She’d told him she wasn’t dressed. And that she was barefoot. But he knew many a man who fought without shoes, and her bare feet seemed no reason not to push the issue. Nor were they. But the nightdress. Natural linen. Sheer. Caught in the light of the fire. Not while she was seated at his side, but when she stood, when she took the lute, when she defied them all, and they applauded her anyway. When she blushed and laughed and looked so young and delighted, especially dancing with Jamie . . . He’d wanted to walk up to his own cousin and pummel him. There were things that he shared with his kin, and things he did not. Logic didn’t help. They were dancing, doing nothing more than dancing. The lady was learning highland steps, laughing, enjoying the ways of his people. He trusted Jamie with his life. Jamie was doing nothing wrong. He didn’t trust a word that fell from her lips. She was his captive. Captives weren’t to be trusted. She was his wife. Made so while bound and silenced in the confines of a sheet.
