Page 40 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

However, she wasn’t blind to the fact that each of his promises built a wall around her safety. None required him to open up.

He placed the bowl in her hands and kept it steady until she had a secure grip. “Eat.”

“I still have little appetite.”

“I can wait,” he responded, his voice too confident to leave ground for argument.

She watched as he settled back in the chair and tore another piece of bread, making it clear that he would remain beside her bed until she yielded.

She drank some broth. The warmth in her stomach awakened her hunger, so she took another mouthful without being commanded. Oscar’s shoulders lowered by a fraction as he poured water into a cup and set it close to her hand.

He gave no praise, which spared them both the indignity of treating her like a stubborn child. His attention remained on the bowl, though his gaze occasionally returned to her loose hair. Whenever a strand brushed her mouth, he tucked it away.

Ceana finished half the broth before setting the bowl down. Oscar reached for the remaining bread, perhaps expecting her to accept another piece.

“Do ye regret kissin’ me?” she asked.

His hand paused above the loaf.

Ceana held her breath at the sight.

Good. Some things can still affect him.

His jaw flexed, and his gaze flicked to her lips. A deep breath expanded his chest before he pushed the chair back an inch.

“I regret losin’ control,” he said. “I crossed the limits we agreed on without considerin’ what would follow.”

“That doesnae answer me question.”

“It is the only answer I am willin’ to give tonight.”

Anger tightened Ceana’s grip on the bowl. “Ye speak as though the kiss was somethin’ ye did alone.”

Oscar looked at her again.

“I kissed ye back,” she reminded him.

“I ken.” His voice had dropped low enough to stir the memory along her skin.

The acknowledgment contained no doubt as he rose before the exchange could draw him toward the bed again. He straightened the tray and placed the remaining bread within her reach, then moved the cup closer to the edge of the table.

“Rest,” he urged. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Our weddin’ day.”

“Aye.”

He did not touch her again. At the door, he faced her with the formal restraint he had worn throughout the day.

“I will see ye tomorrow, Ceana.”

The door closed quietly behind him.

Paisley’s ribbon remained beside the lamp, and the food Oscar had brought still warmed the air near the bed.

Tomorrow, Ceana would marry a man who remembered every meal she missed and guarded everyone she loved. A man who did and might always consider her as a duty he had to fulfill.

CHAPTER 11