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“You know . . . lovemaking, of course,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. The blasted man. He’d made her say it despite knowing how much it embarrassed her.

“But all else is permitted?”

She suddenly had a vision of his hand inside her, and Gillian belatedly realized relations could mean many things.

“Nay, nothing of the sort.”

“Nothing?” He raised his brows.

Mayhap she had pushed him too far.

“May I kiss you?” he pressed.

“Nay.”

“Two days.”

“What?”

His smile was so slow and sensual, Gillian nearly relented altogether. “I will agree,” he continued, “but only for two days. It’s already been—”

“’Tis ridiculous to think we could learn much of anything in two days.”

He stuck out his chin.

“One week,” she countered.

“You will sleep in my bed. Our bed.”

“Done.”

With a parting wink, her husband took off in the direction of the castle. And she rejoined Morgan and Malcolm feeling more joyful than she had in days.

* * *

Graeme had never been more miserable in his life.

It had been three days since his fateful discussion with Gillian, each more painful than the last. He rued most of all his stipulation that she sleep in his bed. Lying next to his wife, knowing he could not touch her, was excruciatingly painful.

For some reason, Gillian had decided this was the single greatest idea in all of Christendom. Admittedly, they’d fallen into a mostly pleasant routine during the days. He would train with the men while she took exceedingly good care of household matters, and each evening he and Gillian would dine together. Their lives had slowly become intertwined in a comforting way. But everything fell together at night. She’d climb into bed, perfectly content to lie next to him and talk, and then fall asleep astonishingly easy. He, on the other hand, hardly slept at all. And when he did, it was a fitful slumber filled with dreams of his wife. His wife the vixen, not the version lying next to him in a shift.

Four more days, he told himself as he ascended the stairs to their chamber. He’d started the countdown after the first painful night. When he entered their chamber this evening, Gillian was already dressed for bed. The trunks she’d wanted moved to the wardrobe sat in the corner of this chamber instead.

Where they would stay.

“Back so soon?” she asked.

Graeme had gone after dinner to speak to one of the elders in the village—a discussion he should have had days earlier, after Douglas’s short visit.

“Aye, it went just as I’d expected.”

He poured them both a goblet of wine, part of their new routine, and handed one to her. She’d already taken a seat by the hearth, and he sat opposite her before taking a healthy sip from his own goblet.

“They agree that either Aidan or I should attend at least the next Day of Truce, if not each one afterward. Since Douglas has given us leave to insist on Trial by Combat for any future charges of murder or kidnapping, he’s advising each of the border clan chiefs that they, or their second, be present in the future rather than sending a consul.”

She stopped with the wine halfway to her lips. “Does that mean . . .”

“It does.”