“From yer husband?”
“From anyone.”
Archer fell silent. He seemed to consider that, as if he was trying to decide whether it was an acceptable answer, whether it was something he could allow from Finlay. But River didn’t give him too much time to think about it, lest he decided he wanted to pick a fight with the man.
“Have ye remembered anythin’?”
Whether he had and wished to keep it a secret or River’s theory about him wanting to take off his clothes was correct, Archer didn’t respond. Instead, he undid the buttons of his white shirt one by one, much like he had done with his vest. Each button revealed more skin, grooved by the muscles underneath, a scattering of old, fading scars decorating the expanse of his chest and stomach. He had just begun to tan a little, perhaps from training outside with his men, and under the incandescence of the candles, his skin seemed to glow like a flame.
River stared for too long; she caught herself even before Archer caught her, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away. It was something that amused him a lot, it seemed, as he laughed, his stomach contracting with the sound, muscles rippling.
Once he had removed the shirt completely, he leaned back once more, as if putting himself on display, and River could hardly blame him. He was like a statue carved from the finest marble, and at the mere sight of him, heat curled deep in her core—a heat that gripped her like a vice.
“I daenae have much more to lose,” he said, but River was quick to contradict him.
“Ye could have removed yer brogues or yer hose or yer garter ties,” she pointed out. “Ye chose to remove yer shirt.”
“Och aye,” said Archer, entirely unapologetic. “It’s much more entertainin’ this way, is it nae?”
He’s impossible!
“I daenae find it entertainin’,” said River.
“Well, now I just think we’re lyin’,” said Archer, his grin widening in that maddening way of his. “It’s alright. Ye can admit it.”
“There’s naethin’ to admit.”
“If ye say so.”
River was close to banging her own head on the wall, partly out of frustration and partly out of that need that had creeped its way into her body and now refused to let go. She wanted him; there was no denying that. But she wished she didn’t.
“Me turn,” said Archer and pinned her with a look. “Why daenae ye wish to have bairns?”
Out of all the questions he could have asked her, this was the one River couldn’t answer. How could she explain it to him? How could she tell him that not only did she not want herself or her child to be used as a pawn but that her mother’s actions had convinced her she was unworthy of becoming a mother? It was her secret to hold. She didn’t want to share it with anyone else.
Instead of answering, she began to undo her gown—a task easier said than done, as a maid always helped her with it. Once River had undone most of it, she tried pulling the muted red fabric over her head, but she soon found herself stuck—arms in the air, waving uselessly, her head caught in a sea of silk.
Somewhere in front of her, she heard laughter, and then the couch shifted as Archer moved closer to help her. His hands found her arms, their touch gentle as he tugged at the fabric, soon releasing her from her sartorial prison.
River, too, couldn’t help but laugh, at least until she realized she was only in her stay and undergarments now. Still, there wereplenty of layers to go, and she wasn’t willing to part with any of them.
She didn’t even realize she was retreating into the corner of the couch, her arms wrapping protectively around herself as if they were a shield. Archer was much more comfortable, splayed out in his corner, his gaze drawn again and again to the neckline of her stay, where her ample breasts swelled over the stiff fabric with every breath she took.
The game progressed quickly then, with River asking simple, innocent questions that Archer could answer with ease—and yet refused to, until he was down to only his kilt. Unlike her, Archer was asking her questions she didn’t want to answer—about her mother, about children, about their marriage, until she, too, was down to her shift. Her heart hammered in her chest, a strange mix of fear and excitement coursing through her as she realized she had never been like this with a man before—so exposed, almost nude, the thin fabric of her shift doing little to hide her body. Her breasts and hips pressed against it, outlined by the silk, and her legs, her arms, and her chest were far too bare for her liking.
The same didn’t seem to be true for Archer.
“Alright,” River said, drawing in a steadying breath. “Can we end it here?”
Archer shook his head. “We’re still wearin’ clothes.”
“Barely!” River all but shrieked, forgetting herself for a moment and throwing her hands up in the air. “I’d rather nae lose anythin’ else.”
“It’s yer turn to ask anyway,” Archer pointed out.
“Who said I want ye to remove yer kilt?”
“Ye daenae?”
