Chapter 22
He did not turn at once.
Violet stood by the chair with the linen clutched high against her chest, damp hair sticking to her cheek, cold water still running in small rivulets down the back of her calves.
At last, Connor turned his head.
“Why?” he asked.
Violet gripped the linen tighter. “Because I said so.”
His eyebrow lifted. “That is usually me answer.”
“Then ye should appreciate it.”
“I appreciate clear answers. That wasnae one.”
She hated him a little for asking. She hated him more for standing there in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded over the screen for her modesty, his hair wind-whipped from the road and his face unreadable.
He had not washed the market dust from his boots. He had brought her here, ordered water, guarded the door, turned his gaze away, and handed her linen as if her pride mattered even while she shook too badly to stand on her own.
She could not tell him that.
“The room is cold,” she said.
Connor glanced at the fire. “It isnae.”
“Well, the tavern is loud.”
“It is quieter with the door closed.”
“Are ye determined to be difficult?”
“Aye. It keeps me alert.”
Violet looked toward the teacup and then away. The bitterness lingered on her tongue. If she opened her mouth too wide, she feared old memories would come out instead of words.
Connor met her gaze. “Ye need rest.”
“I didnae ask for rest.”
“Nay.” His voice lowered. “Ye asked me to stay.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Aye.”
“Ye daenae need to do anything to thank me.”
Violet stared at him. The words were careful. Too careful. He had put distance into them, as if he were setting a blade aside before she cut herself with it.
“To thank ye?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Is that what ye think this is?”
“I think ye are frightened and tired.”
“I am many things.” She lifted her chin. The linen slipped at one shoulder, and she caught it quickly. “Grateful is nae the one making me ask ye to stay.”
His jaw ticked. “Then say what is.”
The answer waited behind her teeth and refused to come out.
She wanted him to stay because he had held her upright in the market. Because he had been angry when she lied and because he had closed his eyes when she stepped into the bath. Because when the old fear rushed back, his voice could still make her want to argue.
But then, saying any of that didn’t sound safe.
Connor turned back to the door. “Dress, Violet.”
The dismissal struck hard.
“Ugh, ye understand nothing,” she snapped.
He did not respond.
“Ye are the most annoying person I have ever met,” she growled.
He kept his hands behind his back. “And ye are hardly a simple matter.”
“I didnae ask to be simple.”
“Nay. Ye prefer to be impossible. I can see that clearly now.”
Violet swallowed, feeling the anger bubble within her despite the cold water she had just submerged her body in just a few minutes ago. “Nay, me Laird. I prefer being understood.”
“Then stop hiding the truth every time I ask for it.”
Her fingers tightened in the linen. “That is rich, coming from ye.”
Connor turned back and stepped toward her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ye ken very well what it means.”
He stopped well before touching her, which angered her almost as much as the rest. “I leave ye alone for a day,” he said, his voice rougher now, “and ye get sick in a market.”
“That isnae what happened.”
“Then please tell me what happened, since ye have a different recollection.”
Violet opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
She could not mention her old sickness or how desperately she had needed the angelica.
She couldn’t tell him that she had checked on John before dawn as if she were already preparing him for a world without her, or that when Connor found her at the herb stall, some terrible part of her had felt relieved before she had felt ashamed.
Connor looked at her face and took one step closer. His hand lifted and then stopped midair. He lowered it to his side.
“Daenae do anything stupid again,” he murmured.
“Was that another order?”
“It was.”
“Is it because ye are angry?”
“It’s because I found me wife about to collapse in a market and she still thought lying was the better choice.”
The heat left her cheeks.
He had seen her pale at the stall. He had seen her grip the post. He had even seen more than weakness. He had seen danger, and it had driven him across the market with murder in his eyes and care in his hands.
Violet looked down at the linen between her fingers. A drop of water dripped from her hair and hit the floor.
“Me Laird…” she trailed off. Connor’s eyes sharpened at the title, and she forced herself to look at him. “Connor.”
His expression changed by the smallest degree.
“Daenae leave,” she pleaded.
“Are ye saying that because ye want me here?”
She swallowed, but no joke came. The tavern creaked below them, and the bitter tea waited on the table.
“I want ye here,” she said.
Connor did not move.
That gave her the last inch, and the last inch had to be hers.
Violet stepped forward, still wrapped in the linen, and reached for his shirt. Her fingers curled into the fabric. He inhaled once, sharp enough for her to hear, and bent only when she tugged him closer.
Their lips met.
Connor’s mouth hovered over hers for one fierce breath, then he drew back enough to look at her.
His hands moved to her waist. The linen between them had loosened where her fingers clutched his shirt, and she was acutely aware of every poor defense left to her: damp cloth, bare feet, shaking knees, and pride that had stopped being useful several minutes ago.
“Do ye ken what ye are asking for?” Connor rumbled.
“I asked ye to stay.”
“Aye. And now?”
Violet’s breath caught as a sound from below rose through the floorboards. A man laughed in the tavern, and a chair creaked. Connor’s eyes did not leave her face.
“Now I am asking ye nae to leave,” she said.
“That isnae the same thing.”
“I ken.”
He searched her face with intense focus that made lies difficult. She had told too many already. About the market. About the herbs. About fear. This, at least, she could make as clear as possible.
“Are ye certain?” he asked.
“Aye.”
His fingers flexed once at her waist. “Ye ken very well that ye can say it without trying to be brave.”
That nearly undid her.
“I am certain,” she insisted.
Connor closed his eyes for one brief moment. When he opened them, the hunger had not softened, though his hands stayed careful as he guided her toward the bed.
The bed was plain and narrow, the blanket rough beneath her palm when she reached back to steady herself. The room smelled of cold bathwater, angelica root, damp linen, smoke, and Connor’s skin.
Nothing here held the polished danger of his study. No ledgers. No sealed letters. No heavy desk that anchored her to the present and told her exactly where she was and why she couldn’t do anything otherwise.
Here, there was only a locked door, a low fire, a cup of bitter tea, and the husband she had asked to remain.
Connor knelt before her, still dressed, as if undressing himself fully would break some line he had drawn without telling her. He touched her ankle, then paused.
“Tell me if the dizziness returns,” he said.
A breathless laugh escaped her. “That is what ye want to discuss now?”
“Aye.”
“Ye are impossible.”
“Alive and conscious, wife. Ye will find that I am very fond of both.”
The words should have made her roll her eyes. Instead, she reached down and touched his face. No anger forced the contact. No stumbling excuse. Her fingertips moved along his jaw, her chest tightening when his expression softened.
Connor turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm.
Violet forgot the tavern below. She forgot the cold water in the tub and the herb bundle on the table until he kissed her again and the bitter taste of angelica met the heat of his skin.
Fear and want crossed on her tongue as she gripped the blanket in one hand and his shoulder in the other.
He moved slowly enough that every pause became a question. His hand stopped at her knee. Then higher. Then at the linen, where he waited until she loosened her fingers.
“Violet,” he rasped.
“I ken.”
“Tell me.”
She swallowed. “I want this.”
His head bowed for half a second, then he kissed the inside of her wrist. That small, restrained touch shook her harder than his command would have.
He wanted more. She could feel it in the tight line of his shoulders, the roughness of his breath, and even in the restraint in every movement. He was not exactly treating her as if she might break. He was watching her as if she mattered too much to rush.
That was worse because it made her trust him even more than she already did, which was a lot. He rose from the floor and kissed her, his full weight pressing her back into the mattress.
His hips settled between hers, and she understood at once exactly how much he had kept from his face all evening. He was hard, and he made no effort to hide it.
His length pressed against her through his trousers and the thin linen. Her breath left her in a short, startled gasp against his mouth. He moved once, slow and deliberate, and the friction coaxed a sound from her she had not expected.
His mouth curved against hers as he did it again.
“Connor.” His name came out half-warning.
“Aye,” he said, and did it a third time.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she arched into him despite every sensible part of her. She felt him make a low, raw sound at the back of his throat.
He kissed her harder as his hand moved between them. Soon enough, his fingers found the inside of her thigh.
She held her breath, feeling his eyes on her as he moved higher. When he finally touched the heat between her thighs, she turned her face into the rough pillow and bit back the sound that tried to escape her.
He took his time with her, even more thorough than the first time, learning what she liked. Then he applied it while she gripped the blanket with one fist and his wrist with the other and felt her thighs begin to shake.
Then his hand went still, and he pressed a kiss to her hip. Slowly, he moved even lower.
Violet stopped breathing.
His mouth replaced his hand, and she shoved her knuckles against her lips because the sound she made could not reach the floor below.
He gave her no warning. He knew what he was doing, and he did it, and she lay in the narrow bed with the rough blanket beneath her and his hands holding her steady and completely lost the thread of every thought she had.
Her fingers found his hair as the pleasure built with an urgency she had no interest in slowing.
Her heels dug into the mattress, and her free hand fisted in the blanket hard enough that the seam bit into her palm.
When climax crashed over her, she bit into the pillow and let it move through her like the ocean.
Her whole body pulled tight and then released, her breath gone entirely until it wasn’t.
Connor came back up slowly.
He kissed her mouth, and she tasted herself on him. She should have been startled, but for some reason, she wasn’t. His weight settled beside her, one hand splayed on her waist, his breath ragged against her temple.
For a minute, there was nothing but silence. Then Violet rested a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm. Her body had settled. Her thoughts had not.
Connor had not asked for more. And that was exactly why she asked the question.
“Connor?”
“Aye?”
She looked at the open neck of his shirt because looking into his eyes would make her courage falter. “What if I’ve rethought me condition?”
Connor went still beneath her.