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Coward.

Graeme did regret the circumstances of Gillian’s arrival at Highgate, but it could not have been helped. He’d needed to attend to the sheepherder, to learn what had happened to poor Grace.

He walked toward the raised dais at the back of the hall, intending to ignore Agnes until he could order her to leave.

Gillian sat alone.

Without taking the time to wash, he took a seat next to her.

“Good evening, Gillian,” he said, not looking in Agnes’s direction.

“Graeme,” she said politely.

A vision of his wife assaulted him. Her head, thrown back in abandon as he kissed the sensitive flesh on her neck. Her hand, gripping his tunic. Had he imagined such things happening? The woman who sat next to him now, though as beautiful and intriguing as the one who’d returned his touch, seemed an entirely different sort of lady.

Of course, the fact that Agnes sat just below them may have something to do with her coolness. Nay, it was more than that. She’d acted the same way at Kenshire . . . until they were alone in the gardens. These were the two sides to his lady—the proper miss and the vixen.

“Did you learn anything?” she asked, picking up her pewter goblet. Though Highgate End was no match for Kenshire, its hall and furnishings enjoyed a rich history. Despite its proximity to the border, his clan had survived, and thrived, for many years.

“We know who was behind the attacks,” he said, the regret in his voice real.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

He stole a glance at her. Perfection. His wife, with those light brown freckles, lush lips, and long dark lashes, had no equal. Even now, his hands itched to touch her, to stroke her soft skin.

“You’ve likely heard of Lord Blackburn, the scourge that he is to the borderlands.”

She’d just lifted a morsel of rosemary-spiced rabbit to her mouth and therefore couldn’t answer. Unfortunately, Agnes caught his attention then and refused to let go. She glared at him as if he’d done her wrong, when in fact Graeme had given her coin and escort to Edinburgh, where she’d always planned to go. He’d even ignored the fact that her greedy father had attempted to extort him. What the hell was the woman doing sitting in his hall?

“She has much to say about you. And us,” Gillian said from next to him.

He’d expected her eyes to appear wounded, her voice to be tinged with jealousy. Instead, his lovely wife spoke of Agnes as casually as she might about the cook’s choice of main dish for the evening.

Should he expect more from a woman forced to wed him?

“I’m sure she does,” he said, ignoring Agnes as best he could.

“I am sorry for your loss.” Gillian took another sip of wine.

It took him a moment to realize she spoke once again of Grace. Unaccustomed to speaking of such things with anyone other than Aidan, he murmured, “’Tis as much a loss to my clan as it is to me. All adored her.”

“I trust Fiona showed you around Highgate?” he continued.

“She did.”

When he looked at her, Graeme was struck silent. How did one interact with a wife? Or more precisely, one who seemed content with a marriage such as theirs. An alliance, forged out of necessity and lust.

So they ate in silence. Each time Graeme glanced at her, Gillian looked away. Her smiles came easily enough for her friends at Kenshire, but they were much rarer for him. Unwittingly, he looked down at the opening of her gown, his eyes drawn to the line that led to a place he planned to explore that evening. He’d feel her breasts beneath his fingertips, and more. For Gillian may be the proper English wife at other times, but he knew the passion that simmered beneath the surface.

Though it had nearly killed him, he’d held back during their travels, unwilling for her first time to be in an inn or abbey. But their marriage could finally be consummated, and he would fulfill the silent promise he’d made to her that night in the garden. The night he’d crowned her queen.

* * *

Gillian sat on the edge of her feather bed in a comfortable but drafty bower, which, according to Fiona, had been unused for years. She watched the door that led to the adjoining wardrobe, a room that connected the lady’s and lord’s chambers. Such a room did not exist at Lyndwood. Instead, her parents dressed in their own chambers, and they slept separately.

Earlier in the day, after the shock of Agnes’s appearance had worn off, Fiona had brought Gillian here to show her where she would be sleeping. Three maids had accompanied them, and they’d stayed to dust and sweep as she and Fiona continued in their exploration of Highgate’s upper chambers.

She could not stop thinking of Agnes. Why should she care?