Chapter Eight #4
But now, in the wake of his earlier confessions, I could consider my husband’s traits in a new light.
To him, honor meant patience. I would not consider myself an honorable man if I felt you were unsure.
His skills with his weapons, too, were now much less threatening to me than they had been only days ago.
In fact, the very thought of his knife slashing through the thin veil of my shift, the feel of his fingers on my private skin, the dizzying contours of his war-hardened body as he kissed me as passionately as he had in our forbidden garden...
I wanted to experience more of his military prowess right here and now.
But he was already sitting at his desk. He was preparing his quill and his parchment, and his attention was far away from me, focused on travel, tyranny and traitors. I wasn’t sure what to do, or how I might show him...whatever it was that I wanted to show him.
I ventured closer to him, standing next to the fire.
He was absorbed in his writing, his head bent over his work.
He wrote quickly, dipping his quill frequently and scribbling prolifically as though struggling to get all his ideas onto the page.
I stood by the hearth, holding my hands closer to the flames to warm them, twirling a strand of my hair absentmindedly.
My thoughts reverted to the kiss, the soft, demanding exploration of his tongue, the rigid planes of his body beneath his clothes.
“Go to bed, lass.”
I looked at him, and noticed that he’d put his quill down and had his arms folded across his chest, watching me.
“Are you...coming to bed?” I asked.
He contemplated me in a lazy inspection. “After I finish this letter.”
“All right,” I said quietly.
His gaze continued to follow me as I walked to the bed.
I paused before untying the laces of my gown, the white one that my husband had insisted I wear once he’d known my preference.
Now that he sat back in his chair, with his arms folded and his knees apart, he seemed to have returned to the churlish, staunch warrior I had first taken him for.
His hand caressed his knife handle even now.
This was a habit of his, I’d noticed. He held his weapons when he was deep in thought, maybe planning attacks in his mind or pondering mysterious man-thoughts of one kind or another, so utterly foreign to me.
Turning from him, but painfully aware of his cool scrutiny, I eased the loosened fabric over my shoulders, lowering it and stepping out of it.
I draped it over the other gowns that lay on the near table.
I didn’t dare look at him, knowing full well that my shift was sheer enough to see through.
I still felt the warm effects of my inconceivable discovery: that the figment of my secret fantasies was, staggeringly, my own husband.
I thought I might go mad with desire for you, lass.
It took everything I had to walk away. The revelation danced across my skin like an invisible breeze, and swelled in intimate pinpoints across my body.
Could he feel that way now, as he watched me in brooding silence?
I poured some water from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl, using a soft cloth to wash my face.
I brushed my hair, all the while aware of his acute observation.
It felt strange to be observed this way, as I carried out my bedtime rituals.
The knowledge that he could see the shape of my body as I slid the comb through the end strands of my hair brought a flush to my cheeks and elsewhere.
I wanted him to come to me, to touch his fingers to me as he had once done before.
I thought of my sister Maisie, who would have had no compunction about using all of her feminine lures.
I’d watched her with fascination upon more than one occasion.
I considered enticing my husband now, going to him, touching his hair, kissing his lips.
I knew what I might do; the instincts were there and I had no doubt I could be just as creative as Maisie if I put my mind to it.
I thought of Kade’s vow to me, to give me time and gain his trust. Already, I could feel that his allowance was exactly what I needed.
My ability to trust had been damaged by my background more than any of my sisters.
What if my husband lashed out at me or refused me?
In my heart I knew—almost—that he would do neither of these things.
But I would wait, and heal, and learn to trust. I eased back the fur covers and climbed into bed.
Only then could I turn again to meet his eyes.
I wondered why he’d stopped writing. Maybe he was thinking about what he wanted to say in his letter.
“Husband?” I whispered after a moment.
“Aye?”
Come to me. Protect me. Touch me. “Good night,” I said.
“Good night,” he said, and the rough edge to his low voice was more pronounced than usual, quiet yet raw with a tension I could not name.
It was a long time before I heard the scratch of his quill continue in the flickering candlelit night.