Page 7 of A Highland Bride Forgotten
The mere thought seemed ridiculous, not only because she was his wife, but also because she was irresistible. How could Archer have possibly kept himself away from her? How could anyone?
River didn’t respond. Her frown only deepened and Archer moved closer to her once more, but just as he was about to grab her, she slipped out of his grasp. He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. If she was going to make this a game, he was more than happy to play along.
“Have I lost me mind?” River asked quietly, as if talking to herself. “What has gotten intae ye?”
“Is it so wrong to desire me own wife?” Archer teased.
“This is the isolation, isnae it?” River asked. “I’ve been locked up in here for so long that I finally went insane.”
“What are ye sayin’?” Archer asked, approaching her once more, only for River to step back again. He couldn’t make much sense of her words, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he had just found out how alluring his wife was. “I cannae believe I forgot someone like ye.”
“What?” said River, stopping short.
“What?” asked Archer, blinking in surprise.
“What do ye mean forgot?”
“Did they...did they nae tell ye?”
How could it be? River was his wife. Surely, she had to have been by his side while he recovered. Could it be that they thought her so fragile, so emotional that she couldn’t handle it and had refrained from telling her until he was well again?
But the woman standing before him didn’t seem so meek or fragile to Archer. If anything, she seemed filled with a fire that made him wonder what she was like in bed.
“Nae one has told me anythin’!” River cried.
“Och...well, I had a...an accident, I think,” said Archer. “I struggle to remember...well, many things.”
The blood drained from River’s face as Archer watched her stumble back just a little. She stared at him in horror, as if she was not seeing him, but someone else entirely.
But he was still the same man, he was certain of it. He just had to make sure she knew it, too.
“Daenae fash,” he said, his heartbeat picking up as he stared at her in the soft light of the morning. His gaze was drawn to the pale skin of her neck, where he imagined brushing his lips and tongue, sinking his teeth into that tender flesh until she moaned his name. “I can see why I married ye...I may nae remember it, but I can imagine ye beneath me, me lips all over yer body?—”
He was getting hard just thinking about it.
River let out another shriek, this time without words. Archer laughed softly; he hadn’t expected his wife to be such a blushing flower. Surely, they had spent plenty of nights together in bed, but then again, these conversations were usually reserved for companies of men.
Do lasses talk about such things? Nay, probably nae.
“That is quite enough!” River said sternly, her eyes narrowing as she stared at him, red-faced and breathing heavily. “I’vehad...I’ve had a terrible mornin’! So if ye’d be so kind as to give me a few moments.”
“Of course,” said Archer. “Take all the time ye need.”
“I mean alone!”
Archer had hardly managed to open his mouth to retort that this was his castle and he would be in any room he pleased, and besides, River was his wife, when the door was flung open once more to reveal none other than the very man Archer had been trying to dodge.
“Ye’re very fast for yer old age,” Archer said.
“Me Laird!” cried Jenson, then leaned over and heaved as he tried to catch his breath. “I cannae...run after ye...with these cursed knees! So daenae...make me!”
“Ach! Jenson!” River said and rushed to the old man, looping an arm around his to guide him to a nearby chair. Jenson accepted the assistance with grace, throwing himself down on the chair with a hand over his chest. “Are ye alright?”
“Och aye, me lady,” said Jenson. “Our Laird will kill me with a heart attack afore he kills me with anythin’ else.”
The old man was still breathing hard, his gray hair a halo around his face as though the wind had swept it all back while he was running after Archer. But Archer had been trying to evade himfor days, slipping through Jenson’s fingers only to be stopped by the nausea or caught by a guard or even by the man himself. He was the Laird of the castle and yet he was being treated like a prisoner, confined in his chambers out of everyone else’s fear that something might happen to him again.
He was not having it anymore.
