“I think ye’ll live.”
“Ye daenae ken that. I could die of wantin’ ye.”
Jeane giggled and planted a chaste kiss on his mouth, then shivered slightly, pulling her shawl around herself.
Fergus tightened his arms around her, giving her body warmth.
“What’s wrong, little mouse?”
“Just thinkin’ about me father,” she admitted. She could not seem to help herself.
“Daenae waste yer tears on him,” Fergus said, brushing away moisture from her cheek.
“Ye’re right,” she agreed. “I shouldnae waste one second thinkin’ about him.”
She pushed thoughts of her father out of her mind and turned to Fergus. He leaned down to kiss her, but she darted away playfully, and he growled, following her inside.
Fergus thought he might have been losing his mind. He wanted Jeane so badly, and she would not even let him kiss her.
It was torture to hold her and not be able to do anything else, torture to walk her to her bedchambers every night and not even be allowed to brush his lips across her cheek.
Fergus wanted her so badly, wanted to touch her, make her come apart beneath him. He wanted her writhing under him, but he respected that she wanted to wait until after the hand-fasting ceremony.
It was just… difficult.
It was a dreary Sunday morning when Beatrice and Campbell arrived. They came in several carriages, wagons laden with wedding presents. They had gone all out, and Fergus was happy to meet them.
Campbell was a quiet one, but he seemed strong and completely enamored with the bright Beatrice. He stayed a step behind her at all times, as if he always wanted to be near her.
Fergus could understand the impulse. He wanted to touch Jeane always, but she would not sleep in his bedchambers the way he wanted. He supposed it was for the best. He was not sure he could control himself, and he never wanted to push her.
She teased him on purpose, it seemed, wearing these low-cut necklines that showed off her long throat and her ample cleavage.
He wanted her breasts in his hands, his thumbs sliding across her peaking nipples.
He ushered Laird and Lady McArthur into the sitting room, along with Agnes, a sweet, if shy girl, and Annabel, a strong-willed woman who seemed fiercely independent.
She reminded him of Jeane.
He knocked lightly on her chamber door, and when she did not answer, he knocked again before pushing the door open.
Jeane lay on top of the furs instead of under them, a habit she had that made Fergus smile. Often when he would wake her, she would be doing this, but usually, she was wearing more clothes.
This time, on the hot summer night, she must have shed her robe because now she was wearing a shift, and Fergus could see the peaks of her nipples through the fabric, could see how the material stretched tight over her arse and hips.
He groaned softly, and Jeane still did not stir.
She was a heavy sleeper these days since she finally felt safe within the castle.
“Little mouse,” he called, stepping closer and putting a hand on her hip.
Jeane stirred, turning over, and the shift was nearly translucent. Fergus turned his gaze away, his manhood stiffening under his kilt.
She was so gorgeous, with all that white-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, but he could not have her. Not yet.
Jeane looked up at him with bleary brown eyes.
“Good mornin’, little mouse,” Fergus murmured, sitting down on the bed next to her, hand still on her hip.
