Page 18 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Me pleasure, m'laird."
As Robert left them alone, Lachlan stepped closer, and Erica felt her breath catch. This close, she could see the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
"Did ye sleep well?" he asked quietly.
The innocent question made her cheeks burn as she remembered her restless thoughts. "Well enough. And ye?"
"Well enough," he echoed, though something in his eyes suggested his night had been no more peaceful than hers.
The moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken possibilities, until Lachlan stepped back with what might have been reluctance.
"I should wash and change before the meal," he said. "Shall we meet in the solar in an hour?"
"Aye," she managed.
As he walked away, Erica found herself staring after him, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the growing realization that she was in serious trouble.
Because everything she'd seen and heard today had only confirmed what she'd begun to suspect last night: Lachlan Galloway was exactly the kind of man that could make their marriage work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"The solar is lovely," Erica said as she entered the chamber where Lachlan waited.
He'd changed from his training clothes into a clean shirt and dark wool vest, his hair still damp from washing. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows made his eyes appear almost silver, and she found herself staring before forcing her gaze away.
Stop gawkin' like a village lass who's never seen a handsome man.
"I thought ye might prefer it to the great hall," he said, rising to pull out her chair. "More private for conversation."
His hand brushed her shoulder as she sat, and she managed not to flinch—barely. The touch was brief, courteous, but it sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.
It's just politeness. Nothing more.
The table was set for two with fine plates and crystal goblets, laden with fresh bread, roasted fowl, and vegetables that smelled heavenly. But it was the small touches that caught her attention—wildflowers in a simple vase, her favorite wine that somehow, he'd known to serve.
"This is beautiful," she said, gesturing to the spread. "Ye dinnae have to go to such trouble."
"It's nay trouble." He settled across from her, and she noticed how his large hands handled the delicate glassware with surprising grace. "A man should treat his wife well."
His wife.
The words still felt strange, but less frightening than they had yesterday.
"Speakin’ of wives and... arrangements," she began carefully, cutting her meat into precise pieces. "I've been wonderin' about the practical aspects of our marriage."
"Such as?"
"When I'll return to McLaren lands. How often. Whether ye'll expect me to spend more time here than there." She kept her voice matter-of-fact, businesslike. "I need to ken so I can plan accordingly."
Something flickered across his expression—disappointment?—before his features smoothed back into neutrality.
"That depends," he said slowly.
"On what?"
"On whether I accompany ye or not."
The words were said flatly, matter-of-factly, but they hit her like a physical blow. She set down her fork, studying his face for any hint of negotiation room. She found none.
