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Gillian could have referred to the custom of sharing a bowl of custard with all seated at the high table, but that wasn’t what she spoke of at all.

And Graeme knew it.

“Never,” he said, his voice firm.

Agnes was gone.

Perhaps she was a fool to believe Graeme, especially after seeing him with Agnes in the morning. She’d rebuked the advances of many a married man at Lyndwood, had she not?

And then, of course, there was her father’s infidelity.

But she believed Graeme meant what he had said.

“Just know, wife.” Her husband’s tone took on a hard edge. “Neither do I share”—his eyes narrowed—“my custard.”

She should not be so saucy, but Gillian found herself reaching down and dipping her own finger into the bowl. She intended to tease him by licking the rather delightful sweet off herself, but she didn’t move quickly enough.

Graeme grabbed her hand and lifted it toward his mouth. When he wrapped his lips around her finger, a fluttering at her very core threatened the self-composure she so diligently practiced.

And then he suckled her trembling finger, withdrawing ever so slowly. Just before it was completely free of his lips, his teeth, barely touching her skin, closed around her, softly nipping. By the time her finger was free, Gillian could barely stand.

There will be more this evening.

She had never looked forward to a meal, and to afterward, quite so much.

14

Graeme released his wife’s hand.

He wanted to kiss her. Nay, he wanted to take her here and now. Make her his wife in truth. That they’d been married for almost a week and had yet to consummate the marriage. It was unthinkable . . . and yet he wanted it to be perfect for her. He’d never bedded a virgin before, but Graeme clearly remembered his first time. The serving girl, a pretty, buxom young woman, had been loose with her favors. And while he’d never admitted it aloud, he had been quite nervous. She was older, more experienced, and self-assured.

Graeme had decided that cold winter night in the stable loft he’d never bed a virgin, and he hadn’t, no matter her station. He’d come to quite enjoy his time with the fairer sex, and the idea of his bedmate being uneasy or uncomfortable did not settle well. Which was why, he supposed, he wanted to make the experience special for Gillian.

Tonight . . .

The bakehouse was no place for her first time, and though he would very much enjoy tasting more than just the custard for this evening’s meal, they needed to leave.

Now.

He grabbed her hand, the feel of her delicate fingers a pleasure he refused to deny himself despite the unconventionality of hand-holding. He looked at her, his hesitant bride, and wondered, not for the first time, what she was thinking.

Gillian spoke little and revealed even less.

“We should be getting back for the meal.” Her smile nearly felled him.

“You’re looking forward to it, then?” Graeme was of a mind to skip the damn meal and take his wife to their bedchamber—his bedchamber—now.

In fact, that was not such a bad plan.

“There you are.” Aidan ran toward them.

“What is it?”

“The Day of Truce.” His brother looked from him to Gillian and back again, his expression making Graeme uneasy. “’Tis tomorrow.”

Graeme shook his head. “Nay, it’s not for more than—”

“We’ve just received word. The date has been changed.”