Chapter 5 #2
Up close, his face filled her world. The harsh lines she had seen by daylight seemed softer in the wavering light, though the scars stood out pale and unmistakable.
The one through his brow tugged at his eyebrow, giving him a permanent severity that did not match the careful way he was looking at her now.
He lifted his hand, knuckles brushing the edge of her blanket, and caught it, drawing it higher. With deliberate care he tucked it around her shoulders.
“If ye want me to stay in this bed,” he murmured, “then daenae test me temper with wee comments about rules.”
“Is yer temper so easily provoked?” she asked, her voice smaller than she liked.
“By many things,” he said. His gaze flicked down to her mouth for a bare instant. “Some of them more pleasant than others.”
Her lips parted. Air seemed difficult.
“I did nae mean to provoke ye,” she whispered.
“Ye did,” he answered. “From the moment ye scurried into the yard with that runaway bundle and that determined look in yer eyes.”
“I did nae scurry,” she protested, because it was either argue or think too much about the way his hand now rested on the blanket over her shoulder, wide and warm. “I slipped.”
“Ye flounced,” he said.
“I did nae flounce.”
“Ye did,” he insisted, and there was the ghost of a rough smile in his voice. His fingers flexed on her blanket, as if part of him wanted to curve over her, to pull her closer, and the rest of him fought it.
“Are ye angry with me?” she asked. The question surprised her, but once out, it would not be taken back.
He considered. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
“I am angry with Hunter,” he said. “With priests and papers and old grudges that made this day necessary. With meself, for nae seeing it sooner. But nay, lass, I am nae angry with ye.”
Relief washed through her, leaving a strange lightness in its wake. “Then why did ye want to leave the bed?” she pressed.
His eyes darkened. “Because I am nae made of stone.”
Understanding blossomed, swift and startling. Her proximity troubled him. Not because he disliked it. For the opposite reason.
Foolish delight flickered inside her, tangled with trepidation.
“I thought ye said ye would nae touch me without me consent,” she said, breathless.
“Aye,” he replied. “I meant it. But consent is a thin shield when ye lie so close that I feel every breath ye take, every time ye shift, every time ye fidget.”
She swallowed. “Then… will ye go back to the floor?”
“Do ye want me to?” he asked.
No. The answer rose so quickly it frightened her. She chose a safer truth.
“I will be cold without ye,” she admitted.
His pupils flared. His thumb stroked once, lightly, over the blanket at her shoulder, the pressure almost nothing, the effect enormous.
“Then I will stay,” he said.
He shifted closer. Not enough to press fully against her, but enough that his warmth wrapped around her like another blanket. Their knees bumped. Their noses were almost in the same air. The space between their mouths shrank until it felt like a question.
“Next time ye challenge me,” he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek, “be certain ye are ready to bear the consequences.”
“Consequences,” she echoed, barely able to find the word. “Such as?”
His mouth curved. She could feel the faint movement of it rather than see it. For a moment she thought, This is it. He will kiss me. He will finally close that last sliver of space between us.
He leaned in.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted. Her heart battered against her ribs.
His breath warmed her temple.
“Such as losing sleep,” he whispered near her ear, “from thinking too hard when ye should be resting.”
His hand left her shoulder and went to the blankets. In one smooth, infuriating motion, he tucked them snugly under her chin, then along her side, trapping her in a cocoon of heat. He shifted back just enough to remove the decadent nearness, leaving a thin line of cool air where his body had been.
Her eyes flew open.
He lay on his side, no longer quite as close, gaze once more turned toward the ceiling as if it held all the secrets of the world. His hand remained on the blanket over her shoulder, heavy and possessive without pressing her down.
He had not kissed her.
Frustration crashed through her, hot and sharp. Embarrassment followed hard behind. What had she expected. That a man who ruled his clan and his own impulses with an iron grip would forget himself in one night. That vows and one shared bed would sweep aside whatever ghosts kept him wary.
“Ye are a cruel man, Maxwell Murdoch,” she muttered.
“That is what they say,” he replied, sounding much too satisfied for someone who had just denied them both. Sleep edged his voice now. “Close yer eyes.”
She wanted to argue. To poke at him until that composure finally cracked. To see what he would do if she truly pushed.
Instead she let her eyes fall shut. The warmth of him at her back, the weight of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breathing, all worked against her stubbornness.
Her thoughts spun a while longer, circling the almost of his mouth, the promise in his voice, the way his eyes had darkened when she asked him to stay.
Eventually her mind tired of chasing itself. Her body softened into the mattress.
Just as sleep began to pull at her, she felt his fingers curl a little more firmly into the blanket at her shoulder, as if claiming something the words had not yet said.
“Good night, wife,” he said quietly.
The words slid into her like a warm blade.
“Good night,” she whispered, not sure if he heard her. “Husband,” she said, even softer.