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She swallowed, waiting, feeling her anticipation grow every moment.

“We shall get to know each other,” he said finally, his finger tracing the outline of her cheek. It moved to her neck, the touch so light it sent a shiver to her very core.

His finger dipped below the neckline of her gown. “And you’ve nothing to be afraid of,” he finished, correctly guessing her thoughts. Gillian knew little of what happened between a husband and wife. “By the time we reach Highgate End,” he said, dropping his hand, “you’ll know my touch well.”

He leaned forward, placing his lips on hers. If she thought they were warm, the touch of his tongue when she opened her mouth for him was even more so. It glided across her own, studying it as intently as any pupil studying its subject. He circled and tasted, and Gillian gave of herself freely.

Too freely.

She thought he would touch her then. In fact, she hoped for his hands to roam her chest as they’d done before, making the hairs on her arm stand up straight. Instead, his mouth alone made contact, and though her body screamed to get closer, Gillian wasn’t so bold as to encourage him. Besides, this was quite lovely.

Oh!

When he turned his head to the side, fitting their mouths together just perfectly, she changed her mind. Gillian wanted . . . more.

But it wasn’t to be. Graeme eventually pulled back, his lips still wet with the remnants of their kiss. He stared so intently at her lips. What did he see there? Did he wish to do it again?

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Apparently not.

“The floor?”

When he stood, the bed creaked in protest. “Do you need assistance preparing for sleep?”

Assistance? Oh dear. How could she have completely forgotten about her maid? Morgan had been ill, which had kept her from attending the May Day celebrations. She didn’t know that her charge was now a married woman.

“I do not. But I had not even considered—”

“Your parents have assured me they will send her to meet us at Highgate.”

“How did you know my thoughts?” she asked, genuinely curious.

The look he gave her—both puzzled and intense—made her wish she hadn’t asked. “I honestly don’t know.” Graeme retrieved the tray and walked with it toward the door. “I will be downstairs. If you need anything—”

She blinked.

“You will likely be asleep when I return. So I bid you good night.” And with a polite nod, the kind a knight would give to his squire, Graeme left.

What in the devil was he about?

One thing was for sure. Graeme de Sowlis was the most contradictory, confusing . . . albeit loyal and respectful . . . man in all of England. And Scotland. And beyond, for all she knew. Perhaps it was good he’d left her. Gillian had more important matters to consider than her traitorous body’s reaction to her new husband. At least Morgan would be joining them at Highgate and could give her news of home.

What would it be like, Highgate End? She supposed she would soon find out.

10

Her new home reminded her of a fire-breathing dragon roused from a long slumber. It stood tall and proud on the horizon, alone but powerful nonetheless. Emerging from dense woodlands after a decline that had left her more than a bit shaken, Gillian stared down at the castle sprawled in front of her. From their vantage point, she could see everything clearly. Green-topped mountains surrounded a valley with its small village and long road, which led to the castle that Graeme had inherited from his father.

In three days, she’d learned precious little about the man to whom she was now married. Though he came to her each night, his kisses holding promises they never kept, he spoke to her during the day as he would one of his men. Polite, as he’d accused her of being. Detached. And he would leave each night after kissing her senseless. She would fall asleep before he returned to their room to sleep on the floor.

Graeme was everything she’d expected in a husband. A companion, one who admittedly treated her well, and nothing more. Exactly like her parents. If he didn’t look at her the way Geoffrey looked at Sara, well, that was to be expected. After all, this was no love match. At least she found him pleasing—no, more than pleasing—company.

“What do you think?” Graeme asked from behind her.

“It’s bigger than Lyndwood,” she said. “And quite beautiful.”

The sun had just begun its descent, giving the castle an eerie glow that made her think of the many tales of Scottish superstition foisted upon her by her very English tutor. She’d never liked the Londoner, brought to Lyndwood by her father, and apparently, he’d never quite taken to the borderlands either. Once both she and her sister could read and write passably well, he had moved back home, never to be seen or heard from again.