Panic flared so suddenly it pushed words out of her.
“Nay!” she blurted.
He paused, half risen. “I thought ye would prefer it,” he said.
“I prefer warmth over pride,” she replied, reaching out before she could think better of it. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm.
He went very still. His skin was hot beneath her hand, hard muscle under her grip. She felt his pulse jump, or perhaps it was only her own.
“Is that what ye think this is,” he asked quietly. “Pride.”
“What else would make a man leave a perfectly good bed,” she said, trying for lightness and landing somewhere closer to pleading.
“Restraint,” he said.
Her mouth went dry. “Restraint from what.”
His gaze dropped to her hand on his arm. Firelight caught in the green of his eyes, turning them dark.
“Ariella,” he said.
The way he spoke her name this time sent something fluttering wild beneath her ribs. “I ken I am being ridiculous,” she admitted in a rush. “I ken it is only a bed. I ken we are wed and there is nothin’ shocking in sharing it. It is just…”
“New,” he supplied. “For ye. For us both.”
She had not expected him to include himself in that.
“Aye,” she whispered.
Slowly, he sank back down onto his side, facing her fully this time. Her hand slid from his arm because she did not trust herself not to cling.
Up close, his face filled her world. The harsh lines she had seen by daylight seemed softer in the wavering light, though the scars stood out pale and unmistakable. The one through his brow tugged at his eyebrow, giving him a permanent severity that did not match the careful way he was looking at her now.
He lifted his hand, knuckles brushing the edge of her blanket, and caught it, drawing it higher. With deliberate care he tucked it around her shoulders.
“If ye want me to stay in this bed,” he murmured, “then daenae test me temper with wee comments about rules.”
“Is yer temper so easily provoked?” she asked, her voice smaller than she liked.
“By many things,” he said. His gaze flicked down to her mouth for a bare instant. “Some of them more pleasant than others.”
Her lips parted. Air seemed difficult.
“I did nae mean to provoke ye,” she whispered.
“Ye did,” he answered. “From the moment ye scurried into the yard with that runaway bundle and that determined look in yer eyes.”
“I did nae scurry,” she protested, because it was either argue or think too much about the way his hand now rested on the blanket over her shoulder, wide and warm. “I slipped.”
“Ye flounced,” he said.
“I did nae flounce.”
“Ye did,” he insisted, and there was the ghost of a rough smile in his voice. His fingers flexed on her blanket, as if part of him wanted to curve over her, to pull her closer, and the rest of him fought it.
“Are ye angry with me?” she asked. The question surprised her, but once out, it would not be taken back.
He considered. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
