Chapter Twenty-Three
Amelia
I kissed him.
There, in our warm cocoon, skin to skin, with the chill finally gone from my bones, with the rain drowning out the world around us. I needed to know what it would feel like when he was fully awake and we both knew what was going on.
He went still for a heartbeat. Then his arms tightened around me and he kissed me back—as if he’d been dying to his whole life.
The world outside faded away but for the sound of our breath, the touch of lips and tongues, our soft moans as we kissed and kissed. I shivered, but not from the cold this time.
I delved my fingers into his lovely hair, damp from the rain but still so soft. He shifted so I was lying partially beneath him, his hand skimming down my side and up to caress my breast through my bra. I arched against him, wanting more.
He tore his mouth from mine, breathing hard. I opened my eyes, confused. Why was he stopping? “Rory—?”
“We have to go. Now, while the rain has stopped.”
Sure enough, it was quiet outside. How had he even noticed? I certainly hadn’t, while we were kissing like there was no tomorrow.
He handed me my T-shirt, then averted his eyes while I pulled it on, as if he hadn’t stripped it off me barely half an hour ago, as if he hadn’t had his hands all over my body barely two minutes ago. We put on our rain gear, and he helped me with my boots. He got to his feet and helped me to mine, and we ducked out of the tent.
The rain had tapered off to a light mist. I sat on the rock while Rory quickly and efficiently—as always—repacked our gear. A few minutes later, we were slogging our way down the path.
Without one word spoken. As if our interlude in the tent had been nothing more than a dream.
The heavy rain had turned the path into a muddy mess, and I was grateful for Rory’s supportive hand on my arm as we silently trudged along. I kept replaying the tent scene in my head as if it were a movie (more like a short film). I imagined the press of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue, the rough pads of his fingers tracing over my bare skin, the eager hardness of his body pressed against mine.
I wondered if he was imagining the same thing.
A few minutes later, I heard a roaring sound up ahead. “Uh, Rory, what’s that?”
He looked over at me, his face grim. “The river.”
“One we have to cross?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Aye.”
We reached the bank, and my heart began to pound. The earlier streams had been bad enough—and progressively worse as the rain had continued—but this was more than a stream. “How are we going to get across?”
“The old-fashioned way. We’re gonna walk.”
“We’re gonna what?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not so deep that you can’t stand. We’re just going to get wet. The good news is, it’s just about a mile from here to Sligachan.”
“And the bad news?” Because there was always bad news.
“There’s another river after this one.”
I studied the rushing water for a moment. “Well, at least we’ll already be wet.”
His lips quirked. “Exactly. Stay here for a second while I check it out.”
He took off his pack and stepped into the river with only the slightest hesitation. He slowly waded across, occasionally altering his course a fraction. At its deepest point, the water came no higher than the middle of his thighs. But it was moving pretty rapidly, and he stumbled once.
He reached the opposite bank and climbed out, then began to make a pile of stones, one atop the other. What was he doing? He finished the pile when it was maybe six inches high and waded back over.
“What are the stones for?”
“It’s called a cairn. It’ll give us something to aim for as we cross. With the exception of that one spot, about ten steps in, the water came no higher than mid-thigh on me. I’ll take our packs over and then come back for you.”
“Okay,” I said, glad to defer to his expertise and confidence.
He took his pack across without incident, then returned for mine, attaching the poles to it first. And then it was my turn.
He took my upper arm, and I held his forearm, the way we had earlier. “Slowly, now. The worst that will happen is you’ll get soaked. I can carry you, if you want.”
I wasn’t opposed to being swept up in his arms and held close to his chest, but… “No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I can do this. Like you said, the worst that’ll happen is that I’ll get wet—wetter.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
Rory was considerably taller than me, so while the water had only come up to his thighs, it came up nearly to my waist. It made for slow going, but we got across without any extra excitement.
On the other side, the path all but vanished, requiring us to move slowly and carefully.
We crossed the second river as we had the first one, going as far to the left as we could to where it was the shallowest.
A little farther, and we crossed through a campsite, then came out onto the road. And then the Sligachan Hotel loomed before us, as glorious and welcoming as any fairy-tale castle.
Heat. Shower. Real food. Bed.
Heaven.