His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, then returned to her eyes. “A pity. Ye came to me study.”
“Aye. And that was to negotiate.”
“Then we will negotiate me rules soon as well.”
She sucked in a breath. “Yer rules?”
“Aye.”
He released her chin and stepped back, picking up his glass from the desk as if the conversation had ended because he had decided it had.
“Write to yer sister,” he said. “Sleep after. Tomorrow will be quite long.”
He walked out still shirtless, whisky glass in hand, and closed the door behind him.
Violet stood alone in his study with her pulse still too fast and her hands hanging at her sides. The room smelled of whisky, smoke, andhim.
She had come to reclaim control and get him to agree to anything else except the wedding. However, she had somehow agreed to marry him and even abide by his rules.
Good God, Violet. What have ye gotten yerself into?
5
Violet scrubbed her wrist as if the bathwater could remove a memory. It did not. All she felt instead was the chill from the cold morning.
The chamber assigned to her was clean, warm, and better than the dungeons by every measure a reasonable woman would use. A narrow bed stood near the wall, and a screen shielded the tub from the door. Fresh linen had been folded on a chair, and someone had even placed a small jug of warmed water near her elbow.
She sank lower into the tub and closed her eyes, which made the problem worse. Without the chamber to glare at, her mind returned to Connor’s study. To the door opening too quickly. To her hands landing flat against his bare chest.
She could still feel his warm skin and hard muscles beneath her palms. She could see it now, clear as day, the intolerablesteadiness of his presence, as if modesty had never been invented for men who looked likethat.
She scrubbed even harder.
Connor had the manners of a jailer, the arrogance of a king, and the body of a man who had never once needed to ask anyone for space. The thought was not admiration. It was an accusation her own senses refused to withdraw.
“Me Lady?” Moira’s voice called softly from beyond the screen.
Violet sank down further until the water touched her chin. “Please. Me name is Violet. And if ye have come with more orders from the Laird, tell him ye couldnae find me.”
A brief silence followed. “It is only about gowns.”
Violet closed her eyes. “Oh, aye.”
For some reason, it did not cross her mind that he was going to need a better change of clothes. She had planned for a week on the road and a night in the castle. Now she was stuck here for the foreseeable future, and all she had were travel clothes that smelled like dirt and smoke.
“Some are mine,” Moira continued. “A few were fetched from the market last night. They may nae be to yer taste, but I thought perhaps one would do until better arrangements are made.”
Violet looked toward the screen. “Fetched last night?”
“Aye. The Laird’s orders move faster than gossip when he is in a mood.”
A low scoff escaped Violet’s lips. “What, does he command the moon down too?”
She could hear Moira laugh from behind the screen. “Only if it is necessary.”
Violet almost smiled, which annoyed her enough to sit upright.
Moira was trying. That was the trouble. It would have been easier if everyone in Moore Castle were cruel. But Moira had called the guards because she had been worried about the baby. Now she had brought gowns because a woman could hardly walk through a castle in torn, borrowed clothes forever.
