Page 19 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"What do ye mean?"
"I mean," he said, his voice taking on the cold authority she'd heard him use with his men, "that if I accompany ye to McLaren lands, we can spend equal time between both castles. Otherwise, if ye're travelin' alone, it would only be for a few days at most."
Her heart began to race, but this time it was definitely anger, not attraction. "A few days? How am I supposed to properly oversee me clan's affairs in a few days?"
"Ye're nae." His blue eyes were ice-cold now, all warmth gone. "Ye're supposed to trust yer council to handle day-to-day matters and make the important decisions from here, as Lady Kinnaird."
"That's ridiculous," she said, her voice rising despite her efforts to stay calm. "I have responsibilities?—"
"Aye, ye do. To me. To our future children. To the alliance between our clans." He cut her off with surgical precision. "Those responsibilities come first now."
"I willnae abandon me people to spend me days embroiderin’ by yer fireside like some decorative ornament. I am a lady, nae some lass brought to wed ye!"
"Ye'll do what's necessary for the good of both our clans." His tone brooked no argument. "And what's necessary is that the Lady Kinnaird remains at Castle Kinnaird, where she can properly fulfill her duties."
"And if I refuse?"
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Then ye'll find yerself with very limited opportunities to visit McLaren at all. The choice is yers, wife, but me word on this matter is final."
The possessive way he said 'wife' made her skin crawl and burn at the same time. This was the Highland laird she'd expected to marry—cold, controlling, inflexible.
"So, I'm to be a prisoner then?"
"Ye're to be me wife. There's a difference, though I can see why ye might be confused about the distinction."
His cutting words stung more than they should have. She pushed back from the table, her hands shaking with fury.
"I need to think about this."
"Think all ye like. The answer willnae change."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Erica stared down at her untouched food, her mind racing with the implications of his ultimatum.
"This marriage," she said finally, her voice carefully controlled. "Ye've given considerable thought to what ye expect from it."
"I have." His eyes met hers directly. "Havenae ye?"
More than I should. More than is wise.
"Some," she admitted quietly.
"And what conclusion did ye reach?"
She hesitated, torn between honesty and self-preservation. "That it would... complicate our original agreement. Me marriage to ye was supposed to be a business arrangement only.”
"Nothin' good is simple, Erica.”
The intensity in his gaze made her look away, focusing instead on her plate. But even that was dangerous—watching him eat, the efficient movement of his hands, the occasional glimpse of his tongue when he licked his lips clean.
What's wrong with me? I've never noticed such things about a man before.
"What would it mean?" she asked suddenly. "If I stayed, I mean. What would ye expect from me?"
"What any husband expects from his wife." At her sharp look, he held up a hand. "Companionship. Conversation. Eventually... intimacy. But only when ye're ready."
The word 'intimacy' made her cheeks burn. She'd pushed those thoughts aside during their wedding night, but now they came flooding back. The marriage would need to be consummated eventually if they wanted it to be more than just political theater.
The thought of Lachlan touching her—really touching her—sent conflicting waves of fear and curiosity through her body.
