by Anna Durand
"You'll sleep in that bedroom." He pointed toward the door at the right end of the hall. "I sleep in the master bedroom, there."
He hooked a thumb toward the left end of the hall.
I nailed him with a hard look. "Separate bedrooms? That wasn't part of the deal."
"We hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements." He walked toward the door at the left end of the hallway, and I followed in his wake. He opened the door enough for me to glimpse what lay inside. "The dressing room. My bedroom is accessed through it. When the boxes of your belongings arrive tomorrow, you can store any you don't need here. We share a bathroom, there."
He gestured toward another doorway.
Considering him, I cocked my hip with a hand balanced on it. "What happens when we have sex?"
"I don't understand the question."
"We screw, and then what? Do you scamper back to your master bedroom, leaving me alone in my hole in the wall?"
"Your room is not a hole in the wall."
"Well, this explains why you ordered Jamie never to come up here." I narrowed my gaze, trying to spear him with it, but he seemed unaffected. "Wouldn't want your sister to find out you don't sleep with your wife. A quick roll in the hay, and you're off to your private suite for the night."
"You make it sound unseemly."
"What about Mrs. Darroch? Does she know?"
Head down, he scratched his brow with a fingertip. "She does. Mrs. Darroch cares for the whole house, and I had her prepare your room for you. I told her we'll sleep in separate rooms because you snore."
"I snore? Thanks a bunch, Rory."
"Everyone knows I don't snore."
"Guess that was a fly snoring in the car while I was driving."
Totally deadpan, he said, "It must've been."
Rory never smiled at me except as an expression of sexual hunger. He would smile for me one day soon, though, I'd make sure of it. A real, joyful smile.
I envisioned a smiling, exuberant Rory. He'd be devastatingly gorgeous if he graced the world with a genuine grin. Maybe he'd pull me into his arms and spin us around and around, laughing all the while.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, shattering my beautiful fantasy.
"Huh?" Yanked back to reality, my brain fumbled to readjust. Ah, that fantasy had been so nice. "What do you mean? Nothing's wrong."
He eyed me with suspicion. "You looked…dazed."
A half-suppressed laugh snorted out of me. "Dazed? Guess you only know how to sweet talk a girl when you want to get lucky."
I hadn't been dazed. I'd been dreamy.
He glanced up at the ceiling, then gestured toward the stairwell. "Jamie's waiting for us to have dinner with her. We should go."
Deciding not to argue, I let him lead me away from our rooms.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, the three of us lounged in the sitting room having enjoyed a yummy meal of locally produced sausage with potatoes and turnips. Mrs. Darroch, who'd rustled up the dinner, called them tatties and neeps. I fell in love with the housekeeper when I learned she'd left us a blueberry tray cake coated with sugar and coconut. After my second piece, I joined Jamie in sipping hot cocoa, a beverage Rory refused. My sister-in-law claimed cocoa would soothe our jet lag and help us sleep better. Rory denied ever experiencing jet lag, calling it "a mental state, not a physical condition."
I'd yawned my way through our dinner, despite having taken a nap on the jet and another one in the car. Soothed by the cocoa, I yawned again and slumped into my cushy chair, eyes half-closed.
Jamie occupied one end of an adjacent sofa, legs tucked under her and hugging a pillow to her belly, smiling in a knowing way as she switched her attention back and forth between me and Rory.
My husband sat upright in a high-backed chair angled to face halfway toward the windows. He drank whisky from a tumbler, his gaze on one of the three tall windows overlooking the castle compound. Sunset ignited the sky and wispy clouds with a pinkish glow.
Tonight, I'd learned the Scots spelled the word whisky without an E, and that Rory preferred Ben Nevis single malt. The brand originated in Fort William, the town we'd passed near Ballachulish. His brother Lachlan had a weakness for Talisker single malt, made on the Isle of Skye, and his brother Aidan had no real preference. Apparently, he would drink any brand. As for his sisters, when I'd asked what they liked to drink Jamie had pretended to gag and told me she and her sisters hated whisky.
"Men have no taste buds," she informed me. "They'll drink anything. I like Irn Bru."
"That's not a real drink," Rory said with disdain. "It's orange soda."
"I'd like to try it sometime," I told Jamie, who nodded her approval.
My hubby made a disgusted noise. "Donnae think I'll kiss ye after ye drink it."
Another yawn overtook me, and I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. The time was nine o'clock. That equated with two in the afternoon, Colorado time. I shouldn't be tired, yet I was.
"You two are so sweet," Jamie said.
Rory cast her a sideways glance. "My wife would say I'm grumpy."
"She'd be right. I meant overall, the way you are together." Jamie absently rubbed circles on the pillow over her belly. "When will you have bairns?"
Rory sputtered and coughed but managed to keep from spilling his whisky.
"Bairns?" I asked.
Jamie gave me an impish smile. "Babies."
Ah, no wonder Rory had gone into apoplexy over that one. We hadn't talked about children, because our marriage was a one-year farce.
"Mind your own business," Rory snapped.
His sister looked pleased with herself, as if she knew a wonderful secret. Something related to his ex-wives? Had he wanted children with any of them? How had he behaved with those women? He'd told me he loved his previous wives.
Jamie tossed her pillow aside and hopped off the sofa. "I'm for bed. You can go upstairs to your king-and-queen's bedroom and make all the noise you like. I can't hear a blessed thing down here."
Rory made an exasperated face as Jamie skipped out of the room humming.
Once the sitting room door clicked shut, and Jamie's humming faded into the distance, I wandered over to the windows. Choosing the middle one, near Rory's chair, I took a seat on its broad sill.
"Do you want kids?" I asked.
He didn't sputter this time, because he'd just lifted his glass to his lips and hadn't imbibed yet. Appraising me over the tumbler's rim, he tapped a finger on the glass. "Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity." I folded one leg to lodge my foot on the windowsill and wrapped both arms around my raised knee. "You're on your fourth marriage. Did you want kids with your ex-wives?"
He swirled his whisky, peering into its amber depths that mirrored the color of his eyes. "Doesn't matter."
"I'd like to know, please."
He slouched back in his chair and stretched out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. His attention remained on his drink, though he'd stopped sipping it. "I tried with my first wife, Isobel, but it never happened. Lilias, my second wife, wanted to wait until she felt more settled in her position as a schoolteacher. She divorced me nineteen months later. Left me for someone else and they had a baby. Una never wanted children, but she didn't tell me until after we were married."
"That was rotten."
He shut his eyes and sighed. "I should've asked before marrying her. Turned out Una didn't want a bairn with me, but she was happy to have one with her next…partner."
Though I sensed his carefully worded answers hinted at deeper stories, I didn't want to push. Still, I had to point out the obvious. "You haven't answered my question. Do you want children?"
He cracked one eye open. "Leave it alone, Emery."
No point in pushing anymore. He wouldn't tell me.
I yawned again, big and thorough and noisy.
Rory tossed back the last of his whisky, surged up from his chair, and reached me in one long stride. With a hand on the windo
w frame, he slanted in—close enough I felt his exhalations whispering over my skin and scented the whisky on his breath.
"Time for bed," he announced.
I slid off the windowsill and landed flat on the floor in my bare feet. I hoisted up onto my toes, leaning in, and tilted my head back to meet Rory's gaze. His breaths shortened. The lust in his eyes made my skin tighten. I splayed my hands on his chest, loving the feel of his silky shirt on my palms.
"Yes, please," I said. "Let's go to bed."
"To sleep, Emery." His hooded gaze told me otherwise, the way his eyes smoldered. His voice had gone rough, but he insisted, "You need rest, to recover from the jet lag."
"So do you." I glided my hands up to his shirt collar, pressing my body against his, my nipples hardening as they raked over his muscles. "Might as well lie down together."
"I doubt either one of us would sleep that way." He dipped his head, as if to nuzzle my cheek or neck, but caught himself. "We will lie down. You in your room, and I in mine."
My hands roved up and over his shoulders, and I linked them behind his nape. "Your perfect grammar makes me so hot."
"Behave, Emery." Despite his chastising words, he sounded ready to tear my clothes off, a conclusion his growing erection confirmed.
"You like it when I misbehave." I twirled my fingers at his nape, rewarded by his sharp intake of breath. "Never asked me what kind of whisky I like."
"Try Ben Nevis. I think you'd like it."
"I'd love to taste it." I feathered my lips over his, licking at the seam of his mouth, detecting a hint of the whisky. "Think I'll sample it now."
My fingers spread over his scalp, I clasped the back of his head in both hands and fused my mouth to his. He parted his lips, inviting me to take more, and I delved my tongue into the silken depths of his mouth, exploring with leisurely strokes, teasing the roof of his mouth and coiling my tongue around his until he responded with hungry thrusts. His hands came around my waist, and he pulled me into him while plunging deeper into my mouth.
The whisky. Oh God, the flavor of it mingled with the hints of the cake we'd both eaten, transforming it into a heady concoction. The whisky was rich, smoky, imbued with a touch of nut and even chocolate, with an undercurrent of fruitiness. So decadent. So tantalizing. So…Rory.
"Mmm," I moaned into his mouth, then retreated from the exquisite pleasure of kissing my husband, reluctantly separating our mouths. Relaxed and aroused at the same time, I massaged his nape and felt my lips curve into a lazy smile. "Delicious."
He stared down at me, lips slightly swollen from our kiss. His eyes scorched into mine, and his hands bound me to him.
I danced my fingers over his cheek.
He blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a trance. "To bed, Emery. You in your room—"
"And you in yours. Yeah, I heard you the first time." I let my hands fall away from his shoulders and rocked back on my heels. "I'm not crazy about this separate-bedrooms thing."
"Once you've lived with me for a while, you'll be glad of the privacy."
That stopped me. Back in Colorado, when I'd said I liked him, he told me I'd change my mind about that soon enough. Tonight, he assured me I'd want my own bedroom so I could get away from him. Jesus, he really believed I'd get sick of him and want out.
Hence, the half-million-dollar bribe to stay for a year.
One puzzle piece clicked into place in my mind, but a thousand more lay scattered around it. Knowing more about his ex-wives might help me sort out the mess, but I didn't dare push too hard to get him to tell me. We'd made progress today, and I wouldn't screw it up.
To keep him from panicking, I needed to acquiesce to one of his directives.
"You are my husband for the next year," I said. "I'd rather share a bed with you, but if separate bedrooms makes you feel safer, I'll go along with it. For the time being."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He spun on his heels and headed for the door. "Upstairs, to bed."
I hurried to catch up, following him down the hallway and through the door to the dining room, out into the main hall and up the winding stairs to the top floor. At my bedroom door, he halted with shoulders stiff and chin elevated.
"Sleep well," he said, turning to leave.
I laid a hand on his arm to stop him. "No good-night kiss?"
Face averted, he said, "You had your kiss downstairs. Good night, Emery."
My husband hustled down the hall to his bedroom door—far, far away from mine at the opposite end of the hall. The door shut behind him.
Oh Rory, what will I do with you?
Succumbing to another yawn, I shambled into my room and sagged against the closed door. I knew exactly what to do with Rory. On the day I accepted his proposition, I'd informed him that he would be my mission. Loosening him up might prove harder than I'd ever imagined.
I pushed away from the door, rolling my shoulders back. When did I ever give up on a task because it was difficult? I may have languished in corporate hell for too long, but I hadn't lost my gumption.
"Rory MacTaggart, you are in trouble now. I'm coming for you."
A small smile stretched my lips. One day soon, Rory would cave and allow himself to have a good time. With me. In every way I could dream up, and any he dreamed up. In bed, out of bed, in the daytime or at night, anytime and anywhere.
Warm tingles swept over my skin, raising the hairs up and down my arms. Rory unleashed would be awe-inspiring. Magnificent. Earth-shattering.
The hairs all over my body shivered erect at the thought of him grinning and laughing and scooping me into his arms to twirl us around and around.
Aw, shit. I was pining for my husband. Not in love with him, not yet, but definitely pining for a day when he might harbor some glimmer of feelings for me.
I slapped the heel of my hand on my forehead and groaned. Emery, you damn idiot. Maybe I was an idiot, but I'd made a promise to myself and to Rory. I would get him to enjoy life if it killed me.
Or if it broke my heart.
I shuffled to the bed, stripped off my clothes, and climbed under the covers of my big, four-poster bed in my big, high-ceilinged bedroom inside a ginormous castle in the middle of Nowhere, Scotland.
And I prayed for sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, I loitered in the vestibule in the shadow of the spiral staircase, immobilized by the thought of what awaited me outside the main door. The front door, I supposed, even though it opened into the courtyard-type area behind the house. Or maybe the part facing the long driveway was the front. My brain couldn't wrap itself around the layout of this fortress, or the simple idea I lived in a castle.
Simple. Hah. Nothing about my new life was simple.
I smoothed my pale-blue cotton shirt, skipping my fingers over the buttons to make sure I'd done them up right. Meeting my in-laws with misaligned buttons would make them wonder whether I was merely a total ditz, or if I'd sprinted outside after a quick roll in the silk sheets with my husband. Couldn't decide which conclusion would be worse.
Sheesh, I felt like a wreck this morning. A night of tossing and turning would do that to a girl.
As I checked my clothes again, panic jolted me. Were jeans the right image to show my in-laws? Maybe I should've worn a skirt—except most of my skirts had high hems and/or revealing slits up the side. I'd worn pants to work every day, but Travellis Games had encouraged a casual environment with jeans or cargo pants as the standard. Though I owned eight pairs of jeans in varying colors and styles, I owned no dress slacks. The jeans I'd pulled on this morning were dark blue, not stonewashed or ripped. Though they featured a low-slung waist, my shirt covered my belly.
My shirt. Gah! I slapped a hand over my cleavage, exposed by the deeply plunging neckline.
I whirled around, intent on sprinting up three flights of stairs to exchange my shirt for a more demure option. Instead, I collided with Rory.
Yelping, I flailed backward.<
br />
He caught me around the waist and held me tight.
Though I couldn't see all of him, I took in enough of his appearance to realize I was doomed. He, of course, looked perfect—put together and neat, dressed in a tan, long-sleeve shirt with the top button undone and a pair of khaki pants, not to mention his smooth and shiny leather boots. He'd shaved and showered, as evidenced by his damp hair.
I'd had no time for a shower. My crummy night's sleep had concluded with me falling into a near-coma around four a.m. I hadn't woken until twenty-eight minutes before his family was set to arrive.
Plastered to his delectable body, I inhaled in an attempt to clear my head. Aw, shit. He smelled good too, his aftershave enlivening my senses with hints of wood, spice, and musk. My brain, overloaded by anxiety, shut down in the face of his yumminess. The only thoughts I could muster were man smell good, lick man, crawl under man's clothes.
Rory watched me with a neutral expression. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, sure." I unleashed a pitiful moan. "No, I'm not. Jeez, I was never this nervous for job interviews. I'm a disaster. Why do you have to look so good and smell so good? It's not fair."
"Emery." He dropped his hands to my ass. "You are beautiful, but my family doesn't care about superficial things. They want to know who you are, and you have no reason to be fashed about that. Jamie worships you after one evening in your presence."
In addition to his perfect appearance, he calmed me with the perfect words. Damn confusing, since half the time he was terse and tense. This time, however, he'd hit the mark. I dissolved into him, everything inside me warm and liquid.
"Your sister worships you too, you're her hero." I considered the door to the hallway. "Where is Jamie?"
"She went out to keep the family from storming our castle."
The blood seemed to evacuate my whole body. "They're mad? Oh God, I—"
His mouth sealed over mine, silencing my panic. With his lips lingering on my mouth, he said, "No one is angry. Relax, Emery. I've never seen you frantic before."
"You've known me for less than a week." Our lips scraped each other when we spoke, a distractingly sensual contact. "To be fair, I've never been this frantic before. Never had to meet the in-laws, seeing as I called off my last engagement. And considering your opinion of me, I'm not sure what your family will think. Jamie might be an aberration."
