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The idea of a platonic marriage, for example.
He might not want me, but he’d had no problem pushing me down on the grass and taking me, just as he’d had no problems taking that kiss this morning.
And I wanted more. I didn’t want a platonic marriage, not with him. And I suspected he didn’t truly want one himself. Seriously, was he really expecting us to stay celibate for the rest of our lives? Did he think that one time had been enough for me, and as for himself he’d take his pleasure discreetly, with other women?
A burst of possessiveness swept through me and I very deliberately targeted another poor tomato, stabbing it viciously with my fork.
Absolutely not. That would not be happening. The molten core of passion at the heart of him was nobody else’s but mine and I would have it.
He wasnotgoing to deny me.
Full of renewed determination, I got up from the table and helped Mrs Mackenzie clean up—even though she told me not to—then went in search of Con so I could inform him of my decision.
He wasn’t around, however, which meant he must be still in the crofter’s cottage near the trees by the loch. He’d been very clear that the cottage was out of bounds, which was annoying.
Part of me wanted to go charging over there anyway, just to show him that he couldn’t tell me what to do, but I decided that this time he could come to me, so I amused myself in the library that led off from the living area instead. It was a small but cosy room, with bookshelves lining every wall and a small window seat piled with cushions. Unable to resist, I grabbed a book and curled up with it, spending the afternoon reading as the sun warmed me.
I must have dozed, because the next thing I knew it was dark outside, and I was blinking up into Con’s dark and disapproving gaze.
He stood beside the window seat, looking down at me, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was as hard and cold as I’d ever seen it. He was virtually radiating ice.
‘I’ve spent the past twenty minutes looking for you,’ he said in frigid tones. ‘Mrs Mackenzie is going to be serving dinner soon.’
I pushed myself up on the cushions, my heart thumping. I’d wanted to be ready and poised when I told him I’d changed my mind, not groggy from an unexpected nap.
He was already turning away from the window seat, clearly his duty to call me to dinner done, so I slipped off the seat and said, ‘Wait. I need to talk to you.’
He paused and glanced back, his black gaze sweeping over me like a chill winter wind.
My red dress was creased, and my hair was a mess, so it came as a shock when that same cold black gaze lingered on my breasts, where the fabric had slipped, and then flicked lower, to where the silk had parted, revealing my thigh.
Instinctively, I went to adjust the fabric, then stopped. Because there wasn’t ice in his eyes any more, but...heat.
My breath caught. The air between us was abruptly gathering weight, becoming dense and shot through with electricity.
A muscle ticked in the side of his strong jaw, his eyes gleaming with a dark fire.
Did he...want me? Was that what I was seeing in his eyes? He wasn’t upset or angry, and yet...
A wild, intoxicating heat swept through me as I realised that, yes, it was definitely fire in his eyes, and it was directed at me. Short, plain, dumpy Jenny. Then hard on the heels of that realisation came another: I’d assumed I had no power when it came to him, that all the power was on his side. I’d always wanted him, but he didn’t want me, and that was the end of it. He was beautiful, powerful and rich, while I was none of those things.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it?
My mouth went dry, my heart rate through the roof. I’d thought I’d have to work at convincing him to give me a full marriage, but maybe I wouldn’t.
Maybe I had some effect on him after all.
To check, I bent to adjust the silk around my thigh, while at the same time allowing the fabric around my breasts to gape. When I glanced up at him from beneath my lashes, trying to be covert about it, I noted where he was looking. And it wasn’t at my face.
A thrill went through me, electric and hot.
It was me, wasn’t it? I did affect him.
Do you, though? Or is it just your breasts? Your mother always did say that men are easily distracted by a low-cut dress.
I shoved that thought away. It didn’t matter whether it was me or not; what mattered was the small amount of power my femininity afforded me. And while it felt wrong to use it, since it was the kind of power my mother had always thought so important, it was still power. And I’d never had any before.
‘What is it, Jenny?’ he asked, his voice not quite as cold as it had been a second ago.
