The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

Diarmid rested his head on the end of the bath and closed his eyes in weariness. Today had been discouraging, although unlike his wife, he’d never imagined that the visit to Trahair House would end their troubles. At the very least, he’d expected a confrontation with Allan. But the bastard had been clever enough to make himself scarce and remove Christina to a secure location. With the girl at Bancavan, the quest became more complicated, certainly, but not hopeless.

Nothing more could be done tonight. He was so bloody tired that he might even sleep, despite the distraction of holding Fiona in his arms. She was exhausted, too, and struggling to cope with the continuing separation from Christina. When they left Trahair, his wife had looked devastated. She’d reminded him of the waif he’d rescued from the shipwreck.

The sound of the dressing room door opening made him raise his head. It was too soon for Allan Grant to send an assassin—Diarmid didn’t make light of Fiona’s warnings about his enemy’s murderous intentions. He’d already asked the landlord to tell him about any strangers asking after the Laird of Invertavey and his lady.

He expected a servant, perhaps to top up the hot water. But the person hovering on the threshold to this small room with its cot bed and shelves for clothing and luggage was no servant.

“Fiona?” He reached for a towel. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She gestured for him to lie back. “I just wondered where you were.”

“Having a bonny soak. I thought you’d take longer over your bath.”

She shrugged, still without stepping into the dressing room. He sank deeper into the water. Since their wedding night, he’d hungered for her. But she’d been so lost and despairing after they left Trahair. He couldn’t imagine she was interested in bed sport tonight.

His understanding was no defense against his natural reaction to being naked in front of her. Especially as she was dressed the way he dreamed of seeing her—when he dreamed of her dressed at all.

She wore the cream silk nightdress from their wedding night, although the loose peignoir she’d flung around herself almost made it respectable. Her magnificent hair cascaded around her shoulders. His hands clenched on the sides of the tin bath as he fought the urge to make a rope of those silky tresses and use it to drag her down for his kiss.

“I worried when you didn’t answer me.”

“I told ye I’d ordered baths for both of us.”

“I assumed you’d bathe in the bedroom after I finished.”

“Och, I’m all about efficiency, me,” he said drily, as he tried to ignore the excitement kicking his heart into a gallop.

“So I see.”

When she turned away, he wasn’t sure whether he was sorry or relieved. She looked beautiful, all rosy and damp. The way that sheer material clung to the graceful curve of hip and breast tested his self-control.

Diarmid slumped back into the water, only to sit upright once more when she returned with two glasses of claret. She passed him one, before with a whisper of cream satin, she settled on the stool beside the bath.

He gritted his teeth. He’d hoped a bath would relax him. Having his wife within reach left him anything but relaxed.

“Fiona, I dinna think it’s wise if ye stay.”

She frowned. “I want to talk to you.”

God give him strength. “Better when I’m dressed, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to where his cock rose hard and insistent. “I see.”

“Ye do indeed.” He tried to speak lightly, but the words emerged as a strangled growl. He took a gulp from his glass, but mere wine couldn’t douse the heat blazing inside him.

Fiona

hadn’t seen him naked since their first night together. He’d taken to sleeping in his dressing gown.

“You know, I’m your wife.” That conversational tone shouldn’t make him burn.

“I know.” Another strangled yelp.

Her gaze lingered on his erection, then she raised her blue eyes to his. “You have every right to use me as you wish.”

She leaned forward until the loose nightdress dipped to reveal the top of her breasts. He swallowed to moisten a mouth as dry as dust. His hand clutched the glass so hard, surely it must break.

“You’re tired after traveling.”