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As promised, he’d spent the afternoon introducing her to the staff and giving her a very different account of Highgate than Fiona had. Whereas Fiona’s tour had been peppered with stories about the people, Graeme’s was far more focused on the castle’s defenses.

The first thing he’d said, upon finding her in the castle, was that her maid, Morgan, would be arriving in two days, something that had immediately buoyed her spirits. Finally, news from home. And then she could decide on her next course of action. There must be something she could do to help the others.

On the tour, he’d treated her much as he had on their trip. Polite. Cordial. Still, he’d occasionally give her a look that assured her that he did indeed still desire her. But the looks were so fleeting, she wondered if she’d imagined them.

Not once did he mention Agnes. Why had he gone with her earlier in the day? Was she still here? And why did she care so much when both of them knew this marriage was not one born out of love?

And still . . . he’d vowed not to dishonor her.

“I do believe it’s . . .” He stopped and looked around. The room appeared abandoned.

“Where is the baker?” she asked.

“He’s likely brought his wares to the kitchen for this evening’s meal.”

Graeme picked up a discarded wooden bowl, stuck his finger inside, and then licked the white crème from his fingers. “Crème boylede, as I suspected.”

She’d never heard of the dish.

“Is it possible you’ve never tasted crème boylede before?”

She shook her head.

“Come here,” he said, sticking his finger back into the bowl.

She walked toward him and lifted her chin.

“Relax,” he said, glancing around. “You’re allowed at least one impropriety each day.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so, lass. Now stop worrying and open your mouth.”

She did as he asked.

But when he placed his finger on her tongue and she wrapped her lips around him to taste the sweet, everything changed.

No longer was he her guide, and she the wide-eyed Englishwoman getting to know her surroundings.

Instead, she was simply a woman. One who could not deny the pull this man had on her. That he’d always had on her.

He pulled his finger slowly from her mouth as his eyes darkened with lust.

Though his finger was fully withdrawn, he didn’t move.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Was he going to kiss her?

“Did you like it?” he asked.

Gillian swallowed.

“Very much,” she said, aware her words held a double meaning.

“There will be more this evening.”

Still, he didn’t move.

And then a thought occurred to her. “But won’t I need to share?”