She allowed him to do so, standing much too close for his sanity. He could smell her, just like he’d been able to at the meal. Lavender. Not a scent he’d cared much for before, but he was changing his mind on that one.
His breeches tightened at the thought of how easy it would be to slip off her clothes and continue the kiss that had brought them here. To show his wife more pleasure than she’d known possible.
But that didn’t fit in with his plans, so he handed her the goblet and quickly sat back down. The way she was looking at him indicated their closeness was affecting her too. Which made it pretty damn difficult to hold back.
“They were allies once.”
Bring it back, Ian. Deep breaths. Ambrose. She’s talking about Ambrose.
“My father and his. That’s how we became friends. And then the Battle of Craigmore between two other northern clans tore them apart. My father refused to fight, not wanting to choose one ally over the other, and the laird of Clan Dern took his refusal as a personal insult.”
“And so it began?”
Màiri nodded. “I’d never thought of Ambrose in that way before, as a husband. But he was always a dear friend, and when we happened upon each other after our clans’ separation, he mentioned the possibility. And of course I thought it a good plan. But my father did not.”
Okay, so this was interesting.
“You never thought of him in that way? As a husband?”
“No.”
He knew he shouldn’t press, not when he didn’t plan to stay married to her, but he couldn’t resist. Leaning forward, he watched her eyes as the light from the fire danced across them. She might lie, but her eyes would not.
“When you kissed me back . . .”
He should stop. He could tell from the way she flinched that the topic made her uncomfortable. But he couldn’t stop, not now.
“The feelings you had at that moment. Have you felt that way about Ambrose? Ever?”
Ian wasn’t surprised at her gasp, but he wasn’t going to let up.
“You can tell me anything, Màiri. Even things you’ve never spoken aloud before. I will never repeat what you tell me to anyone. Nothing, not even your deepest, darkest, most wicked thoughts are off-limits between us.”
Of course she didn’t believe him.
What the hell. He would never see her again in a few weeks. “My mother coddled me, and I loved it. But I got away with murder too. To the world, I am as confident as my brothers, but they’ll always see me as the baby. That’s one of the reasons I can’t tell them that I hate the position they’ve given me in the family business. Truth is, I desperately wish I could do something else. On my own. But I can’t bring myself to tell them. I’m afraid of feeling useless. Left out.”
There. A deep, dark thought he’d never shared with another living person. Not even his mother. She’d picked up on the way he was feeling, but he’d essentially denied it. If he recalled correctly, he’d said something along the lines of,Not everyone loves their job. So what?
His words seemed to resonate. Màiri drank deeply from her cup and leaned forward too, her body’s defensive posture giving way to a more trusting one.
“Nay. I’ve never felt anything like that with Ambrose.”
He fucking knew it.
“You said I must have been kissed before, and ’tis true. But it only happened once, with Ambrose. And it felt nothing like that day you kissed me.”
Well, ask and you shall receive.But now he was well and truly screwed.
His wife’s feelings for Lord Lovesick were a sisterly sort of affection, only she didn’t know because she’d never experienced true desire. An interesting turn of events. He felt slightly less like punching the guy in the face. Even if he was the asshole who’d encouraged their heart-to-heart.
Now what?
“So, I think I’m gonna need another wine.”
Ian hadn’t mentionedAmbrose again, even after two more wines. Neither did they talk of kissing or feelings, which was just as well. Màiri was afraid she might say too much.
“Tell me about Alana.”
