Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 by Mickee Madden Page A
Book: Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 by Mickee Madden
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Authors: Mickee Madden
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"A dividin' wall."
"The car's
totaled?"
He arched an inquiring
eyebrow.
"It's wrecked?"
"Aye, but I'm in one piece,"
he said sarcastically.
Her gaze swept
appreciatively down his tall frame. "I can see that." She met his
brooding gaze, guarding her concern for him. "How far did you have
to walk?"
"Far enough," he
grumbled.
Clasping her hands to the
small of her back, she followed him into the kitchen. Silence
accompanied them for a time while he filled a kettle and placed it
on a gas burner atop the antiquated stove. He lit one of the wooden
matches kept on a wrought iron rack above the appliance, turned one
of the knobs, and lit the unit. Turning and eyeing Laura, he blew
out the match.
"There's a question in yer
eyes," he said matter-of-factly.
"Not a question." Laura
squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry if I don't always understand what
you're saying."
Again, he looked at her
inquiringly.
"You didn't have to take my
head off because I didn't know what you meant by a
'dyke'."
He smiled mockingly. "And
here I thought I was bein' civil—especially in light o' the fact
I'm half frozen and as frustrated as hell."
"You're forgiven," she said
airily, refusing to let him goad her. "Actually, I do have a
question." She waited while he obtained two mugs from a cupboard
and placed them next to the stove. "You used a word this morning
that I can't get out of my head."
He slanted her a look while
lowering tea bags into the cups. "Wha' word?"
"This morning you said
'pree'd'. I was asking to be pree'd."
Edging two paces closer, her
hands still clasped at the small of her back, she tilted her head
to one side. "What does the word mean?"
Warmth spread across Roan's
chest as he struggled not to crack another grin. Feigning a pensive
frown, he breached the short distance between them.
"Define it? Hmmm. I guess
showin' beats the bloody hell ou' o' tellin'."
Laura had no idea what was
coming. Swiftly, as if to completely take her unawares, he lowered
his head and lightly kissed her. A spasm of shock first rooted her
then she jumped back and stared at his amused expression as if he'd
lost his mind.
"That's a verra wee pree,"
he winked. "When a Scotsmon puts his blood's worth into it, lass,
the word takes on all kinds o' definitions." He arched an eyebrow.
“So slap me and get it ou’ o’ yer system.”
Dumbfounded, she could only
stare at him.
Roan released a thready
breath. Gripping her arms, he hesitantly drew her against him.
Immediately, he felt the warmth of her body radiate through the
blanket.
"There's somethin' better
than tea to take the chill ou' o' a mon."
Mesmerized by his closeness,
the mischievous glow in his alluring pale brown eyes, she breathed,
"Is there?"
Releasing her, he quipped,
"Scotch. Would you mind fetchin' me a bottle?"
With the deliverance of the
dead, Laura bid, "Good night, Mr. Ingliss," and left the kitchen by
way of the dining room.
Roan laughed. Then laughed
again.
"Good night, lass," he
beamed, feeling more lighthearted than he had in years. But then he
sobered and brushed the back of a hand across his tingling
lips.
A fey ache thrummed in his
heart. An ache akin to excitement.
The whistle of the tea
kettle gave him a start.
Without thinking, he poured
steaming water into both cups then grinned wryly at his
absentmindedness.
He looked to the door she'd
passed through moments ago. One wee kiss and the chill had
completely left him. He was almost afraid to imagine what making
love to the woman could do for him.
C hapter 3
Bitter cold winds buffeted
the exterior walls of the warm, toasty kitchen. Roan could not
block out the mournful sibilations as he forced down the bland
brose he'd earlier concocted. He also could not shut down his
awareness of Laura's silence, or her laden disappointment with his
failure that morning to locate a working telephone in
town.
She'd awakened at the crack
of dawn in a foul mood. Not coffee or breakfast, or his attempts to
cheer her up, had made
"The car's
totaled?"
He arched an inquiring
eyebrow.
"It's wrecked?"
"Aye, but I'm in one piece,"
he said sarcastically.
Her gaze swept
appreciatively down his tall frame. "I can see that." She met his
brooding gaze, guarding her concern for him. "How far did you have
to walk?"
"Far enough," he
grumbled.
Clasping her hands to the
small of her back, she followed him into the kitchen. Silence
accompanied them for a time while he filled a kettle and placed it
on a gas burner atop the antiquated stove. He lit one of the wooden
matches kept on a wrought iron rack above the appliance, turned one
of the knobs, and lit the unit. Turning and eyeing Laura, he blew
out the match.
"There's a question in yer
eyes," he said matter-of-factly.
"Not a question." Laura
squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry if I don't always understand what
you're saying."
Again, he looked at her
inquiringly.
"You didn't have to take my
head off because I didn't know what you meant by a
'dyke'."
He smiled mockingly. "And
here I thought I was bein' civil—especially in light o' the fact
I'm half frozen and as frustrated as hell."
"You're forgiven," she said
airily, refusing to let him goad her. "Actually, I do have a
question." She waited while he obtained two mugs from a cupboard
and placed them next to the stove. "You used a word this morning
that I can't get out of my head."
He slanted her a look while
lowering tea bags into the cups. "Wha' word?"
"This morning you said
'pree'd'. I was asking to be pree'd."
Edging two paces closer, her
hands still clasped at the small of her back, she tilted her head
to one side. "What does the word mean?"
Warmth spread across Roan's
chest as he struggled not to crack another grin. Feigning a pensive
frown, he breached the short distance between them.
"Define it? Hmmm. I guess
showin' beats the bloody hell ou' o' tellin'."
Laura had no idea what was
coming. Swiftly, as if to completely take her unawares, he lowered
his head and lightly kissed her. A spasm of shock first rooted her
then she jumped back and stared at his amused expression as if he'd
lost his mind.
"That's a verra wee pree,"
he winked. "When a Scotsmon puts his blood's worth into it, lass,
the word takes on all kinds o' definitions." He arched an eyebrow.
“So slap me and get it ou’ o’ yer system.”
Dumbfounded, she could only
stare at him.
Roan released a thready
breath. Gripping her arms, he hesitantly drew her against him.
Immediately, he felt the warmth of her body radiate through the
blanket.
"There's somethin' better
than tea to take the chill ou' o' a mon."
Mesmerized by his closeness,
the mischievous glow in his alluring pale brown eyes, she breathed,
"Is there?"
Releasing her, he quipped,
"Scotch. Would you mind fetchin' me a bottle?"
With the deliverance of the
dead, Laura bid, "Good night, Mr. Ingliss," and left the kitchen by
way of the dining room.
Roan laughed. Then laughed
again.
"Good night, lass," he
beamed, feeling more lighthearted than he had in years. But then he
sobered and brushed the back of a hand across his tingling
lips.
A fey ache thrummed in his
heart. An ache akin to excitement.
The whistle of the tea
kettle gave him a start.
Without thinking, he poured
steaming water into both cups then grinned wryly at his
absentmindedness.
He looked to the door she'd
passed through moments ago. One wee kiss and the chill had
completely left him. He was almost afraid to imagine what making
love to the woman could do for him.
C hapter 3
Bitter cold winds buffeted
the exterior walls of the warm, toasty kitchen. Roan could not
block out the mournful sibilations as he forced down the bland
brose he'd earlier concocted. He also could not shut down his
awareness of Laura's silence, or her laden disappointment with his
failure that morning to locate a working telephone in
town.
She'd awakened at the crack
of dawn in a foul mood. Not coffee or breakfast, or his attempts to
cheer her up, had made
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