lay back against the stooks of sweet-smelling hay as Delia followed him down and shifted, straddling his lap. Muir’s breath caught as she settled herself down, his nether regions taking an immediate interest in the intimate position.

“Were you not tempted when Rona—” she began, a flicker of doubt in her eyes as Muir pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her.

“Nae, lass. Not even for a moment. I have never felt that way for Rona, not even when I was a lad. Yerself, however,” he said with a wicked grin as he tilted his hips up so she could feel the effect she was having on him. “Yer a sore trial to my gentlemanly instincts, Delia.”

“I am?” she said, her eyes widening at the feel of his arousal pressing against her so firmly.

“Aye. Ye have tormented me ever since ye arrived in my life, and worse than ever since ye let me touch ye so sweetly. I have had little enough sleep of late, but what sleep I’ve managed has been filled with dreams of ye, of having ye in my bed. I may tell ye, I dinnae get a wink last night.”

She smiled at that, the expression such a feminine expression of pleased pride that he had to kiss her again. “I want to marry ye today, this minute,” he growled in her ear, making her shiver and protest.

“We can’t! Mrs Baillie would have a fit. Next week is the soonest I dare ask for,” she replied, sighing as he kissed her neck. His hand strayed to her breast and squeezed the soft mound as frustration sung through his veins at the impediment of so much fabric between them.

“But ’tis only Tuesday,” he protested. “’Tis too long. Thursday, aye?”

“No!” she said, giggling as he nipped at her earlobe.

“Friday,” he countered, tilting his hips again and making her gasp.

“Fr-Friday is impossible,” she stammered, increasingly breathless as he took her mouth again and kissed her hard.

“Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Saturday,” she whispered dreamily as he rolled her onto her back.

“Aye, lassie. Now say, ‘yes, Muir.’”