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She pulled it back. “Nay, Graeme. Talk to me. Please. Tell me why I’m speaking to the clan chief now, and not my husband.”

“Gillian, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me how it’s possible that the man who makes love to me so passionately is the same one who walks away every time we speak of anything more than border politics or my family. Won’t you let me in?”

Gillian hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted to deepen their connection until that moment. She held her breath waiting for his answer.

He dropped her hand.

“I cannot.” With that, he turned and walked away.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t coming back. Part of her wanted to stay, to force him to come back to fetch her. But that wasn’t going to help anything. He would simply remind her that she had no choice but to follow. The men were waiting.

So she put one foot in front of the other, the mud conspiring to slow her pace, until the men came into view.

Her husband had already mounted. Sitting straight and tall, his expression grim.

The clan chief.

The man she foolishly loved.

* * *

For the remainder of the ride back to Highgate, Graeme thought of Gillian’s question.

Won’t you let me in?

At dinner, he hardly spoke. The hall had since been cleared of evidence of the meal, and conversation swirled around him as he sat at the hearth. His gaze returned again and again to his brother and Gillian. Aidan was regaling her with stories about their youth over a chessboard. Until now, Graeme hadn’t realized she could play chess, though he shouldn’t be surprised. Though sheltered, his wife was remarkably intelligent. She listened intently.

It was one of many, many endearing qualities about his English queen.

So why not let her in?

“A commendable move for someone who apparently had quite the headache earlier today,” Aidan said to her.

He watched from the corner of his eye, noting Gillian did appear much recovered. They’d arrived with enough time for her to call for a hot bath, which she’d taken in her own chamber. He hadn’t said anything, unsure what to say really, and had instead used the time to catch up with his brother.

“Nothing a little rosemary- and lavender-scented bath wasn’t able to cure.”

So that was what he’d smelled when he escorted her to the hall. Mixed with the scent that was pure Gillian, a heady combination, Graeme had nearly marched her right back to their chamber.

Until he remembered she had reason to be upset with him.

“Ahh, the Englishwoman strikes again.”

Graeme ignored them, uncomfortably aware that the dull ache that started in his chest and ran up to his heart was partially self-induced.

Or completely self-induced.

“I must leave you to contemplate your next move. I fear the events of this long day are beginning to take effect.”

Gillian stood, so he did the same.

“Stay, Graeme. I fear my headache is returning, so I shall retire for the night.”

“I’d like to speak with you anyway,” Aidan said to him.

He looked from his wife to his brother and relented. When Fiona appeared from the side of the hall to escort Gillian away, he simply watched her go. His feet, suddenly made of iron, refused to budge.