AFTER DINNER HE INVITED her to play chess. Jeannie was good at chess. She accepted with alacrity.
She lost the game, utterly unable to concentrate during those long silences during which he contemplated the chess board and she contemplated him. An unfair advantage, him being so handsome.
Thoroughly trounced and not a little embarrassed, she challenged him to a card game, which was quick and left little space for . . . gazing. They came out even.
Then it was time for bed. Jeannie went upstairs first. She washed, pulled on her nightgown, then blew out the candles, slipped between the cool sheets, and waited.
Shadows from the fire danced on the walls. Was she doing the right thing in denying him his marital rights? What if instead of getting closer, he was getting frustrated? Was she driving him to seek the company of other women? This widow, Bridget, who made beautiful shawls, perhaps.
She turned over in the bed, trying to shut off the questions in disgust. When had she become such a ditherer? It had taken her a bare few minutes to agree to marry him.
But back then her choice had been easy; she had nothing to lose. Now . . .
Och! She turned over again. It was impossible, her body at war with her brain. And where was her heart in all this? Aching and uncertain, that's where.
The door opened and Cameron entered. Jeannie lay there, feigning sleep, trying to decide what to do, as she listened to the sounds of him undressing. She felt the mattress dip as he slid into the bed behind her.
Gently he pulled her closer and tucked her against him, his arm around her waist. Her back rested against his chest, her bottom was snuggled tight into the angle of his body. His warmth soaked into her. His arousal pressed against her. Silently insistent.
The clean, masculine smell of him surrounded her. She breathed it in deeply. It was addictive. He was addictive. Her body softened against him, pliant, unable to resist.
Should she turn over and tell him yes? Get it over with and stop this dreadful uncertainty? Did she really need a courtship?
She opened her mouth to tell him yes, when out of the darkness he murmured, "Relax, hen, I canna help the way my body reacts to you. Just ignore it and go to sleep. I'll no' bother you."
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Jeannie woke alone in the big bed. She supposed it was something she'd have to get used to.
She told herself he was to be admired, getting up at dawn—before dawn, for all she knew—in order to repair other people's roofs. A man who worked so hard to ensure the welfare of his people would be a good husband as well as a good laird.
Still, it would have been nice sometimes, to wake together, to lie side by side in that big warm bed and plan the day together. And maybe a good-morning kiss.
And whose fault was it that the man had no inclination to linger in bed?
My bride, not my wife.
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS a routine developed. Jeannie spent the mornings supervising the household, learning Mrs. Findlay's system, making decisions with Cook, and getting to know the various members of the household. And giving the castle a good spring clean. She was determined to get the castle spotless.
Mrs. Findlay, her pride stung by the inadvertent neglect caused by her approaching blindness, was in an equally militant frame of mind and she ruthlessly harried the maids and menservants, keeping them sweeping and scrubbing, dusting and polishing all day. Jeannie, too was everywhere, supervising, advising and even joining in the housework from time to time, wrapped in a large white apron that she'd borrowed, much to Mrs. Findlay's disapproval.
"You're the laird's wife, no' a maidservant!" she'd told Jeannie when she caught her helping one of the maids take down some dusty curtains for washing. "An apron is for a servant to wear!"
But Jeannie didn't see the point in standing around waiting for another pair of hands to arrive when her own were perfectly capable. And she wasn't going to risk dirtying her only dress. There was still no sign of any village seamstress. Never mind an apron, at this rate she'd end up borrowing a dress from her maid.
In the afternoons she would remove the apron, tidy herself and take tea with Uncle Charles. He wasn't the enemy she'd imagined when Cameron first told of his reasons for their hurried marriage. The man was lonely, she realized. And to fill his empty days he'd dreamed of making this castle more like Versailles, as he had done to his own rooms. He was a dreamer, like her father, totally impractical, but no real threat to Cameron or herself.
They would talk about art and poetry, and he'd tell her tales of his youth in Paris, rose-tinted memories, for the most part, she was sure. Several times she slipped in a suggestion about hangings for the hall, but though he nodded politely enough, he would always change the subject, and talk instead of his plans to paint her portrait.
But the highlight of Jeannie's day always came when Cameron arrived home. He'd wash away the dust of the day and come to her, his hair still damp and clinging to his forehead in clumps. A man to take her breath away.
"A walk, my lady?" He'd present his arm, and she'd take it eagerly, and off they'd go on a long walk, a different path every time.
The day after their beach walk, he took her to a different part of the coast, a rocky outcrop, with deep rock pools. She slipped on a piece of seaweed and nearly fell in, but he grabbed her and pulled her hard against him.
They stood for a long moment, breast to chest, gazing into each other's eyes. Jeannie breathed in the scent of him, reveling in the warmth and strength of his big hard body, the feel of his arms wrapped around her.
"That was close," he said eventually. He stepped back, releasing her, and the cold breeze off the sharp, briny sea was like a slap against her skin. "You might have been washed away. The tides are strong here."
"I can swim." The heat in his eyes flustered her, but he simply took her hand as if nothing had happened, and they walked on.
