Page 31

“Come back later,” Graeme growled.

After a moment, the shuffling ceased and Graeme tugged on her lip, forcing her mouth to open for him.

“You’re angry,” he accused, lifting his finger back toward her lips. “Even now.”

“Aye,” Gillian managed, opening her mouth. “I didn’t plan for this. For you.” Gillian tentatively touched her tongue to his finger.

“Nor I, for you.” He licked her finger then, sending a shiver from her hand all the way down to her core.

“But ’tis done. We can rail against the injustice of it, but it matters naught.”

“Neither of us asked for this,” he said. “It may be just another alliance.”

She swallowed.

“Except for in the bedchamber.” And then he took her finger completely into his mouth, wrapped his lips around it and sucked, just once, but ever so slowly. “Do you understand?”

Did he actually want her to answer?

But then, as abruptly as he’d pulled her to him, her husband dropped her hand and walked away. Had she done something wrong?

“I understand, but . . .”

“Gillian.” He turned back toward her, and the pained expression on his face gave her pause. “If we continue, I will make love to you.”

She had expected he would. After all, she was his by right.

“And though I’d like nothing more”—he nodded toward the small bed—“this is no place for your first time.”

And though I’d like nothing more.

If she were honest, she wanted it as well. Consummation of marriage was necessary. Breeding was the ultimate goal of any marriage, of course. But she hadn’t expected to want her husband. After all, up until last eve, she’d thought she was doomed to marry Covington.

She licked her lips as she watched Graeme pick the keys up off the floor.

No, this man was entirely unexpected.

But she supposed he was right about their accommodations.

“I’ll get us firewood. And some food.” Then he left without another glance. Probably for the best, given that she was staring after him like a moony cow.

With nothing else to do, Gillian moved toward the unlit brazier. The room was a bit chilly, in truth, and she always favored a fire, even on warmer days. As soon as Graeme walked back into the room, he dropped a large armful of firewood next to the brazier, but Gillian’s attention was directed at the door. A serving girl, petite and quite young, entered with a tray of food, which she set on the bed. When she turned to leave, Gillian thanked her, but the girl didn’t respond. Or close the door. Instead, she returned a moment later with a pitcher and two mugs, which she placed on the small table by the bed, and then left and returned a third time, her arms now laden with sheets.

“Can you take that”—the girl pointed to the tray—“for just a moment?”

No one spoke as they worked, Graeme on the fire and the girl on their bed. Normally, she would at least attempt a conversation with the girl, but Gillian found herself staring mutely at the entire scene. It was all simply too much. The reversal in her future, her fortune, her marriage.

When the girl finished her task, she took the tray and placed it back on the bed. Gillian muttered her thanks but didn’t move. She only noticed Graeme when he stood directly in front of her.

“Gillian?” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

When she didn’t answer, he took her hand and guided her to sit beside him on the bed. Taking a bite of Magge’s famous meat pie, he began to eat. Gillian did the same, though she could barely taste the food.

“I know very little about you,” he said between bites. “Tell me of yourself. Your home and your family.”

She pursed her lips.

He nodded. “Then start with yourself and save your family for later.”