Maxwell’s bed.
Her gaze drifted to the man beside her.
He slept on his back, broad shoulders bare beneath the sheet, dark hair tumbled across the pillow. His face, so often carved into stern lines, looked almost peaceful. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his mouth relaxed, his brow smooth.
He looked younger like this. Less like the laird who could silence a hall with a glance, more like a man who had carried too much weight for too long and had finally, briefly, laid it down.
Ariella swallowed.
He’s claimed me as his wife.
The words came unbidden, tender and shocking all at once.
Her body felt different. Not sore, exactly, but aware. Warm. Like she was humming from the inside. She shifted slightly, and the sheet slid along her thigh. The sensation was enough to make her cheeks heat.
She should get up. Quietly. Before he woke. Before she did something foolish.
But her hand was moving before she decided to let it.
Just a touch, she told herself.Only to prove he’s real. Only to remember.
Her palm settled on his chest.
Warm. Solid. The faint rise and fall under her hand made her breath catch. She traced one careful line over the hard plane of muscle, mesmerized by the simple fact that he existed like this. That she was allowed to touch him.
She’d been too shy last night, too overwhelmed by the sheer nearness of him. Too conscious of every breath, every sound, every heartbeat, as if she might break something if she reached too far.
Now, with dawn muted and quiet, she wanted to be brave.
Her fingers slid another inch.
Maxwell shifted in his sleep.
Ariella froze as if she’d been caught stealing.
His arm moved, his hand flexing at the sheet, and a low sound left his throat, half a murmur, half a warning.
Her face went hot.
What am I doing?
She snatched her hand back, pressed both palms to her cheeks, and stared at him with the wild-eyed guilt of a girl caught sneaking biscuits from the pantry.
“Oh, saints,” she breathed.
Maxwell didn’t wake. His breathing steadied again, deep and even. He turned slightly toward her, the sheet shifting to reveal more of his shoulder, the line of his throat.
That did not help.
Ariella slid out of bed as carefully as if the floor were made of ice. She gathered her shift and gown, padded across the chamber, and slipped out the door with a soft click.
The corridor felt colder immediately.
She pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady the frantic rhythm there. Her mind replayed the warmth of his skin under her palm and the way his body had moved instinctively, unaware of her.
She hurried toward her own chamber, nearly tripping over her own feet.
When she pushed open the door, she stopped short.
