Baird muttered something under his breath, then reached for the nearest blanket. “Here,” he said gruffly.
Before she could protest, he draped the blanket around her shoulders. His hands lingered only a heartbeat, making sureit covered her chemise completely. The gesture was gentle, protective, and infuriatingly thoughtful.
Davina clutched the blanket tight, cheeks burning. She wished she didn’t feel the loss of his nearness so sharply the moment he stepped away.
Baird raised his voice. “Aye, come in.”
The door opened. One of his younger men bowed his head apologetically.
“Me laird,” he said, eyes flicking quickly away from Davina as he realized she was wrapped in a blanket. “Forgive the interruption. Captain Kenny sent me. He says it’s urgent.”
Baird’s jaw flexed, and the shift in his expression was sudden and unmistakable: he was the laird again, not the man who had just washed mud from her skin with steady hands.
He nodded once. “Tell him I’m coming.”
The man bowed and left.
Baird exhaled slowly and turned toward her. “This wasnae how I meant tae leave ye,” he said, and even his voice was roughened by the moment they’d been interrupted.
Davina tightened the blanket around herself. “It’s fine,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure anything was fine. Her pulse had not yet settled. Her thoughts were a storm.
He hesitated, looking as though he wanted to say something more—explain himself, perhaps, or apologize, or admit what they both had felt only moments ago. But duty pulled him away.
“Stay warm, have a bath. I’ll return when I can.”
Baird reached for the door, paused, then looked back at her, with that blanket clutched to her chest and her hair falling in soft, damp waves around her face. His eyes were fathomless, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He took one last look. Then, he left.
Davina stood in their chamber, still wrapped in the blanket he had given her, wondering how she was supposed to breathe normally again.
CHAPTER 12
Baird strode down the corridor with a far quicker pace than necessary.
I nearly kissed her.
He cursed under his breath, low enough the walls alone bore witness. “Fool. Absolute fool.”
Her scent still clung to him, as did the memory of her soft gasp when he had touched her neck. They were far too close and his self-control, usually ironclad, had cracked like thin ice under her feet.
He reached the turn near the stairwell and braced a hand against the cold stone, bowing his head. He needed a moment. But the moment brought no relief.
He could still see her standing there in his mind’s eye, wrapped in his blanket, with her cheeks flushed and her chemise clinging damply to her shoulders.
Beautiful.Toobeautiful.
And he wanted her. He wanted her with a fierceness that frightened him.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Ye had nay right,” he muttered. “None.”
He was her husband, but not by design and certainly not by her choosing. He was a stand-in for the man who should have stood at her side. Malcolm should have been the one lifting blankets around her shoulders, washing the mud from her skin, coaxing shy smiles from her lips.
Malcolm should have lived.
The thought sliced through him. It always did.
He clenched his teeth and forced himself upright, shoving the guilt down deep where it had dwelled since the moment Davina had almost fainted into his arms at the altar, and he’d seen his brother lying lifeless on the stone floor.
Malcolm was gone.
