Diarmid immediately regretted his irritation. After all, this cold wedding night was what he’d expected. He made himself smile in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and set aside the volume of Hazlitt’s essays he’d taken from Fergus’s library. When he’d opened it tonight, he’d wondered how many other bridegrooms went to bed with an improving book on their wedding night.
By God, not many, he’d wager. No, those lucky sods had something much more entertaining to look forward to than finding pleasure in an elegant turn of phrase.
“Dinna be afraid.” He kept his tone soothing. “The Grants dinna ken we’re here. Even if they did, you’re my wife now. They have nae more legal claim on ye.”
“I know,” she said, her voice still so low, it was almost a whisper. Those busy hands twisted over and around one another in an agitated dance.
“Then what are ye doing here?” The question emerged much more baldly than he’d intended.
Curse him, he wished he’d turned down the lamps. The light was more than bright enough to reveal every detail of her appearance. He tried to tell himself he’d seen her in her nightdress before, but Mags’s acres of billowing flannel didn’t give the same impression as this fine—and much more closely fitted—sheath of white clinging to his wife’s slender body.
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.”