She couldn’t help but compare him to her late husband, who, while pleasing of feature, did not parallel Bróccín’s masculinity andair of command.
In the bedroom, though she and Luke had been intimate, he’d only touched her at night with the express intent of getting her with child. His gentleness had eased her fears, the expectedness of the act with each joining adding its own relief, more so when, after he was done, he’d always turned away andleft her alone.
What would it be likewith this man?
Memories of his body pressed atop hers came to mind, of how she’d fit against him with aching clarity, and of how his hardness had wedged intimately against her. With a simple touchhe could have…
She gasped. Mary’s will, what was she thinking? He did not care for her. He was a warrior, a noble who’d wed her for one purpose—to claimLatharn Castle.
A fact she must never forget.
Now he was leaving her untouched, the reason brutally clear. After her admission of having shared a man’s bed ’twas naught out of kindness, but irrelevance. To him, like the stronghold she loved and protected, was she little more than a possession?
Regardless his reason, she should be thankful for the reprieve. Nor could she forget that if he changed his mind, he could claim her as his right.
“Gwendolyn.”
At his deep burr, she stiffened. “Aye?”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
Hard eyes held hers with soft warning. “Because weneed to talk.”
Relief rolled through her. Talk, not intimacy. From his cool manner, she should have guessed, not that she wanted him. “I can hear you fine from here.”
Dark brows narrowed. “Then, I will come there.”
Closerto the bed? No!
On unsteady legs, Gwendolyn crossed the room and lowered to a chair, wishing she had her dagger. A ridiculous thought. Hadn’t his unarming her with ease last night demonstrated that even if she carried a weapon, she far from posed a threat to him? As well, he’d given his word that he wouldn’t harm her.
With the stealth of a panther, Bróccín strode over, settled ina nearby seat.
Gwendolyn studied his face, the hard plains unsettling, the intelligence in his eyes more so. She knew little about him. What did he know of her? “Did anyone tell you anything aboutme or my life?”
He shook his head. “Lord Comyn bid me to wed you; a command I followed.”
“I see.” Except she did not. Gwendolyn looked away. Throughout her life, she’d damned that women were little more than chattel for men’s desires. Never had she considered that men were manipulated in plays ofpower as well.
’Twould seem that like her, Bróccín was naught but a pawn. Except, by complying with Comyn’s dictate, in addition to taking a wife, he’d received a strategic stronghold. Still, he was a man of war, his life one of wielding his sword, of taking orders and issuing them as well.
She glanced over. The fire crackled in the hearth, creating a cocoon of intimacy around them, casting his features in an almost unearthly shade. His intense gaze held hers, and for a moment, ’twas as if he could see straight to her soul.
Shaken by the sense of connection, she swallowed hard. “There is little for us to sayto the other.”
“Why?”
The rumble of his deep voice left her further on edge. “You have every right while I… While I have my home…if even that.”
Sadness flickered in his eyes, throwing her further off balance. “Is that what you believe?”
“Believe?” She gave a cold laugh. “Tell me, what rights do I have in a man’s world? When I married before, my vows were given at my father’s request,” she said, her frustration poured into her words, and she found herself caught in the flow of anger. “Luke and I were friends, our marriage tolerable. When he died, I mourned a friend. After,” she whispered, “I foolishly believed my father when he told me that my life was my own, and never again would I have to marry unless ’twas my choice.”
“What happened to change that?”
She hesitated, confused he would ask or care. “My father died.”
