Page 20 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin

"I'm nae... I daenae..." She struggled for words, then forced herself to be direct. "Physical touch is difficult for me."

"I've noticed." His voice was gentle, understanding. "Somethin' happened to ye?"

"Aye." She couldn't meet his eyes. "But... I daenae want to talk about it."

"Aye." The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. "Nay one should have to endure anythin' that affects them so much."

"It's made me... wary. Of men. Of being touched."

"Understandably so." He was quiet for a moment, then: "But ye touched me hand durin’ our card game. And ye dinnae flinch when I helped ye with yer chair just now."

She looked up at him in surprise. "I... I hadnae realized."

"Maybe ye'll heal. Maybe the right person, the right touch, can help ye remember that nae all men are like yer brother."

The suggestion hung between them, loaded with possibility and promise. She found herself studying his hands again—strong but careful, scarred but gentle. What would it feel like to have those hands on her skin? Not in violence or domination, but in tenderness?

Stop it. Ye're bein' foolish.

"The clans would benefit from a closer alliance," she said, steering the conversation back to safer ground.

"They would. Joint ventures, shared resources, stronger defense." He seemed to understand her need to retreat from the personal. "But that's nae the only reason I want ye to stay."

"What other reason could there be?"

"Because I enjoy yer company." The simple admission made her breath catch. " Because ye're the first person in years who's looked at me and seen somethin' besides a monster or a title."

The first person in years.

How lonely he must have been. How isolated.

"Ye're nae a monster," she said softly. "A monster wouldnae ask permission before touchin' his wife. A monster wouldnae..." She gestured vaguely at the beautiful meal, the flowers, the care he'd taken for her comfort.

"Wouldnae what?"

"Wouldnae try so hard to make sure I felt safe."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, gratitude, something deeper. "Safety is nae somethin' to be taken lightly. Especially for someone who's had it stolen before."

The understanding in his voice made her chest ache.

"We'll continue this conversation," he repeated firmly, "About what this marriage could become, if we both want it."

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Because the truth was, she was beginning to want it. Beginning to imagine a life here, with him, that might actually make her happy.

But wanting something and being brave enough to reach for it are two different things. And she was not sure she had the courage to hope for anything with Lachlan when she was still so afraid of being touched by him.

As they finished their meal, she found herself watching him more boldly—the way he listened when she spoke, the careful way he moved so as not to startle her, the glimpses of humor that lightened his serious expression.

Maybe Ewan had been right. Maybe this arrangement could become something real.

"There," Lachlan snarled, stepping back to glare at the canvas. His father's face stared back at him—perfectly rendered, every cruel line and harsh angle captured with artistic precision. "There ye are, ye bastard."

The painting showed his father's study, shadows dancing across stone walls, but it was the man's face that dominated thescene. Cold eyes, sneering mouth, the same expression that had haunted Lachlan's dreams for years.

Look at ye, all finished and perfect. Just like ye always thought ye were.

Without warning, rage exploded through him. His hand shot out, grabbing the palette knife, and he slashed it across the painted face. Red paint—blood red—streaked across his father's cheek like an open wound.