“Move this way.” She took the soap from him, then gently pushed him forward and began to wash his back. Pushing aside wisps of hair from his neck, she pretended Ian was a guest at Kinross.
But the pretense was not convincing. No guest at Kinross had looked like this, felt like this . . . Then his hand snaked up and grasped her wrist, the soap dropping from her slick fingers. He shifted in the tub so she was no longer completely behind him but facing him instead. The iron grip on her wrist did not lessen one bit.
“I’m not from your time, Màiri.”
She understood what he was saying. It was partly what had upset her so this evening. Once the pieces had fallen into place, she’d realized why he had not touched her the night before. Why he had not made her his wife in truth.
This was the same man whose honor had prevented him from lying to her father. He’d not take her virginity, chance giving her a babe, and then leave.
And it was evident that was just what he and his family intended.
To go home.
“I know it well,” she said softly, regret dripping from her voice.
“When my family arrives, we will use the cross I brought with me to go back to my time. I won’t take something as precious as your virginity. Or leave knowing you could be pregnant, even if we take . . . precautions.”
He said nothing she had not thought of already, and yet the words still stung. A foolish part of her had hoped . . .
But of course he did not want her to come with him, wife or no.
She was a stranger.
He had said as much more than once.
“You woke this part of me,” she accused.
His hand still gripped her wrist. His chest, dripping with water and heaving up and down, betrayed his calm expression. She affected him too—at least she knew that.
“And I regret that.”
Màiri pulled her wrist free. At least she fully understood their position.
“And I regret you will have to wash your own back.”
In fact, she regretted more than that, but it was a start. He called her name, but Màiri did not look back. Few nobles slept in the same bed, anyway, as few of them married for love. The well-appointed dressing room would be her bedchamber this eve, and every one after it until Ian left.
16
“May I speak with you, Laird?”
He was learning.
Ian may not be book smart like Rhys and Grey, but he knew people. And he felt he’d gotten to know Laird Kelbrue fairly well.
To a fault, the chief was stubborn. Maybe more so than Ian’s own father. He’d finally learned about the slight that had caused this entire mess with Bruce, and it wasn’t the latter’s attack on John Balliol. Sure, that had ruffled Kelbrue’s feathers, but he’d said something else in the hunt that Ian had remembered last night as he lay awake thinking of his wife.
Kelbrue had called the grandfather of the man Ian knew would one day rule Scotland a Sassenach lover. At least, that had been his meaning. Kelbrue saw Bruce’s diplomacy with King Edward and the English border lords, a diplomacy the grandson would continue well into the War of Independence, as inherently negative. Even history treated Robert the Bruce’s initial alliance with King Edward as a kick to the balls. Why wouldn’t a man like Kelbrue feel the same way?
The laird had been about to leave the hall, but Màiri had made an appearance to say goodbye to her maid. If Alana weren’t leaving, he had no doubt his wife would still be avoiding him. Which, after he’d cooled off, Ian had realized might be the best thing for them.
Because he sure as hell couldn’t trust himself to keep his hands off her otherwise.
His father-in-law’s response wrested him from his thoughts.
“’Tis a good man, my daughter’s husband,” Kelbrue boasted to Alastair, who stood beside him. His uncle shot him a look that indicated he did not share the man’s opinion. He thought Ian should have told Màiri sooner. It was a ridiculous expectation given the timeline of their relationship, but the last thing he wanted was to get in a pissing match with his mother’s youngest brother. So he extended an olive branch.
“I come from good stock,” he said, looking directly at his uncle.
