by Tracy Brogan
This was quite enough. Vivienne had proven kind, but this went far and beyond any business of hers. Fiona would not stand there, naked before them, while the seamstress draped her in fabric so sheer that mist from the loch would serve as better cover.
Vivienne smiled again. “Oh, Fiona. I don’t mean to tease. You’re so beautiful you could be clad in sackcloth and he’d want you still. I saw the way he looked at you this morning. But there’s no shame in adding a little sweetness to the pot, is there?”
Fiona’s mind turned to fuzz. The way he’d looked at her this morning? She’d averted her gaze when he’d come into the room, and when she’d finally met his eyes, he’d looked nothing save annoyed. Vivienne was making sport of her once more.
“He looked at me in no such manner. And I wouldn’t want him to.” Avoiding his attentions was her goal, not beckoning them.
Vivienne crossed one arm over the other. She raised one fisted hand and rested her chin upon it as she perused Fiona. After a moment, she said, “Can you best him with a sword?”
“What?”
“On the field or in the yard, could you beat him with a sword?”
What riddle is this? “No, of course not. He’s far too strong.”
“Could you outdrink him? Until he’s passed out on the rushes?”
Fiona felt the tremors of a smile tapping at her lips. “’Tis unlikely.”
“Mm-hm.” Vivienne began to pace in the small space in front of Fiona. “And what of strategy? ’Tis clear you cannot evade him in the woods. But could you outwit him in a game of chess, perhaps?”
Chess had never been Fiona’s forte. She was ever too impatient to master its nuances. “I fail to see what chess has to do with my choice of nightdress.”
“This is your battleground, Fiona.” Vivienne’s hands swept round the room and ended by pointing at the bed. Myles’s bed. “This is where you best him. This is where you sway him to obey your whims. If you hope to ever take an upper hand with Myles, this is where that begins. Make him want you, and soon enough, he’ll jump to do your bidding at every turn.”
Fiona crossed her own arms. “You mean seduce him to obtain what I want?”
“Exactly.”
“But what if what I want is for him to leave me alone?”
Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. “You want more than that. I’m certain of it. And to win the war, you must start with tiny victories. Remember, men are like their horses.”
“Big and sweaty and fun to ride?” Ruby chimed in.
Vivienne smiled at the maid. “Yes. But in addition to that, they are drawn to whomever dangles the most enticing carrot.”
Fiona frowned. “Didn’t you say your husband was faithless?”
Vivienne’s shrug was nonchalant. “Yes, but my husband was an idiot, and I had long since put away my carrots. Myles is another type of man altogether. And he wants you, Fiona. I saw it in his eyes. Use that, and you’ll both be better off.”
This put a wrinkle in her plans. Seduction. The very thought of it panicked her. She had no comely wiles to trap a man. She had nothing but a sharp tongue and a tenacious disregard for his family. She’d never trick him into compliance, no matter how diaphanous the gown. And even if she could, what good would it do her? She had sealed the truce. She was here. All she wanted now was to keep her family safe and for him to let her be.
“Take the pretty nightgowns, Fiona,” Vivienne said softly. “Leave them in a chest, if you’ve a mind to, but some evening, you may have need to put one on. When you’re ready, they’ll be waiting.”
Lord, the woman could tempt a sinner into church the way she prodded. Those Campbell traits of persuasion and persistence must have rubbed off.
“Fine,” Fiona said at last. “But I only need one cut from that transparent bit of nothingness. Make the rest of sturdy linen.”
“Make her three of the sheer,” Vivienne instructed the seamstress. “And two of the linen. And add some ribbons and pearls.”
Fiona looked to the ceiling and shook her head. “’Tis another frivolous waste. Pearls, indeed.”
“Hush up, Fiona. By God, you are unruly.” The words might scold but for the laughter in her voice. “My nephew deserves such a wife as you.”
Fiona flushed once more, heady from the statement though not sure why. “Unruly?”
“Aye. One who will put him through his paces. Thank God he did not marry that simpering Odette.”
A dizzy sort of tremble ran through her. “Odette?”
The seamstress and Ruby began unrolling the sheer material, though Fiona kept her chemise firmly in place.
“Aye. She had her hooks sunk deep, but marriage to her would have bored my nephew silly. Pouty little French thing. She’d never last a winter. She’d drop over dead as sure as the king’s first wife.”
“Were they betrothed? Myles and Odette?”
Vivienne shook her head and stepped closer to push up the hem of Fiona’s shift.
Distracted as she was by the thought of some woman in love with her husband, Fiona raised her arms and soon was stripped bare. Ruby winked at the seamstress, and they spun the pale-white linen around her torso.
Stepping back, Vivienne answered, “They were not formally betrothed, for Myles has always been betrothed to you. Since the day you were born. He meant to seek James’s permission, though. Of course, Cedric would have none of that.”
“Why?”
For the first time since they’d met, Vivienne fell silent. She looked away and fumbled with some ribbon. After a moment, she shrugged and turned back to Fiona with the brightest of smiles. “Oh, who knows why men do any of the things they do?” She took one step farther back and tilted her dark, glossy head. “Oh, my Fiona. You are a temptress. If I were a man, I’d bed you myself.”
Fiona’s gasp of surprise quickly turned to laughter. And soon the four of them were giggling like a gaggle of geese.
Outside his chamber door, Myles halted, his hand poised to knock. He quickly admonished himself. ’Twas his room after all. He should not have to announce his entrance. And so he grasped the latch, about to lift it and push his way in, until a sound came through the wood. A sound that stopped him like the edge of a cliff and triggered a ripple of surprise.
Laughter.
Feminine laughter coming from his bedchamber. What in heaven’s name where they doing in there, chortling like fishwives?
He listened for a moment, his ear pressed to the door like a snooping dowager, but he could not hear their words. Only more giggles. The sound pricked at him, to know his wife was in there, sharing her good humor with others, while all he got from her was frowns.
He pushed the door open with more force than necessary, and it thumped against the wall with a bang.
The women’s laughter stopped abruptly, and his wife let out an ungracious squawk before leaping from a stool to crouch beside the bed. A cloud of white fabric puddled in her wake, and her reaction to his entrance set the other women to guffawing once more.
He stepped inside, annoyed as much from their presence as by their laughter. Women did not typically irritate him, but he was exhausted and not interested in their silly antics. Nor was Fiona, it appeared. She wasn’t laughing either. Instead, she peeked from the edge of the bed, just high enough that he could see her face and her bare shoulders. So, the lass was naked, was she? His irritation decreased by the smallest degree.
“Don’t you knock?” she demanded.
“’Tis my room,” he tossed back, and crossed to a table where a tray rested, the remnants of her lunch, no doubt. He picked up a glass and emptied the wine inside.
“But I’m not dressed!”
He tipped his head, as if to get a better look. “I can see that.”
Her face went crimson, and she scuttled back closer toward the wall. She looked to the maid. “Ruby, give me my dress.”
Myles relinquished the cup and cleared his throat. Half his work was done if the girl had on no clothes, for he’d come to f
ind her with every intention of enjoying his marital rights. “Ruby, that won’t be necessary. Ladies, clear your things. This room is far too crowded for my liking.”
“Myles.” Vivienne took a step in his direction.
But he shook his head, not taking his eyes from Fiona. “Thank you for your attentions toward my wife, Vivi, but you’ve done quite enough. Leave us.”
Vivienne cast a glance at Fiona and started to speak, but Myles cut her off.
“Now,” he said.
The women jumped to action, scurrying like mice to scoop up the fabric and trims and baubles strewn across his bed. He bit back a smile. With one simple request, they did as he asked. No arguing, no defiance. Just calm obedience. ’Twas good for Fiona to see that. Perhaps it might teach his bride a thing or two about proper respect.
Ruby picked up a bit of tan linen from the floor and moved closer to the bed, letting it slide from her hands into Fiona’s.
Well. So much for respect.
Fiona pulled the garment over her head. It appeared to be nothing more than a shift. That should not slow him down by much.
It took only moments for the others to gather their items and leave the room. Vivienne was the last to exit. She paused at the door.
“Remember, Myles, if you crush a flower, it cannot be undone,” she whispered.
He looked to her and saw something vulnerable in her gaze and wondered at her words. But she was gone before he could ask.
And then his wife stood up, turning all his thoughts her way.
She was indeed clad in nothing but a shift, her arms crossed over her breasts like an impenetrable shield, her cheeks and throat flushed pink. “I should very much like to get dressed.”
He paused, letting his eyes take a brief journey over her curves. “And I should very much like to take you to bed.”
She took a step back. “But...it’s the middle of the day.”
He chuckled. Women were so illogical. As if the time of day had any bearing on desire. In afternoon light such as this, he’d be able to see her face and her body. He could watch the red-gold strands of her hair glimmer and watch her skin flush beneath his touch.
His mouth went dry as his palms went moist. Yes, it was the middle of the day, and never so fine a moment to be her husband.
He would enjoy this, taking his time and savoring her like a fine meal, for her body was a banquet to be lingered over. His own body responded, tightening in arousal and realization. This was how he’d tame her. By teaching her of all the pleasures he could bring.
Perhaps he’d not taken enough time with her that first night. Virgins were a different breed altogether, and he should have considered that. But now the barrier had been breached, and there was nothing denying her of satisfaction, save her own stubborn will.
He took a step closer. “It is the middle of the day. And you should be well rested, for I watched you snoring on my bed ’til the sun was high in the sky.”
“You watched me?”
“Briefly.” He hadn’t really, but no sense telling her that. Let her mind stir with the implications instead.
She crossed her arms more snugly. Her pert chin tilted upward. “I don’t snore.”
He walked closer still. She took a step back, and another, until she bumped up against the wall. His hands went out on either side, corralling her inside his arms but not touching. She looked up, her frown ferocious as a kitten’s, and his need to taste those lips doubled.
He leaned forward, staring at her mouth. “You needn’t be embarrassed,” he said softly. “’Twas a very ladylike snore. More of a...huffing sort of breath.”
Her lips tightened, until she said, “I don’t huff either.”
He smiled, all his agitation upon entering this room now gone. A pale, delicate vein ran up the column of her throat. He wanted to trace his tongue along it, and would. Soon. “I’d say you’re huffing a bit right now.”
And indeed she was, with short puffs of breath. Her breasts swelled and retreated against her arms. His eyes drifted lower, watching. Lord, she was a prize worth earning.
She was rattled by his nearness, but not afraid, and the realization thrilled him. He plucked at the loose tie adorning the neckline of her shift. She looked to the ground, but he caught her chin with the fingers of his other hand and brought her face to his once more. “Are we back to this again? The reluctant maiden? You kissed me eagerly enough at the inn.”
Her eyes went round and dark, and she smacked his hand away. “’Twas the bath I was eager for, not you.”
He smiled, knowing how a hawk must feel when swooping down to catch its prey. “Ah, Fiona. More lies?”
“’Tis the truth. I want nothing at all to do with you.”
He cupped her chin once more and whispered against her lips, “Prove it, then. Resist me.”
Vivienne’s words stampeded through her mind as Myles’s lips pressed soft against her own. Make him want you. But every ounce of her common sense railed against those traitorous words.
Vivienne was wrong.
Of course Fiona must resist. She was a Sinclair.
She pushed against his chest with all her might and broke the kiss. “Did Odette resist you?”
His face blanked, then suffused with color. His hands dropped to his sides like anvils. “What do you know of Odette?”
Fiona turned away. At last, a chink in his armor. “I know you wanted to marry her. And the king refused. ’Tis tragic, really, that you should be torn from the one you love and left with me instead. I must be a pale imitation.”
His dark brows pinched together. “Odette is none of your business.”
“Oh, but she is. Didn’t you promise God and the priest to love me, and me alone? For all the lies you accuse me of, it seems you’ve told a few of your own.”
She was aiming in the dark with blunt arrows and no clear target. But she thought only to distract him from his original purpose. Anything to change the course of his mood so he might leave her alone. After all, what should she care if some foolish little French girl had designs on him?
“I’ve told no lies, nor made any false promises. I will honor you with the same dedication in which you honor me.” He strode back to the tray upon the table, picking up the cup and tipping it to his lips. He tapped it to get the last drips of wine. Then he plunked it down again.
She’d made him angry. Good. She knew better how to deal with him when he was angry. It was his gentleness against which she had no weapon. When his voice rose and his face turned red, she could answer with her own fierce temper. But when he was kind, that was when she felt the worst sort of fear.
He ran a hand through his hair and turned back to her. He started to speak, then halted, as if the words would not form. His sword hand clenched and unclenched. At last, he spoke, his voice far more somber than she’d expected. “Fiona, I’d appreciate it if you would not mention Odette again. I did care for her. But she is forever lost to me. Now it’s up to you and I to make our marriage real. I’ll be a good husband to you, if you can give but an inch.”
’Twas an odd method to trick her into bed, telling her he cared for another woman. She thought to say as much, but saved her words. For in his eyes passed a shadow, new to their depths. Or perhaps she’d only failed to notice it before. Either way, she didn’t understand it, and what good would it do her, even if she did?
Once more, he proved himself less her enemy and more a shared accomplice to this farce of a marriage. Even while declaring his lack of trust in every word she’d spoken, he was asking for her cooperation. Not demanding it or forcing it. But simply...asking.
What fragile stuff her Sinclair loyalty turned out to be, for she heard herself saying, “I suppose I could try.”
His shoulders rose and fell, Atlas shrugging off the mantle of the earth. “It’s all I ask. Just try. Now, would you walk over here and kiss me?”
’Twas another request, not a demand. But even so, it was too much. Too much surrender. Too many steps b
etween them. Too fraught with consequence.
She shook her head. “No.”
That shadow passed by once more, and she could see him carefully choosing his next words. “I thought to come in here and bed you so well you’d never resist me again. But now it seems I want that resistance gone of your own accord. I want you to ask for my kisses, Fiona. And when you do, you shall have a thousand of them.”
His words crackled like kindling. But she could not ask, and she never would. She was a weak and feeble foe, less a Sinclair than ever she’d dreamed imaginable. If she gave in to him, he’d absorb every last bit of her until she was no more. Her mother’s murder would go unavenged, forgotten in the winds of time, and her father would haunt her from the grave for her feminine weakness. “I will never ask.”
He picked up the weight of the world once more. “Then this marriage will be a bitter one.”
They stared at each other, neither moving forward nor away, until an urgent rapping at the door broke the trance.
“My lord,” a voice called through the wood. “My lord Myles, your father is awake and bids you come at once.”
Myles took a few short steps and pulled open the door.
A freckled servant with cap in hand stood in the corridor, bobbing his head. “Oh, good. There you are, Lord Myles. Our laird has awakened and bid me to come find you with all haste. He says he must speak with you.”
Myles turned to her. “It seems our conversation must wait.”
“I believe our conversation has already ended.”
His jaw set. She could see she’d frustrated him once more. But it could not be helped. He kept accusing her of duplicity when all she did was tell the truth. She’d never ask for his kisses, not even if they lived to be one hundred.
Though, deep within, she knew if he pressed his suit, she’d not deny him either.
CHAPTER 19
