She nodded, more smooth locks sliding over the swells of her burgeoning breasts that peeked above her rounded neckline and panted as she breathed. He had to force his eyes to her piqued face. Undressing her with his lustful gaze wouldn’t alleviate her fears at all.
“I know that of ye. Your men, the king, my own brother, have vouched for your fidelity.”
That lock of hair was too much, and he entwined it around his finger that brushed against the fair skin of her chest. Her breathing heightened; she was still nervous, yet she didn’t move, and her tenacity under his touch inflamed him even more.
“Then why do ye yet fear me?”
She blinked at his question. “I yet fear the unknown.”
James nodded at her answer. “Aye, I can imagine our marriage bed might be a fretful prospect, but I —”
Tosia shook her head, tearing the lock of hair from his fingertip.
“No’ just the bed. I mean, aye, I have the concerns that any maid would, but ye, milord, ye are the unknown.”
She dropped her gaze, her bravado exhausted in that one statement. She tried to withdraw her hand, but James didn’t let her. This connection, at once powerful and tenuous, he didn’t want broken.
“Then I would have ye know me. We’ve spoken little, but that does no’ do much against the tales ye’ve heard that have crisscrossed Scotland. Most are accurate as I’ve told ye, but what do ye want to know of me that aren’t of those tales? What of me, directly?”
A bit of a gambit — what if she asked a question that only frightened her more?
She swallowed and flicked her face to him, then back to her lap.
“Ye were in France?” she asked in a hesitant voice. He nodded. “How long?”
“Several years.”
“And ye speak French?”
“Oui, un petit peux,” he answered.
“Ye are truly well-educated. ’Tis a difficult language to learn?”
James shook his head. “It can be learned easily enough.” He leaned into her. “Would ye like me to teach ye some words?”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she peeked her eyes up at him. “Aye. ‘Twould be nice.”
“Anything else?”
“Do ye miss your family?” she asked.
The depth of the question caught him by surprise. He sucked on his lower lip as an old familiar pain, tender as an ancient bruise, ached deep in his chest. She’d lost family, as he had. A shared loss, another connection to her.
“Aye,” he choked out. “I was young when I left for France and wasn’t here when they died. ‘Tis a lonely thing for a son no’ to bury his parents.”
“I buried my mam,” she responded, then lifted her clear face to regard him fully. “It does no’ lessen the weight.”
“Ye speak a harsh truth,” he said, then moved so his lips were nearly brushing her cheek. “I would help ye bear that weight. For your loss and in all things.”
She turned her head slightly, so their lips were a breath from each other. “Why? Ye likely know less of me than I do of ye.”
His shuddering breath blew wisps of her hair. “Again, ye speak the truth. But ye are now my wife, and I owe ye a duty. When I vowed my body, my life, I meant it in all things. ‘Tis something else ye now know about me.”
Her shaky breath was warm on his skin, and her cheek brushed against his. He yet held her hand and again slipped her fingertips to his mouth, kissing each fingertip as her breathing grew more rapid.
“I would have ye know more of me,” he told her in a husky voice, his lips caressing hers but not quite kissing her. More like brushing her in a gentle touch, a promise of something more. Then he stood suddenly and turned to the Bruce.
“My apologies, my king, but I can wait no longer. I would retire with my new bride?” He bowed slightly and the Bruce smiled with drink-induced crazed joy.
