‘Have you tried it?’
‘Aye, but I don’t like it.’
‘Well, I will make you some of mine, which youwilllike. Then you will sleep.’ She turned away and began scanning the volumes once more.
He chuckled. ‘So easy, is it?’
She shrugged and pulled a volume from the shelf, hugging it to her chest. ‘Aye. It could be.’ She smiled and whisked past him, her skirts swishing over his shoes. ‘Now I must tend to my seedlings.’
He smiled at the ripple of joy in her voice and the lightness in her step. It made him wish he was but one of her beloved plants. He shook his head.
Fool.
He followed her to the room next to the library. It had at one time been a solarium, but no one really frequented it now. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been in it. Three little clay pots sat like tiny soldiers along the windowsill awaiting their orders from the sun and of course their commander, Lady Moira.
He smiled at the thought of her being in such a role.
She fussed over each of them, sprinkled them with water from her fingers from a nearby pitcher, and turned to him. She met his gaze. Colour eased up her neck and into her cheeks as she looked away from him. ‘My apologies. I know you have other, er, plans for this eve than me dawdling over my plants.’
‘My only plan is to spend the eve with you. To get to know my wife.’
She stilled and nibbled her bottom lip. Her bosom rose and fell quickly, and he found himself entranced entire by the bloom of her skin glowing in the shadows of the flickering firelight.
‘You are absolutely beautiful, Moira Fraser.’
She released a breath and the tiny glass pendant at her throat winked in the light. ‘McKenna,’ she whispered.
‘Aye. You are right.’ He approached her and took her hands in his own. Once more they were cool, and he realised she must be chilled in her thin gown. The temperature had dropped as the sun had descended, but he’d not been bothered in his tunic and jacket. He clutched her hands in his own, the soft, chilled flesh so welcoming against his skin. He rubbed her hands between his own before lifting them and blowing warm air on them. She shivered, her eyes widening and chest rising and falling as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Slowly, she dropped his gaze and pulled her hands away.
‘You’re chilled. I’m a fool. Come. Let us get you warm.’ He rested his hand along her lower back and she shifted away from his touch. He let his hand fall away. Somehow he was upsetting her, but he didn’t know how or why.
They walked in silence back to their chambers, her a half-step ahead of him. She stopped at her door and faced him. ‘I shall ready myself, my laird.’
‘Moira, I—’
She closed the door before he could utter anything further, and he clamped his mouth shut.
He was somehow making a muck of being a husband, and he’d only been married a mere handful of hours. He ran a hand through his hair, entered his chamber and yanked off his boots, letting them clunk one by one to the floor. He sank in his favourite chair and sighed. He’d given Angus the night off, so he could spend uninterrupted time with his new bride. Perhaps that had been an error. He frowned. She seemed nervous, edgy, as if... He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut.
He was a fool. A daft bloody fool.
Of course she had been married. She was no virgin or unawares of the ways of the marriage bed, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be nervous about being intimate with him. He was little more than a stranger after all. He’d never even thought of it until now as there had been so many other things to focus on. He should have put her at ease. They didn’t need to rush into anything if she wasn’t comfortable. Sure, they had an arrangement with terms she had openly agreed to. He needed to sire an heir, but he would need a compliant and willing wife to do that. He rose, poured himself a whisky and paced the room. He’d give her a half hour and go into her chamber. They’d talk it through, so she understood. He didn’t wish her to be walking around on nettles fearing that he might ravage her at any moment.
When the clock finally chimed half past eleven, he sighed in relief, set down his almost empty glass of whisky and knocked on the chamber door that joined his room with her own.
‘Moira?’ he called.
‘Come in,’ she answered.
He released a breath and smoothed his rumpled tunic. He would talk with her. They’d figure this out.
Steady.
Turning the knob, he entered the room. A chill seized his body and he stood frozen, transfixed at the threshold. He swallowed hard.
He’d never seen anything so terrifyingly beautiful in all his life.
On top of the dark coverlet under the glow of the dim candlelight of the room was his bride. Moira lay stark naked, her eyes squeezed shut with her luscious skin glowing like a pearl along her dangerous and beautiful curves. And he found he didn’t trust himself at all.
