He reached his hand out and rested it on the upper curve of her arse. ‘Twas then that he noticed something hidden under the waist of her gown, the edge of something blue-black. He slid his hand up, moving the gown to reveal an old bruise, the remnants of what had to have been a painful kick to her side. He presumed that this could be why she was closed off and hard and tried to blend into the background. Unless she had encountered the bruise in some other, traitorous manner. Probably not, but not impossible . . .
Reade slid his hand back down to the luscious curve of her backside. She stiffened under his palm and sealed their fate this night. Instead of hiking up his kilt and driving his manhood deep into her sheath, Reade gripped the edge of her skirts and yanked them back down, hiding the alluring promise of her arse.
A moment of dismay coursed through him. Everything about her was exactly what he craved in a woman, sprightly and stunning, making his cock stand with a mere look.
Why did she have to be a Gordon, a potential spy, and despise this marriage seemingly as much as he did? Why did she have to appear abused and yet still make his manhood as stiff as his sword?
Her eyes widened under her curtain of hair, and she lifted herself on her elbows. The air in the room was suddenly warm, too warm, the fire too hot, and the image of her on his bed, her breasts surging under her tight bodice, making him want to change his mind and flip her over.
Why was being with Blair such a conundrum?
He didn’t know that, but he knew one thing for certain. He wasn’t bedding her tonight.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice tight.
Reade stepped away from the bed, putting judicious distance between them.
“I won’t take ye that way,” he told her, his voice gruff. “The conflict between us, this marriage, nay. Too much has been forced, and ‘twould appear ye may have suffered for that already. I will no’ force myself on an unwilling lass. I won’t take ye until ye want me to.”
Then, he turned on his booted heel and exited his chambers.
He’d find his bed before the kitchen hearth or in the barns with the beasts before he shagged a woman who didn’t want him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blair remained bentover on the bed for a few heartbeats after the door slammed shut, confusion muddling her mind.
What just happened?
What had Reade expected? They barely knew each other. They had been forced into this marriage. And truthfully, when she’d been married to Mungo, had he ever considered if she wanted to couple with him? Nay. Most times he’d done as she had this night – bent her over a bed or table, used her roughly and quickly, and left her with her skirts over her hips and his weak seed dripping down her thigh.
And that wasifhe coupled with her at all.
What had Reade wanted?
And were they married if he hadn’t consummated the union? Was he going to use that as his way out of this marriage? What might become of her then? She might not have wished for a husband, but at least she had a safe haven from the dangerous politicking between the MacDonalds and the Campbells in the meantime. What would become of her if he had the marriage annulled and turned her out?
