The Highlander's Lost Lady

by Anna Campbell

  The sheer material revealed that a couple of weeks of decent meals had filled out Fiona’s curves in a way he cursed right now. The girl he’d rescued had been gaunt. The woman he’d married was a miracle of graceful dips and hollows and soft female roundness. His hands curled into fists in the crisp linen sheets, as he struggled to remember that he’d sworn not to touch her.

  Damn it, he should have told Marina to pack sensible nightwear, not this instrument of torture in silk and lace. Damn it, he should have locked the connecting door between the rooms, even if having his wife sleep nearby was the main reason he’d chosen this inn.

  He closed his eyes briefly, but that didn’t help. Fiona’s alluring image was burned on his retinas. Nor did it help that under the covers, he was naked. His body reacted in a predictable manner to a beautiful woman’s arrival in his bedchamber in the middle of the night.

  Still her hands twisted. “I…”

  She’d never exactly been a chatterbox, but this was pushing taciturnity to its limits. Not wanting to frighten her, he raised his knees to hide his arousal. “Then what is it?”

  When his edgy tone made her bite her lip, he felt lower than a worm. With the courage he’d come to recognize as an essential part of her, she raised her chin. Standing before him, she looked both vulnerable and invincible. Like a schoolgirl with her hair tied back in a simple plait. Like a woman who knew all the secrets of Eve.

  He bit back a groan and told himself that Fiona had already married one selfish swine. He didn’t want her finding out that her second husband was no better. He’d get used to treating his wife like a sister. In about a thousand years.

  Maybe.

  Another step closer. Another flickering inspection of his bare chest. Her shy interest in his body sent forbidden heat swirling through his blood.

  “You’re not asleep.”

  Obviously.

  He stifled the sarcastic response. She didn’t deserve it.

  “I couldnae settle. It’s been a big day. You’re no’ tired?”

  “No. I slept in the coach.”

  Lucky lassie. “It’s more comfortable than traveling two to a horse, I’m sure.”

  Familiar humor quirked her lips. “Riding on Sigurn was enjoyable in its way.”

  What in blazes was this? Diarmid frowned in bewilderment. If she were another woman, he’d think she was saying that she liked being in his arms. But this was his untouchable bride, so she must mean something else.

  He sighed, recognizing that he was in line for more torture. She showed no sign of wanting to go back to her room. “Would ye like some company?”

  She eyed him as though she expected him to bite her, then nodded. “Aye. My room feels lonely.”

  Lonely? Everything he knew about her should make a solitary wedding night her idea of heaven. For pity’s sake, she’d send him deranged. Worse, he’d signed up for a lifetime of having Fiona within reach, yet off limits.

  When he proposed marriage, he’d vowed that his willpower would outstay his hunger. Cracks already riddled that vow. If his wife made a habit of midnight visits to his bedchamber, his honor would soon crumble to dust.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t bear to think of Fiona afraid and alone and fretting over the possibility that despite all their efforts, they still might fail.

  “Are ye already regretting marrying me?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “No.”

  Well, she sounded sure about that at least. “That’s good.”

  Another comprehensive, if swift survey of his chest. She really should stop doing that. It tested his self-control. He wished his shirt wasn’t hanging from a hook on the other side of the room.

  When she edged closer, he read the troubled expression in those clear blue eyes. “Are you?”

  “No.” At this precise moment, he wasn’t sure he meant it.

  “I’m glad.”

  A thorny silence descended until unable to bear the crackling tension, he said, “Let me pour ye a wee dram. It might help ye sleep.”

  “Will you join me?”

  He’d rather someone hurled a caber at his head, but his turmoil wasn’t her fault and he wanted to start his marriage with some vestige of civilization. “Aye, but first, you’ll need to pass me my robe, then turn your back.”

  The rounded eyes that focused on his lap did nothing to quell the storm in his blood. She made a move toward where the red velvet dressing gown Fergus had lent him lay tossed across a chair near the fire. “You sleep naked?”

  St. Peter and all the little fishes… Did his bride think he was bloody well made of stone?

  Although one part of him did its best to imitate good Scottish granite.

  “Aye,” he bit out with a snap of his teeth.

  When that uncertain blue gaze rose to his face, his discomfort increased. “I’ve never seen a naked man.”

  If she hung around much longer, that would change. He ground his teeth and told himself to settle down. Then he realized just what she’d said.

  What the hell? That couldn’t be right. Perhaps the thunderous pounding in his ears meant that he’d misheard.

  “But your husband…”

  Her lips turned down. “When we…did that, it was always in the dark. Ian would lift up his nightshirt, and then…”

  Almighty God above. He couldn’t sit here and listen to her talk about the sexual act. Not without jumping out of this bed and giving her a good eyeful of what a naked man looked like. A rampantly aroused naked man, at that. “He took ye.”

  She looked thoughtful, as she considered his response. Her hands remained linked at her waist, but at last they were still. “Yes, it was taking.”

  “Did he hurt ye?” he couldn’t help asking, although the wisest move was to exile her to her room with orders to stay there.

  “At first. I had no idea what to expect, and I fought him.”

  Sick pity clenched Diarmid’s belly. How could he resent her reluctance to sleep with him, after she’d been through such suffering?

  If only she’d never met the Grants. Deep within her, she contained the promise of passion, but that promise would never find fulfillment.

  What a crying waste. The idea of awakening an innocent Fiona to the potential of pleasure stirred not just his raging senses but his aching heart.

  And it was all too blasted late.

  Damn the Grants. All of them. Allan. Ian. Thomas. And the rest of the pestilential breed. They deserved to fry in the lowest circle of hell.

  “Fiona…”

  She went on before he could express his horror at the way those brutes turned something magnificent into violence, degradation, and misery.

  “At least it never lasted long, and once Ian’s health started to fail, he lost the capacity to…” Her gesture encompassed both her husband’s impotence and her relief at no longer having to endure his attentions.

  “You’re safe now.”

  She looked nervous again, although he couldn’t imagine why the hell she should. He’d given her his word he wouldn’t insist on his husbandly rights. What man with an ounce of conscience would force his attentions on this woman?

  “Yes, I am safe. Thanks to you.”

  “Ye dinna have to spend the rest of your life making recompense. That will drive us both mad.”

  A hesitant smile curved her lips, and she took another step forward. Plague take her, he wished she’d go away. He meant well by her. Of course he did. But it was torture to have her hovering at his bedside in the middle of the night. And not just any night, but his wedding night.

  “I do have to make recompense.”

  “No, ye don’t. Knowing that you and Christina are safe and happy will be reward enough.”

  “You’re such a good man, Diarmid.” The smile broadened. “Such a good man—and such a liar.”

  Shocked, he sat up straight, sending the sheet slipping dangerously low. “What in Hades…”

  She made a gesture of repudiation. “
That’s not going to be enough for you, and you know it.”

  Diarmid was slow to anger. He always had been, although once he decided against someone, he was steadfast in his dislike. But now powerful rage began to coil in his gut, fueled with frustration and barely controlled desire.

  “Fiona, what the devil do you want?” he snapped out. “We’ve been through this. When I proposed, I swore I wouldnae touch ye. But we both know I want you. Plaguing me like this is cruel and unfair, beneath ye. I’m no’ made of wood. Stop teasing me, and go back to bed. We’re never talking about this again. Leave me some pride, blast ye.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t retreat. “I have my own pride.”

  Under the paisley shawl, her breasts rose as she sucked in a deep breath. His hands made claws in the sheets as he battled the itch to grab her. She was mere feet away, and he could quiet any scruples by telling himself she’d asked for trouble by coming to his room and ignoring the danger signs.

  “More than is good for ye,” he grated out. “But if you’re playing some sort of game here, I’ll never forgive ye.”

  She looked horrified as she shook her head. “No game, Diarmid, I swear.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  She twined her hands together once more. The shawl shifted to reveal the outline of one pert breast beneath the clinging silk. He went back to grinding his teeth and staring above her head at the lamplit shadows dancing on the wall.

  “It’s about my pride.”

  “What?” he snarled, not brave enough to look at her.

  “Ever since we met, you’ve given to me. It makes for an uncomfortably lopsided bargain. I’m always grateful, and you’re always in charge.”

  Resentment made him look at her and—almost—overcame his craving to feel her body under his hands. “Now we’re married, it will take time to work out how we’re going to proceed. You’ll find your way. I know I still feel like a stranger…”

  “You don’t feel like a stranger.”

  He didn’t want to explore that. Not when only a sheet and a thin layer of silk separated them from being naked together.

  “You’ll feel more like a partner in this match, once we’ve sorted the Grants out and you’ve taken over as lady of Invertavey and you’re raising Christina without your kin’s interference.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides, and she leveled an unwavering blue gaze upon him. “I’ll feel more like a partner when I am one.”

  He knew she was sending him a message, but for the life of him he had no idea what it was.

  “Aye, once we’ve found Christina and—”

  “No. Now.”

  Another silence descended, this time as sharp and heavy as a honed ax. Diarmid’s heart gave a mighty thud and crashed against his ribs. He gulped for a breath in a futile attempt to steady his reeling mind.

  “What?”

  “I’m offering to be your wife in every sense, Diarmid.”

  He started to reach for her then drew back. “I ken ye hated lying with your husband.”

  She tilted her chin in such a Fiona-like move that his yearning heart performed another somersault. “Perhaps I wouldn’t hate it with you.”

  “And perhaps ye will.”

  “Marina says it can be good. With the right man.”

  “It can.” He wondered why he tried to argue her out of doing what he wanted more than he wanted his next breath. Except he knew why. He only had to recall the strain that tightened her delicate features when she spoke about Ian Grant. “But after what you’ve been through, it’s likely there’s damage.”

  “You’re saying I’m incapable of a woman’s responses?”

  “I’m saying that violence and pain leave scars, even if invisible ones. In time…”

  One hand sliced the air in denial. “No, not in time. I can’t bear to be your charity case any longer. I want to be your wife, your equal. I want a true marriage.”

  “So do I,” he said quietly. “But it’s insulting to come here without wanting me and expect me to jump to your command.”

  He could have wept when he saw her incomprehension. “But you want me.”

  “Aye.” No point denying it. “It’s no’ enough.”

  “Perhaps you can make me want you.” She verged nearer. “I know you won’t hurt me, and trust will surely help us.”

  “It will.”

  She was close enough now to reach for him. “Diarmid, I’m tired of being broken and alone.” Her voice throbbed with conviction. “I want you to show me what I’m missing.”

  He didn’t take the proffered hand. “Fiona, ye dinna have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said stubbornly.

  He sighed. Somehow they’d moved from something that was impossible to something that might just happen. “You ask a lot of me. What if I let ye down?”

  “You won’t.” She swallowed. “Let’s start with something small. Will you teach me how to kiss?”

  “Kiss?”

  She’d kissed him at the bothy. That night, too, she’d offered herself. The similarities to tonight hadn’t escaped him.

  He’d dismissed her clumsiness then as a result of fear and desperation and unwillingness. But maybe…

  “You’ve never been kissed?”

  “You kissed me today at our wedding.”

  “Aye.” The experience had threatened to send him up in smoke. “What about before that?”

  “My late husband didn’t waste time on anything but the essentials.” She lowered her hand and shifted from one foot to the other. “I kissed you at the crofter’s cottage. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

  A derisive huff of laughter escaped him. “Dinna be a fool, lassie. Of course I remember. Ye don’t know how close I came to losing control that night. I was in agony.”

  He expected his admission to daunt her, but to his surprise, she looked gratified instead. “Are you in agony now?”

  “Aye.” The answer was a groan.

  “You want me so much?”

  “Fiona, dinna be a wee cat. Ye ken what you do to me.”

  With a radiant smile that set his poor overburdened heart cartwheeling again, she drew herself up and sent him a direct look. “Then it’s time, my husband, that you kissed your bride.”

  Chapter 24

  Fiona sounded braver than she felt. When Ian Grant went to his final rest, she’d sworn that she’d never again submit to a man’s demands. But these days in Diarmid’s company had made her wonder if the male touch must always be harsh and greedy and frightening.

  She’d never felt desire, but she couldn’t deny that sometimes when she looked at the man she’d just married, wanton curiosity stirred in her blood.

  Ian Grant had made her skin crawl. Diarmid Mactavish’s touch made her feel safe and cherished, even before he took the astonishing step of marrying her to keep her safe. If gratitude and liking meant anything, she could endure what was to come. At least he didn’t smell like an old man, and his breath was sweet.

  Men enjoyed the vile act. She couldn’t imagine women ever did.

  Except all day, Marina’s words had played in her mind. As Fiona stood beside Diarmid’s bed, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps there might be…more.

  This time when she offered her hand, he took it. As those strong fingers closed around hers, heat surged up her arm and settled around her stuttering heart.

  “Ye do me such honor, Fiona.” His dark eyes were steady. “I promise I willnae hurt you.”

  “I know you won’t.” She believed that at least he’d try.

  “If you’re frightened, tell me and we’ll stop.” He frowned. “Your hand is trembling.”

  “I’m nervous. That’s natural.” She made herself meet that perceptive gaze. It was difficult not to keep staring at the muscled expanse of his bare chest. She’d never imagined she’d find a male torso quite such a compelling sight. “But today I promised you my body. Don’t make me dishonor my word.”

  “Verra well,” he
said softly.

  “What should I do?”

  Tenderness softened that searching black stare. “Venturing a wee step closer might help.”

  She blushed. For heaven’s sake, she’d been married nine years and borne a child. Stupid to feel as uncertain as a maiden with her first lover. “Are you staying in the bed?”

  Self-mockery twisted his expressive mouth. “I fear if I throw the sheets aside, you’ll run screaming from the room.”

  Her eyes settled on the way the loosely draped sheet tented below his waist. All the moisture dried from her mouth, and her pulse fluttered erratically. That was the part of him he’d shove into her. She struggled not to remember how it had felt when Ian strained and grunted.

  “I’m made of sterner stuff than that.” She prayed she spoke the truth.

  The smile deepened, and so did the tenderness. “Let’s no’ put it to the test just yet.”

  Something in his expression set up a thrumming pulse in the base of her belly. She bit her lip and cast a nervous glance around the room. “Before we go any further, shouldn’t I extinguish the lamps?”

  “No.”

  “No?” The question emerged as a squeak.

  He shook his head. “I want to engage all your senses, including sight.” The comprehensive survey he gave her body made that throbbing between her legs more insistent. “I’ve dreamed of seeing ye.”

  She licked dry lips and noticed with another jolt of awareness how his eyes flared when they focused on the betraying movement. “You have?”

  “Aye.” The fervor in the simple answer made her tremble. “Take off your shawl and come and sit beside me, Fiona.”

  She’d always loved how he said her name. Right now, with night surrounding them and the prospect of his possession looming, her name turned into music on his lips.

  Fiona couldn’t force a word through her tight throat, but with her free hand, she slid the pretty shawl Marina had given her from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her nipples beaded against her silk nightdress, as Diarmid subjected her to another of those leisurely inspections.