He stepped inside quickly—and his breath caught when he saw her behind the door. Her skin and hair glowed in the golden light of the flickering candle in her hand. Though there was nothing revealing about her long white nightshift, it had the power of the forbidden to turn his thoughts in untoward directions. His breathing grew shallow as his gaze traveled down its length to her beguiling bare toes poking out from the bottom.
Connor finally remembered to shut the door. “We must talk.”
She gestured toward the lone bench and, after setting her candlestick on the small table next to it, sat down on one end. Ilysa looked so small and fragile that he felt huge sitting next to her. While he usually admired her capacity for silence, he wished she would say something now.
“I was concerned when ye did not come to the hall all day,” he said. “Are ye all right?”
She nodded without meeting his gaze. Clearly, she was not all right.
“I am sorry I…” There were so many things to be sorry for that Connor did not know where to start, and so he said the last thing he should have said aloud. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hold ye after.”
It turned out, however, to be the right thing.
Ilysa raised her gaze and gave him a faint smile. “That would have been nice.”
When he gingerly put his arm around her, she leaned her head against his shoulder and gave a shuddering sigh. He held her gently, and neither of them spoke for a long time.
“I’ve never bedded a virgin before,” he said at last. “Did I hurt ye badly?”
“No.”
He didn’t believe her. “I would have been gentler if I’d known,” he said, though he would not have done it at all. “You were married. I don’t understand how ye could be untouched.”
“Mìchael was killed at the Battle of Flodden a short time after we wed.”
“Precisely how long were ye wed?” Connor asked, leaning back so he could see her face.
Ilysa paused and licked her lips. “Three months.”
“Three months?” Connor lifted her chin. “How could a man be wed to ye for even a day and not bed ye?”
Ilysa’s bottom lip trembled.
“What happened?” Connor brushed a loose red-gold strand back from her pixie face and resisted kissing her forehead.
“My husband didn’t want me in that way,” Ilysa said, blinking hard.
“Ye can’t be serious.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she said. “I’m not pretty like Moira and Sìleas.”
“Ach, you’re as lovely as a woodland sprite.”
“Ye don’t have to tell me lies,” Ilysa said, attempting a smile, “though I confess I like it.”
“I don’t know how your husband could resist ye once he had ye na—” Connor clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late to stop him from imagining her naked. Desire hit him hard.Damn, why had he not paused to take her clothes off today?
He reminded himself that he was here to comfort her—and to get some answers—but it was difficult to concentrate when he could feel the warmth of her skin through the nightshift. He was far too aware that she wore nothing beneath it.
“Mìchael did try sometimes,” Ilysa said in a small voice. “But he couldn’t, and that was worse.”
“Did he like men?” Connor asked, as that seemed the only possible explanation. When her eyes went wide, he asked, “Ye do know that some men are like that?”
She shook her head.
Connor was not surprised. He had met men among the nobility in France who did not hide their interest in other men, but a Highland warrior with any sense of self-preservation would keep it secret. After Connor explained his suspicions about her husband, Ilysa was thoughtful for a long moment.
“Mìchael did have a friend, another warrior, that he was especially close to,” she said. “But then, you’re close to my brother and your cousins.”
