If he truly had lost his memory, he had a right to be suspicious and act as if he were the one wronged, but that fact did not make his attitude any less irritating. Nor did it soften the pain she felt. Since he did not believe her, he was insensitive to her own turmoil and sense of injury. She had been deserted, had had to hunt him down, and had found him about to pledge his troth to another woman. Unfortunately, since he was in no mood to even consider the possibility that she told the truth, he had no understanding of how hurtful he was being now.
It was unfair, but Ilsa realized she was going to have to prove her trustworthiness. Since Diarmot claimed to have no memory of their time together, she was now a stranger to him. Instinct told her he would do his best to keep a wary distance between them. If she did the same, their marriage would quickly be doomed. Here, in the marital bed, there might be some chance of reaching him, of softening his bitter mistrust. Yet, to lie with a man who thought her a liar and a threat seemed wrong, would surely leave her feeling used, even shamed and humiliated.
Suddenly, she realized one reason she hesitated was because she was afraid.
What if his passion for her had died along with his memory? What if he had truly loved the woman he had been about to marry? She had seen little sign of any true affection between them, but conceded that she could easily have blinded herself to such a thing. It was difficult enough to accept that he no longer cared for her, whatever the reason was for that change.
What to do? she thought, struggling to keep her mind clear as he began to toy with her hair again, his fingers brushing against her neck, shoulders, and face. Beneath all the pain and sense of insult she suffered, she still loved him. Her passion for him seemed undimmed by his rejection. Her desires and needs were oblivious to his lack of trust, his suspicions, and the fact that he intended to use her to satisfy his manly needs without love, without even much hint of liking. He was not using sweet words to get her into bed, but the dictates of the church and his rights as her husband.
"Ye simply mean to use me as ye would use some whore," she protested, placing her hands upon his chest in a vain attempt to push him back at least a step or two.
"As my lawful wife. There is a difference."
"Nay in your mind."
She suddenly realized that he had partly unlaced the front of her shift. She clutched the opening tightly shut with one hand and glared at him. It was time to decide aye or nay, to join him in bed or find some other place to sleep.
There was no denying that the vows she had just exchanged with him meant he had rights to her body. She desired him and suspected he desired her. There was a look in his fine eyes that she recognized from when he had been wooing her. So why not indulge herself, why not feed the hunger that had knotted her insides for far too long?
Hastily, she reviewed the reasons why sharing his bed would be a good idea.
It would legalize the marriage in the eyes of the church. Here, in this bedchamber, there could be a chance for a truce, a chance for her to prove herself to him and ease his suspicions. If they still shared the fierce passion they had enjoyed a year ago, it could help her to inch her way back into his heart and mind. This marriage was important to the future of her sons and to the six children sleeping so soundly in the nursery. She had come here demanding that Diarmot marry her as he had promised to do. He had, and it was time for her to accept her responsibilities as his wife. She just hoped he did not use her desire and willingness to prove herself against her.
"Fine, Sir Diarmot," she snapped as she climbed onto the bed and flopped down onto her back. "I will do my duty. Have at it, then."
Diarmot was both surprised and a little annoyed when he had to bite back a smile. He did not want to be amused. That hinted at a softness within him, one she might be able to turn against him. He had placed her in his bedchamber intending to see just how far she would take this game. Since she was so obviously going to allow him into her bed, he would not turn away from what was offered, no matter how reluctantly. He would feed a need left untended for too long, no more. Diarmot shed his robe and climbed onto the bed.
Ilsa nearly groaned when he cast off his robe revealing that he was, indeed, naked beneath it. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to give him only duty if he was going to flaunt himself like that. Praying that she looked as calm as she was trying to be, she allowed herself to look him over. He was all lean, hard muscle. A broad chest, narrow hips, and long well-shaped legs.
There was a feathering of gold hair on his chest. A narrow line of tiny curls that began just beneath his navel, thickened around his groin, and then lightly dusted those handsome legs. His feet were long and narrow. There were a few new scars upon his body, giving the touch of truth to his tale of a vicious beating.
His manhood rose stout and proud from its nest of curls, indicating that he did desire her, and looking a lot bigger than she recalled it being.