Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“Ye have no call to accuse me of what ye are,” she said, poking her finger into his chest.

Her statement calmed him a bit. Sìleas wouldn’t lie to him.

“Ye should mind how it looks when ye go about with other men,” he said. “I won’t be made a fool of.”

Sìleas sputtered what might have been curses but was lost in the wind. When he reached for her hand, she kicked him in the shin. He stood dumbfounded as she turned and ran up the beach to the path above.

Ian looked to his cousin, expecting commiseration—and the apology he was owed.

“What in the name of heaven is wrong with ye?” Alex said, raising his hands in the air. “Did ye have to yell at her?”

“Me? You’re blaming me for this?”

“Accuse me of anything ye like,” Alex said, with a hard edge to his voice. “But there’s no excuse for insulting Sìleas.”

“I hope you’re telling me that nothing happened between ye out there,” Ian said, clenching his fists.

“I was out there doing my best to persuade her that ye are not the idget that ye are. You’ve somehow managed, in spite of yourself, to get the perfect wife, and now ye seem to be doing all ye can to lose her.”

Alex, who was usually hard to rile, was pacing back and forth and gesturing with his hands as he ranted.

“Sìleas is not just lovely, but she’s sensible and kind as well,” Alex said. “Adding to this miracle, your family adores the lass.”

“I’ve told her I want her,” Ian said. “What more does she want from me?”

“Why have ye done nothing to make amends to her?” Alex said, spreading his arms wide. “Would it be so hard to show her that ye admire her, that ye care for her? I tell ye, I’m disgusted with ye.”

With that, Alex turned and left Ian alone on the beach staring after him. He was still standing there when the heavens opened up and drenched him.

CHAPTER 11

Sìleas sat at the small table in her bedchamber with her letter to the now-dead King James and a clean sheet of parchment before her. How did one address a letter to a widowed queen who was also Regent? She brushed the feather of her quill against her cheek as she considered the question.

To Her Highness,

That should suffice. She bit her lip as she copied the rest of her original letter. It annoyed her that she had Ian to thank for the skill. Did she have no pleasant memories from her childhood that did not involve him?

Her mother had never been well long enough to teach her to write, and it wouldn’t have crossed her father’s mind to hire a tutor for her. When it was apparent that no one else would teach her, Ian did. For a boy who never liked to sit, he had been diligent, spending hours with her. The result was that while she did not have an elegant, feminine hand, she was a slow but competent writer.

She smudged the ink and had to start over on a clean sheet of parchment. When she finished, she blew on the letter and read it over again. It would do.

The problem now was how to get it delivered to the queen at Stirling Castle.

She started at the sound of a rap on her door and shoved the letters under the sheaf of accounts stacked on the table. “Who is it?” she called out.

Ian stuck his head through the door.

He gave her a smile that raised her heartbeat. Why did he have this effect on her? She had avoided him since yesterday—no small task when they were living under the same roof—because she feared seeing him would weaken her resolve.

“May I come in?”

When she failed to summon an answer, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Her cheeks flamed hot as she remembered her letter. She felt a pang of guilt for not telling him she was seeking royal assistance to annul their marriage—and stifled it.

“I promise, I won’t shout at ye. And I won’t touch ye…” Ian’s voice trailed off as his gaze slid over her, as if he were remembering every part of her he’d had his hands on two nights before. “… unless ye want me to.”

She could not get enough air. With his dark hair falling over one eye and the shadow of beard over his strong jaw, Ian looked rough and dangerously handsome.

He drew his brows together. “I wouldn’t hurt ye. Surely ye know that?”

He would. He already had.

Ian’s gaze drifted around the room. “You’ve made it nice in here.” He sniffed and the corners of his mouth tipped up. “Smells much better than when I slept here as a lad. It used to smell of dogs and horses—and me, I suppose.”

She remembered waking to the smell of him when he crawled into bed with her. The scent had lingered faintly in her bed, giving her a restless night.

She swallowed as Ian’s gaze fell on the bed and remained there for a long moment.

“I came to ask ye about the accounts ye showed me,” he said, bringing his gaze back to her.

How did a man get such blue eyes?

“I’m sure my da didn’t record such things, though perhaps one of the men working for him did,” Ian said. “So, you’ll have to teach me.”

She raised her eyebrows, since he had paid no attention the first time she tried to show him.

He lifted the stool that was against the wall with one hand, set it next to her, and sat down in one easy motion. The man moved as she imagined a lion would, all grace and rippling muscle.

She jumped when he scooted his stool closer.

As he reached across her for the pile of parchments, his arm and shoulder pressed against hers, sending heat radiating through her body. “Now let’s have a look at these.”

She awoke from her daze and grabbed the stack away from him.

“These are in order!” she said, her voice coming out high and squeaky.

He gave her an amused look, blue eyes sparkling, and raised an eyebrow.

To cover her embarrassment, she began explaining her method of keeping track of the farm’s livestock. “Ye see, I mark all the new calves here—”

He touched her hand, and the words dried in her mouth.

“Ye were always better at figures than me, Sìl.”

“Only because ye lack patience.” She attempted a severe look, though, despite herself, her heart swelled with the compliment.

“Impatience is a failing of mine.” Ian gave her a slow smile as he dragged his finger up her forearm. “A failing I’m trying verra hard to cure.”

She swallowed. “I know what ye are trying to do.”

“Do ye now?” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek, sending a shiver all the way to her fingertips and toes.

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“We should each do what we’re good at,” he said, his eyes glimmering. Without shifting his gaze from her face, he waved his hand toward the parchments. “You’re good with figures, so ye should keep doing that.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she would not be here to do it, but stopped herself. Ian was set on doing his duty to his family and clan, and he had decided that duty included making her his true wife. It was best, then, that he not know she was making other plans.

“And what are you good at?” she asked instead.

“Just as ye say,” he said, leaning closer, his even white teeth gleaming. “Seducing my wife.”

She felt herself blush to her roots. “I’m no your wife.”

“But ye are,” he said.

“Ye did not claim me for five years.”

He slid a hand beneath her hair and cupped the back of her neck as he leaned toward her. “Well, I’m claiming ye now.”

The saints protect her, Ian was going to kiss her. The memory of waking to his kisses sent an unfamiliar rush of desire through her. His lids were half lowered over eyes that held a molten heat like the blue in a hot fire. She felt herself leaning toward him, like a moth flying into the flame.