She was his wife, not some girl up for a tumble in the grass. They had a lifetime to get to know each other. She'd come to him when she was ready, when he'd given her her blasted courtship. He would abide by his promise.
"Aye, you're right," he said quietly. "I didn't mean it to go so far. I'm sorry."
She didn't say anything, but watched him with big, doubtful blue eyes.
"Time for sleep." He pulled back the bedclothes to let her slide into them. He caught a glimpse of the spots of his blood, dark on the white sheet. Was she even a virgin at all? She hadn't kissed like a virgin.
Not that it mattered to him now. He was committed to her, publicly and privately.
She hesitated, then slipped past him and curled up on the far side of the big bed. She lay with her back to him, her bony little spine disappearing into her pretty nightdress. Her hair was pulled to one side, exposing her nape, pale, soft and vulnerable. He resisted the urge to kiss it. She was so small and delicate compared to him. But she was no weakling.
He liked that about her. Life with Jeannie would never be dull.
With a rueful smile Cameron slid in beside her. Reaching out, he pulled her towards him, tucking her securely against the curve of his body. She stiffened a moment, like a suspicious little twig.
"Only for sleep," he murmured, and slowly, achingly slowly, she relaxed against him.
Cameron lay in the dark, listening to the soft breathing of the woman in his arms. Twenty-four hours ago he'd had no thought of marrying, not until his argument with Uncle Charles. A wife then was a mere theoretical notion, to be considered at some time in the future.
Now he was a married man, with full control of his inheritance and the estate. He hadn't considered any but the legal implications, but now . . .
Now there was another person to be considered, in his life and in his bed. Perhaps the most important person in his life.
And he knew almost nothing about her.
Chapter Nine
Bright sunlight pierced the gaps between the curtains. Jeannie stretched sleepily, then woke with a jerk as the events of the previous day—and night—flooded her awareness.
She was married. To the laird.
It could have been a dream—it was mad enough to be one—but the warmth and the comfort of the big bed were real enough.
At Grandad's she'd slept on a thin straw pallet on the floor, the covers heavy and scratchy, but never quite warm enough. And she was up every day before dawn, or Grandad would want to know the reason why.
Here, she lay on a soft, deep mattress, between fine cotton sheets. The blankets were thick and warm, woven from the softest wool. And judging by the light, it was well after sunrise. Yet nobody had come to wake her.
She turned her head cautiously. She was alone in the bed. She didn't remember him leaving, but she did recall drifting off to sleep with his big, hard body curved around her, warm against her back.
It had felt so strange . . . yet oddly right. She'd refused him. And he'd listened. And then he'd held her through the night, as if she were precious to him.
Surely that couldn't be right? She was simply a means to an end. Marriage for the sake of his inheritance. Any woman would have done. She'd been the lucky one, that was all.
She didn't want to get up to face the day. She would give anything to just snuggle down in the warmth, and pretend it really was all a dream, a delicious, fantastical dream.
But if there was one thing that Jeannie had learned in life, it was that nothing came free. This comfort, this warmth, the very position she'd been given—it all had to be earned.
She hadn't had much luck in her life, and she was grateful for the opportunity. She wouldn't waste it. Her husband might not be best pleased with her at the moment, but she'd make him a good wife, she was determined on it.
She ought to have asked him what he expected her to do today, but Cameron was gone, presumably off to do . . . whatever a laird did.
What did a laird's wife do? She considered the question.
He'd told her she'd be the woman of the house. He must have been laughing up his sleeve at that understatement. Still, that's where she'd start. She'd said yesterday that she'd inspect the household with that housekeeper woman, Mrs . . . Mrs. Findlay, that was it.
What then? Cameron's uncle seemed to be the cause of this hasty marriage. It might be as well to pay him a visit and see what she could learn. She did not want to be mistress of a warring house.
She was about to slide out of bed to wash and dress and go in search of some breakfast, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
