“So do I. I pledged all my worldly goods to ye.”
She, too, put down her wine. Drinking it now would make her heave. “But we don’t have a real marriage.”
One sleek black eyebrow tilted. “No?”
Did they?
The silence reverberated with a thousand questions, none of which she
felt capable of asking.
“It feels rather marital to be sitting in my bath, while you’re watching over me in your nightie.”
It did feel marital. So had the hours they’d spent traveling together across Scotland. In nine years with Ian, nothing had felt as intimate as the most casual word she spoke to Diarmid.
“I suppose it does,” she said slowly.
“Are my causes yours?”
“I don’t know what your causes are,” she retorted.
“At the moment, my causes are to disentangle my wife from her villainous relatives and bring her daughter to live with us.”
Her lips turned down, although her heart was so jammed with poignant emotion, she felt close to crying. “How you must curse the day you found me on that beach.”
His smile held no shadows. “Never.”
However sincere he sounded, she couldn’t believe him. “Let me top up your hot water while we talk about this outlandish idea.”
Two large cans waited near the door. As she emptied them into the bath, she realized that Diarmid was right. Somewhere in the last few days, she’d turned into a wife, not a bride. She couldn’t put her finger on the precise difference, but there was one.
“Thank ye,” he said softly.
She subsided onto her stool and took another mouthful of her wine. It didn’t taste half as good as Diarmid’s kisses. “I still hate to think of you giving all that money to a toad like Allan.”
“No’ even to save Christina?”
Her gesture expressed irritation. “You used that argument to convince me to marry you.”
“It still packs a punch.”
It did, damn him. “Gratitude can smother, you know.”
He didn’t look happy. He understood what she was saying. “Fergus is looking into getting your property back from the Grants. You’ll feel more in control of your destiny, once you’ve brought a dowry to the match, I know.”
“Good luck to him. He’ll need pliers to winkle so much as a penny out of Allan Grant. That man loves money almost as much as he loves the clan’s unquestioning obedience.”
“I’m banking on that.” Diarmid paused. “Are you truly so stiff-necked with pride that ye willnae accept my help, even though when we married, I placed my entire fortune at your disposal?”
Her grip on the glass tightened, and her tone turned bitter. “You’re always accusing me of pride, when you must know that the Grants humiliated me over and over.”
The mocking fondness in his expression made her feel like he caught her heart in one powerful hand and squeezed it. “Darling lassie, without that pride, the Grants would have beaten every scrap of spirit out of ye. I’m devilish grateful for your pride. Without it, we’d never have met, because you’d never have found the nerve to defy Allan and run away.” He went on before she could remind him yet again of all the trouble she’d caused him. “But sometimes ye must set pride aside to achieve the larger goal. Getting Christina back is our purpose. Nothing can come between us and success.”
She shifted uncomfortably on her stool. He made her feel petty and ungracious—and like a bad mother. “If you go to Bancavan with a thousand pounds in your pocket, we’ll see neither you nor the money again. Allan will shoot you, steal the gold, and bury you where nobody will ever find the body.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” A ruthless light entered Diarmid’s eyes. “Which is why I propose to meet him on neutral ground.”
“He’ll still try and bring you down.”