Page 66 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin

He took another pull of dram, trying to sort through the tangle of his emotions. Desire, frustration, protectiveness, and underneath it all, something deeper and more dangerous.

Am I fallin' in love with her? The gods help me. Am I fallin' for me stubborn, impossible wife?

The council wanted an heir. The clan needed stability. But he... he needed her. All of her. Her laughter, her strength her passion, her trust. And he was starting to realize how important she was becoming.

He stood abruptly and hurled the glass into the cold fireplace, watching it shatter against the stone with savage satisfaction.

The dram was making his thoughts darker, more primitive. She was his wife. His woman. And by God, it was time she started acting like it.

Tomorrow I stop treatin' her like spun glass and start treatin' her like the strong woman she is. If she wants a fight, I'll give her one. If she wants honesty, I'll give her that too.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The empty space beside her in the bed was cold when Erica woke, confirming what she'd already known—Lachlan hadn't returned to their chambers.

"Good," she said viciously to the empty room, sitting up and pushing her tangled hair from her face. "I pray ye never come back here again."

But even as the anger burned hot in her chest, another emotion clawed at her—one she didn't want to acknowledge. Her body still hummed with the memory of his hands on her skin, still ached from the desire he'd awakened before she'd come to her senses and pulled away.

"Damn ye Laird Lachlan Galloway for makin' me want ye this much," she muttered, pressing her palms against her heated cheeks.

She tried to banish the treacherous longing that his touch had stirred, but even now, hours later, she could feel the phantom caress of his fingers, could remember the way her body had responded despite every rational thought in her head.

"I'm stronger than this," she said aloud, as if speaking the words would make them true. "I have to be."

Rising from the bed with sharp, angry movements, she began to dress herself rather than wait for Ada. "If me husband is too much of a stubborn laird to listen to me, to treat me as an equal partner instead of some delicate flower, then I'll handle me clan's troubles on me own."

The McLaren raids, the need for more men, the precarious state of their defenses—all of it required immediate attention, with or without Lachlan's support.

The great hall buzzed with the usual morning activity when Erica entered for breakfast. Servants moved efficiently between tables, the smell of fresh bread and porridge filling the air. And there, at the high table, sat her husband.

Lachlan looked up as she approached, and she noted with savage satisfaction the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that spoke of a sleepless night, even though his clothes were fresh, his face clean-shaven.

Good. Suffer like I'm sufferin'.

"Good mornin', wife," he said, his voice carefully neutral as she took her seat beside him.

She caught the faint scent of whisky still clinging to him—evidence of how he'd spent the hours away from their bed.

So that is how ye drown yer marital problems?

"Mornin'," she replied curtly, not meeting his eyes as she reached for the bread.

"Did ye sleep well?"

"Aye."

She hoped her face was schooled sufficiently enough to hide the lie. After he'd slammed the door, she'd tossed and turned for hours, her body restless and aching, her mind churning with anger and unwanted desire.

"Erica—"

"The porridge is quite good this mornin'," she interrupted, taking a deliberate spoonful.

She felt his eyes on her profile, studying her with that intense gaze that usually made her stomach flutter. Today, it only fueled her fire.

"We need to discuss what happened," he said, his voice low enough that the servants wouldn't overhear.

"Do we?" She buttered her bread with excessive care. "I thought ye'd made yer position quite clear."