He frowned. Surely if anythingmomentoushad happened between his wife and himself, he would remember, right?
After another glass of water and more groaning, Fox managed to dress and stumble his way downstairs.
Leah and her brothers sat at the dining room table, eating breakfast.
Both Malcolm and Ethan looked as haggard as Fox felt—sallow-skinned and squinting in the bright morning light.
Leah, as women were wont to do from time immemorial, was rather obnoxiously chipper, finding unnatural joy in the collective misery of her menfolk.
“How did ye sleep, husband?” she asked, perhaps a bit louder than was strictly necessary.
All three men blanched.
Leah tried hiding a smile and failed miserably.
Fox should have been annoyed. Truly, he should have.
But instead he found it—foundher—adorable. The mischievous light in her eyes. The way her lips twitched, trying to stifle an impish grin.
Granted, his wife appeared quite delectable this morning. Her hair held a glossy chestnut sheen and the bodice of her dress hugged her body in a way he was male enough to notice. And as she was his wife, he allowed himself the pleasure of noticing at leisure.
“I slept well, thank you,” he replied.
Malcolm grunted.
Ethan leaned an elbow on the table, pressed fingertips to his temple, and continued to eat, head down.
Leah, of course, merely smiled wider.
Fox stared. When had his wife morphed from merely attractive to this vivid, lush beauty?
More memories rose, vague but . . . tantalizing.
The scrape of her fingernails on his scalp, gooseflesh skittering . . .
The press of her soft chest against his . . .
The feel of her throat, smooth and impossibly delicate under his lips . . .
But, frustratingly, he could remember nothing more.
Whathadhappened last night?
Had Fox done something untoward?
Leah didn’t blush or appear embarrassed by his staring, but she also struggled to meet his eyes with her characteristic ease, preferring to gaze at her plate.
Surely, Fox’s thoughts were not true memories, but merely his imagination at play. As if to point this out, scenes scrolled through his brain—definitely all his own fantasies—outlining in detail the delightful intimacies a husband could share with his wife.
Turning his head, he met Malcolm’s all-too-seeing eyes. Fox shrank from the censure he saw there.
Poor Leah received so little from their marriage. She did not need a lecherous husband ogling her.
Fox poured himself a cup of coffee and helped himself to some coddled eggs, black pudding, and smoked bacon. Was it only a month or two ago that his household had struggled to produce any breakfast at all?
Yes, Leah had wrought a miracle.
His wife arched her pretty neck and looked out the window. “It rained last night, which means the River South Esk will be full tae brimming today. The fishing will be excellent. You gentlemen should have a go.”
