“Do you regret it?” she asked.
The moment she posed the question, she wished she could rescind it. For it was not an answer she wanted, she feared.
“Hurting you?” He frowned. “Of course. If there was some other way, I would have gladly… It is not my intention to cause you pain. Nor has it ever been.”
How strange it was, she realized, for the two of them to be alone, in a bed, engaging in a conversation. No chaperone. No trappings of civility. They were only woman and man, husband and wife, alone. Stripped of every artifice.
Her newfound freedom made her suddenly bold. More daring than she had ever been. She met his deep, brown gaze, unflinching. “I did not refer to hurting me physically. I referred to the consummation. Do you regret that?”
He clenched his jaw, staring at her with his customary intensity. “No,querida. It needed to be done if you are to bear my heir. There is no escaping that.”
Ah, yes. Necessity. His heir.
All the reasons why he had married her.
Catriona did not know why his lack of emotions for her left her so aggrieved.
“Of course,” she said, feigning a smile.
For his benefit. And for hers—for herpride, that was.
“Are you in much pain?” Still frowning, he ran his thumb over her cheek in soothing strokes.
She wondered how he could show her such tenderness and yet eviscerate her at the same time? The question she had been tamping down within her, withholding at all costs, rose, strident and demanding. She could not hold it in another minute more.
“Yes,” she answered him honestly. “It pains me to believe you were thinking ofherbefore. That you are thinking of her now.”
He tensed, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. “The heart wants what it wants.”
Dear heavens.That confirmed it. The pleasure her husband had seemed to take in bedding her had belonged to another. Just as his heart did.
She swallowed. “Of course.”
Catriona understood he had loved his first wife. He had suffered her loss. And she could not fault him for either his grief or the circumstances in which she now found herself. He had entered their marriage with brutal honesty; he had no use for her but one. It was only her own failing that made her heart ache.
Without another word to her, he rolled from the bed. Without a care for his own nudity, he stalked across the chamber. She watched his progression, her stare undeniably drawn to him. He was lean and spare and powerful. Every part of him, from the thick, wavy dark locks atop his head, to the chiseled muscles of his buttocks, was perfect. His back was strong, a plane of sinews and strength. His stomach was lean. His calves, never a part of a gentleman which had previously attracted her interest, captured her attention now.
And his feet.
Heavens, even his feet—large and masculine—seemed regrettably perfect.
Perfection as he left her. He did not bother to close the door, however. Exhaling on a deep sigh filled with her own regrets, she reached for the discarded bedclothes at last, drawing them to her chin. Never in her life had she been entirely nude, lying in her bed.
It seemed blasphemous.
Dangerous.
Wicked.
Wonderful.
She could not deny the way her newfound freedom left her feeling. If she were not so confused by her reaction to her husband and his reaction to her, she was sure she would be pleased by the state in which she currently found herself. Thoroughly wedded, and even more thoroughly bedded.
But before she had too long to dwell upon her tumultuous thoughts, he reappeared at the threshold, bearing a cloth and a basin.
Still naked.
And even though she had so recently experienced every part of his tall, masculine form pressed against her body, she could not help but to allow her gaze to travel over every inch of him. He made her heart beat faster, and he made an ache begin between her thighs anew.
