Logan wrapped his hands around her waist and swung her down from the dais. She stood beside him as he bid good night to everyone, nodding and smiling and praying she appeared happy as any bride ought to be—especially any bride marrying a man like Logan. Most girls only dreamed of such a match. Of course, she wasn’t most girls.
His brothers cheered perhaps the loudest and she blushed, guessing at their thoughts. They doubtlessly believed their brother was in store for a vigorous night of passion.
Only she knew better. And so did Logan.
Even so, her nerves were stretched unbearably taut as they walked side by side up the winding stairs. She skimmed her hand along the smooth stone balustrade, trying to ignore the sensation of his hand against the small of her back . . . and deliberately avoiding thinking of the night ahead. Her wedding night.
The sound of a crackling fire greeted them the moment they entered the chamber. A log hissed and crumbled with a sparking pop. Cleo watched this for a moment, holding herself still as the warmer air glided over her.
A dull orange glow suffused the room, reminding her of those sunsets back home, when she’d stand upon the seawall and watch the sun sink into the sea. Logan dropped down upon a velvet-cushioned bench and began tugging off his boots.
She lingered near the door, taking it all in—him, her husband, the bedchamber she was to share with him. It was too much to absorb. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, feeling suddenly small. Like an uncertain girl.
“Are you cold?” One boot hit the floor with a thud. She gave a small jump. Blinking, she looked up from the dark leather boot. She chastised herself for her jumpiness. He wasn’t going to pounce on her.
He glanced to the bed. She followed his gaze to the soft fur draped over the bottom half of the bed. “You’ll warm up quicker in bed.”
She nodded, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t cold. On the contrary. Heat swam beneath her skin, hummed through her like a charged current.
His next boot hit the floor. She watched as his hands went to his jacket, the long fingers deftly shedding it with strong, sure movements. Nothing hesitant or nervous. And why should he be? He’d probably done this hundreds, thousands, of times.
The notion that he undressed before countless females filled her with an unjustified sense of outrage. He’s mine! As quickly as the thought entered her head she banished it.
Of course there’d been others. And there was nothing to say there wouldn’t be more. What could she expect? It was only fair. She’d banned him from her bed. She couldn’t expect him to lead a life of celibacy. Just because that was what she’d chosen for herself, she could not demand it of him.
Her mind drifted to the stunning redhead from earlier. Had she shared his bed? Was she even right now weeping into her pillow?
Firelight danced off the sculpted flesh of his naked torso.
“Is this necessary?” she blurted.
He froze, looking up at her with an arched eyebrow. “What?”
She motioned in a small circle. “This . . . this chamber. You.” Deliciously, temptingly naked. “Me. Sharing a room together.”
Something in his expression tightened. The gray of his eyes seemed chillier, frozen ash. “We’re married now,” he reminded.
“Yes, but not in the truest sense.”
His gaze drilled into her, hard as iron. “And you want the world to know that? That you’re a wife eschewing her duty? Her responsibility to the marriage bed?”
The skin of her face grew prickly hot. The merry toasts and well wishes of earlier tonight echoed in her head. The faces of the happy villagers flashed through her mind. “No. I don’t wish for the nature of our marriage to be public. It’s our concern.” Our secret.
“Agreed.” He continued to undress. As if the matter were settled.
“Would you please explain?” she persisted, unable to let the matter drop. Self-preservation forced the words from her. “How would keeping our own rooms alert the world that our marriage is a—” She stopped herself just short of saying a farce. Their union wasn’t a farce. It meant something. Even without consummation, it was real. It mattered to her.
Moistening her lips, she finished, “Spouses often keep separate rooms.”
He sighed deeply, the sound weary. “Life is different here. This isn’t the ton. Where spouses practically lead separates lives. Both the Lord and Lady McKinney have always occupied this bedchamber. It’s tradition. And tradition weighs heavily here.”
“Can you not ever break with tradition?”
He stared at her stonily. “I did marry an Englishwoman. That’s sending a few ancestors tossing in their graves.”
“Well. What’s one more?” She attempted for lightness, but the look in his eyes told her he was quite finished with the discussion.
“Everyone knows I would share my wife’s bed. Unless there were something wrong with her . . . unless our marriage is a contentious union.” He stared at Cleo rather pointedly. “Is that what you prefer everyone conclude?”
She shook her head, shoulders sagging. She had to live here for . . . well, forever. Her siblings, too. She needed Logan’s people to see her as one of them so they’d welcome her siblings with open arms. In short, she needed to win them over and not come across as some shrew who barred her husband from their bed.
But isn’t that what you are?
She shook her head at the insidious little voice, and searched for the memories that had driven her for so long.
“No,” she answered through numb lips. “I don’t want them to think our marriage contentious.”
“Good.” His hands moved to his trousers. She commanded herself to look away, to move. She couldn’t just stand here watching him slack-jawed as he removed the last of his clothing. She already knew he preferred to sleep naked, and in the fire’s glow, she’d see every bare inch of him. That was more than she could bear.
She swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat and scanned the room, spotting a wooden screen etched with a hunting scene. Her nightgown already happened to be draped over it—the wisdom of her maid, Berthe, no doubt.
She could change behind that with relative privacy. With luck, Logan would be tucked out of sight beneath the covers by the time she emerged.
Strategy in mind, she strode across the room and positioned herself behind the screen. Within moments of straining her arms behind her back, she realized she could not undress herself unassisted. Blast it! She should have considered this sooner.
Face flaming, she bowed her head in misery for a long moment. Inhaling, she gathered her nerve and stepped out from behind the screen once again. He was in the bed. Just as she’d hoped. And feared. He’d have to rise to assist her and then she’d see every bare inch of him.
She cleared her throat unnecessarily. He was already looking directly at her from where he was propped against the pillows in the bed, the coverlet pooled around his waist, leaving that enticing bare chest of his exposed.
She couldn’t help notice that he had positioned himself squarely in the middle of the bed, with no thought, evidently, for granting her any space of her own where she wouldn’t brush against him.
“I can’t quite manage the buttons on my gown.”
“Come here,” he said and she didn’t think she imagined that his voice was rougher than usual, the burr deeper, more gravelly.
She stepped closer, briskly at first and then slower, her steps dragging as she neared the bed. He remained where he was. She stopped near the edge, her fingers bunching the skirts of her gown.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
She turned, fixing her gaze straight ahead. There was a slight rustling and her pulse kicked against her throat as she imagined him pushing back the covers . . . his naked body moving toward her.
She waited. Nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder. He
loomed behind her, his bare shoulders smooth and vast, the flesh rippling over tightly corded muscle. She quickly faced forward again. But it was too late. The image was permanently branded on her mind. Just as his clean, woodsy scent was fixed in her nostrils.
At the first touch of his fingers, she gasped. Even though she was waiting for it, expecting it, even though he was only actually touching the top button of her dress. Her bodice loosened as he undid more buttons. And then she felt him—his hand inside her dress, the backs of his fingers brushing her back, grazing her spine as he worked free the last of the tiny, satin-covered buttons.
Her dress sagged, only her arms holding it up, covering her breasts. She couldn’t command her legs to move. Could only feel his fingers on her back, the spark of heat where their skin connected. The air had ceased to flow in and out of her. He didn’t move either and she wondered if she stood there long enough would he move and take the choice away from her? That would make it blessedly simple.
Marguerite’s scandalous advice whispered through her head. She’d been shockingly candid, explaining how Cleo might pleasure both herself and Logan without engaging in actual . . . relations.
Even with the advice swimming through her, leaving nothing to the imagination, one question still remained. How did she go about initiating the advice Marguerite had given her?
“There. All done.”
Rustling behind her indicated his return to the bed. Clutching her gown to keep it from falling to her feet, she scurried behind the screen. Stepping free of her gown, she flung it over the screen, angered at her cowardice. Her undergarments soon followed. Slipping the nightgown over her head, she emerged again, her gaze immediately flying to the bed. He was still there, square in the middle, naturally.
Only he no longer sat upright with pillows propped behind him as though he were waiting for her. He was lying on his side. She squinted, unable to even make out his face. He appeared to be . . . sleeping.
She lowered onto the stool before the vanity table and quickly removed her hairpins, sending the glossy dark mass tumbling to her shoulders. She quickly ran a brush through her tresses, inspecting herself critically.
Perhaps if she looked more like that curvaceous redhead she’d seen weeping in the village, he’d be more inclined to stay awake.
With decided vigor, she slammed the brush on the table. Now she was just being ridiculous. She’d ordered him to leave her be. That’s what he was doing. Even on their wedding night. She wasn’t about to nurse some wounded feelings because he took her request seriously. She wasn’t that fickle.
She moved to the bed, flinging back the covers, her movements agitated and excessive. In the back of her mind she knew she was trying to deliberately gain his attention. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she wanted to rouse him from sleep. She frowned, recognizing the bad behavior in herself. And yet she couldn’t stop.
She glared at the shadowy shape of his broad back peeking out from the covers. Even lying in the middle of the bed, there was plenty of bed left for her to occupy without touching him. She saw that now—and felt a stab of disappointment.
Turning, she beat her pillow loudly, as though getting it in the right condition for her head was of critical importance. At the very least, it was an excellent exercise in frustration.
She flopped back on the pillow with a loud sigh, her hair billowing all around her in a floating dark nimbus. She sent one last baleful look at his back. His shoulder moved the barest amount, a slow rise and fall matching his even breathing. He slept. The cad.
Rolling to her side so she did not have to endure the sight of him, she tucked her hand beneath her cheek. She doubted she would sleep a wink.
This was her last thought before drifting away.
Chapter Twenty-two
Logan didn’t move until he heard her breathing shift into that rasping cadence that marked sleep. Only then did he roll over to observe her, admiring the softness of her features relaxed in sleep.
She’d been spitting mad at his seeming indifference to her. It had taken every ounce of will inside him not to do more than unbutton the back of her gown. He’d had to force himself not to strip her gown all the way off and touch her, caress her as he longed to do. She was his wife now . . . and he couldn’t even lay a finger on her. The absurdity of it galled him. It was a situation beyond his imagining a month ago. He had envisioned himself married to a female. Perhaps one he didn’t want or crave with the intensity that he wanted Cleo, but a tolerable wife. Someone he could stomach, who could in turn tolerate him. He’d assumed she’d at least be willing to share his bed. That she would even expect it—desire it.
Cleo had moved about in a huff, clearly offended about something, before she succumbed to sleep. What did she expect of him? To attempt seduction after she’d already laid forth the terms of their marriage? No. He hardened his resolve. He’d wait for her to come to him. She was a passionate creature. He had proof of that—memories that left him aching with need.
He had to believe that she couldn’t spend night after night in this bed with him and not cave, not surrender to even one kiss. One kiss that could open the door to so much more . . .
He intended to make it as difficult as possible for her. Despite what he told her, he could have taken a chamber down the hall. His staff and siblings would have speculated, but he didn’t care. More than likely they would have thought it her English ways . . . a haughty Sassenach simply desiring her own chamber. Or they might think he was giving her more time to acclimate to her new role as his wife.
Reaching out, he slid a dark tendril back from her cheek and wrapped it around his finger. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. He cared only about making Cleo his wife in the truest sense. And he’d use all his cunning to make that happen.
Cleo’s eyes opened slowly, and she blinked, trying to shake free her groggy thoughts. The cloudy vestiges of a dream pulled on her consciousness like cobwebs clinging to the skin.
She lifted her head, her unfocused gaze staring into a room of flickering shadows and dying light. For a long moment she could recall none of it. Not what had happened. Not where she was.
Her gaze landed on a large window dominating one stone wall. The drapes were cracked, but no light slipped inside, so she knew it was still dead night. Stillness surrounded her, draping the room in its hush. And yet she knew something had woken her.
And then she saw Logan and it all came back in a burst, in an instant of aching awareness.
He bent before the hearth, adding logs into the dwindling fire. He looked like some mythical man, a creature not of earth. Firelight licked over him, gilding his magnificent form, sliding over the ripple of muscle and sinew as he worked. Her palms tingled, itched to follow the trail of firelight over him.
Everything came back to her. Including Marguerite’s lessons. Her breasts tightened beneath her gown and an ache pooled low in her belly.
Determined to gain his notice, she readjusted on the bed in a calculated pose, flinging the covers off her and making certain her nightgown rode higher . . . exposing her legs up to her thighs. Marguerite had convinced her that there were other things to do aside of actual consummation. Pleasurable things. Cleo wanted that. She wanted to experience it for herself . . . and she wanted to please him, too.
Marguerite’s voice rolled through her. The sight of bare skin always puts a man in an amorous mood.
She only hoped the room’s dim lighting hid the flush to her cheeks, and that he wasn’t alerted to the fact that she was awake.
At least until she wanted him to be.
Closing her eyes, she arranged herself in what she hoped was an artless pose. And waited.
She heard his approach. The steady fall of his footsteps. Then nothing. He stopped. Was he looking down at her? She struggled to control her breathing, keep it even and deep as though she were believably asleep.
Then the bed dipped with his weight. He scooted closer but she felt nothing. No brush of him against her. She was sprawled in such a way that, she knew, he had to take special care not to touch her. When positioning herself, she’d assumed he’d want to reclaim his spot in the middle of the bed. The spot she now occupied.
She waited several moments, listening, feeling the air. There was an initial shift of the covers and adjustment of his body as he settled down into bed again, and then all fell still. Not the faintest movement. No rustling sheets. She couldn’t even hear the fall of his breathing.
She waited several minutes, but the worry that he’d perhaps fallen asleep again prompted her to crack open an eye.
He was beside her, on his back, eyes closed. Sleeping already? Disappointment shot through her yet again, but with it she felt a jolt of determination. He couldn’t be sleeping too deeply yet. And what if he was? She knew what would wake him. If Marguerite was to be believed, she knew precisely what might rouse him.
Chapter Twenty-three
He felt her move upon the bed and his every muscle tightened in near pain.
It had been hard enough to return from stirring the fire and find her sprawled so delectably across the bed, her bare limbs curled enticingly, inviting him to touch, caress. His palms sweat just thinking about it. The only thing for him to do was lie down and close his eyes and try to forget the image. Try to pretend a mere inch didn’t separate them. That he could stretch out an arm and touch the satiny skin of her thighs. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to rid himself of the image. It did nothing, however, to rid him of the memory, the well-remembered sensation of her skin beneath his hands.
Now she was moving. He heard the rustle of fabric, felt the nudge of her body against him. Was she mindlessly moving in her sleep? Was she one of those who tossed and turned? He envisioned countless torturous nights ahead where she rubbed up against him. How long was he to keep his hands to himself in such a scenario?