“Thank you.”
Fiona slid out of bed, tugging down her nightdress with a modesty she knew was absurd now he’d touched every inch of her. As she walked across to the connecting door, a cascade of aches reminded her of what they’d just done to one another. And what Diarmid meant to do again.
The heat that stirred in her loins wasn’t nearly so unfamiliar as it would have been an hour ago. His desire no longer felt like a threat. It felt like a gift.
She prayed that whatever this mysterious other was, she could give it to him. The thought of satisfying her husband made her feel very wifely indeed.
***
When Fiona returned to Diarmid’s room, she was relieved to see that he wore his robe. She was curious about his body in a way that she’d never been curious about Ian. But she wasn’t yet ready to cope with a naked man prancing about the chamber.
He’d built the fire and straightened the disordered bed. He turned from the sideboard to offer her a glass of whisky, then stopped with a spellbound expression. “Your hair.”
Self-consciously she touched the tumble of hair floating about her shoulders. “You said you wanted to see it loose.”
“It’s beautiful.” As he came closer, she read awe in his eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Pleasure at his appreciation rippled through her.
His hand ran down the fall of blond hair. The caress conveyed a reverence that made her shiver with awareness. That odd restlessness inside her became more urgent.
He passed her the glass. “Drink up, Fiona.”
Diarmid stepped away and picked up his whisky to down it in a single mouthful. She sipped at her drink and felt the warmth seep into her bones.
“You must be hungry.” He offered her a plate of oatcakes and cheese. “I rang for some food.”
“But it’s the middle of the night.”
“They managed.”
She reached out for an oatcake. He was right. She was hungry. She’d hardly touched the extravagant dinner he’d ordered. Nor had she eaten much at the wedding breakfast. She’d been so jittery, she hadn’t been able to swallow a thing.
She sank into a chair near the fire. “This reminds me of our meal on the road.”
This reprieve was welcome. She’d expected Diarmid to leap on her the minute she came back into the room. She should have known better. He was taking the time to ease her into whatever happened next.
If it involved more kissing, she approved of his plans. She’d loved his kisses.
“We’ve been through a lot, ye and I,” he said, offering her another oatcake. “Here.”
He sat down in the chair across from her and subjected her to an intent stare. “How are ye feeling?”
“Better.” She was surprised that it was the truth. “But, Diarmid, I’m still not sure I can give you what you want.”
“I don’t believe that. I want to make ye mine.”
Puzzled, she let the hand holding the oatcake drop to her lap. “You’ve got me.”
“No’ fully.”
They veered back toward that confusing conversation, where he seemed to think she had more to bring to him than she already had. “That might be all there is.”
It was possible she was unnatural. Or Ian had damaged her. Diarmid had said something about her bearing scars from her marriage.
“I dinna believe that.”
Her appetite deserted her. She set the half-eaten oatcake on the side table. “I’ve given you more than I’ve given any other man. You had my willingness. You even had my enjoyment.”