Jeane tilted her head, curious in spite of herself.
“How so?”
“Well, he fights alongside his men, for one. He’s not very good at delegating. And he lets me live as I want. He says all women should live as they want. He hates the idea of me bein’ married off, wants me to choose me own husband.”
Jeane blinked at Lottie. “He does?”
“Aye,” Lottie said with a nod, her face a little flushed as she gave a small smile. “Bet ye cannae guess who I will choose.”
Jeane laughed, looking down at Lottie’s flushed face and easy smile.
The man that Lottie described, the unconventional one, was not the man who had taken Jeane from the woods. Fergus had been like any other man then, taking what he saw fit to take.
“Ye will have to report to Fergus every day about me health,” Lottie said. “He was very adamant about that.”
“Aye, I assumed I would,” Jeane said.
Her head was still spinning as she gave Lottie her first dose and left the other draughts with her.
The carefree Fergus that Lottie described did not match the cold, demanding man that Jeane knew. Even his kiss had been hungry, wanting more, wanting to take. And even if part of Jeane had wished to give Fergus what he wanted, that did not mean that she should marry him just because he said so.
She needed to face him, but she was not sure how. She needed to tell him that she needed time to think about his proposal, but first, she would report on Lottie.
There seemed to be two men warring inside Fergus—the happy, lenient man who let his sister wear breeches and the demanding, cold man who had kidnapped Jeane.
Which was he, really?
CHAPTER TEN
Fergus sat in his study, waiting for Aiden to come and give his daily report. The desk he sat behind was grand, mahogany, belonging to his father. He swept his hands across it, wondering how many reports his father had gotten here, how many nights he’d spent sitting in this chair.
Fergus should be thinking about what Aiden might say, thinking of the clan.
But he could not go five minutes without thinking of Jeane, of the kiss they had shared. He cursed himself for not having his head on his shoulders, feeling up in the clouds every time he thought of her soft curves beneath his hands, the way her lips had opened up for him as he slid his tongue across them. He shifted in his seat, his manhood stirring to life as he pictured Jeane’s doe-brown eyes, looking up at him with so much want in them that it made him crazy.
He wanted more. Wanted to taste her again, delve deeper into her mouth, let his hands trail all over that soft body of hers. He wanted her in his bed, bare and writhing beneath him, wanted to see if that flush of hers went down to her navel.
He did not know what was wrong with him. He had never wanted a woman like this, not even before when he had had a betrothed.
He had not had a true relationship in years, not since the accident that left him scarred and weary. There had been women, yes, women attracted to his power, but the way they’d looked at him like he was a monster…
But Jeane—she had not looked at him like he was a monster at all. Most women found him unpleasant, even intimidating, and that was as much his size as his scars.
But Jeane touched him as if he were something precious, and he wanted to keep that feeling locked away in his heart forever. She had wanted him too.
He knew it. Could feel it in the way she looked at him, the way her fingers had clutched at his tunic as he kissed her.
A sharp knock at the door broke Fergus out of his fantasies. He groaned softly.
“Come in.”
Aiden walked into the room, instantly heading over to the chair across from Fergus. He had a serious look on his face which always meant trouble from the carefree Aiden.
“What’s the bad news?”
“Nae bad,” Aiden said quickly. “Just… interestin’.”
“Out with it, Aiden,” Fergus said with an edge of warning in his voice.
