There had been a sense of familiarity to it all, he realized. He not only had not been surprised by that moment of passionate oblivion, he had anticipated it from the moment he had kissed her. The feel of her, even the taste of her, had felt right. Diarmot realized he had not even been surprised by her passion, had been anticipating that as well.
That implied that buried in his memory was knowledge of this woman. It would explain his immediate desire for her despite the lack of the lush feminine curves he had always preferred before. She enflamed him, which was both intoxicating and dangerous. Diarmot knew he would not be able to turn away from the pleasure he could find in her arms, however. He would just have to make certain he did not allow it to blind him to the threat she might pose or any tricks she might play. After the hard lessons he had learned from his marriage to Anabelle, Diarmot felt confident that he could keep this madness a thing apart.
"Weel, I now believe we may have once been lovers," he said, watching her closely.
"Ah, how generous of ye," drawled Ilsa as she turned her head to look at him.
"So, in addition to believing me a liar, and a possible murderess, ye also think me a whore."
"Just because ye have spread your legs for your husband, doesnae allow--
mmmphf." He stared at her in shock when she clapped her delicate hand over his mouth, then he scowled at her.
Ilsa slowly lifted her hand from his mouth. "Were your monly needs adequately satisfied?"
Adequately satisfied was a paltry description of what he had felt, but he would not argue with her. "Aye."
"And, so, ye may consider demanding your husbandly rights again from time to time?"
Several times a night and probably in the morning as well, he mused, but simply replied, "Aye, I may."
"Then might I suggest ye temper your words when ye are in here with me?
Despite my anger earlier--"
"When ye tried to kill me with the jug?"
She ignored that and continued, "I am able to control my temper more often than not. I ken what ye think and ye ken what I think, and I suspect we will feel inclined to voice our opinions again in the coming days. Howbeit, here wouldnae be a good place to do so. My anger might grow hot, but I suspect the rest of me would quickly grow cold."
That sounded very much like a threat, but it also made sense. If nothing else, he would put her on the defensive and that wariness would certainly dim her passion. Agreeing to a truce here meant he could not use her desire against her. There would be no trying to trick her into revealing some truth while muddled with passion. It was a loss, but not a big one. Considering what flared between them, Diarmot suspected he would have found such subtlety and deviousness very difficult.
"Ye seek a truce here, do ye?" he asked.
"Aye," she replied as she tugged the sheet up to cover herself. She tossed a corner of it over him as well, and ignored the wry look he cast her. "A truce.
The battle stops at that door. I doubt we can follow that rule precisely, but, if tis set, we will at least try."
"A truce then." He was faintly amused when she stuck out her hand, but he shook it. "Does that mean ye willnae try any tricks here? Willnae be a threat?"
Ilsa rolled her eyes and bent over the side of the bed to retrieve her shift.
"That was a short truce. Nay, I willnae try any tricks or assault your poor wee body with my superior strength and skill at arms."
She certainly had a true skill with sarcasm, he mused. Worse, it carried the sting of truth as well. He watched in surprise and growing amusement when she disappeared beneath the sheet. The wriggling and soft curses that ensued told him she was attempting to don her shift under there. When she reappeared above the sheet she looked tousled and flushed.
"Such modesty is unnecessary," he said. "After all, but moments ago--"
"Weel, I dinnae feel as I did but moments ago," Ilsa quickly interrupted him.
"Nay, I willnae be a threat here," she said, "not that I e'er was. And, since ye dinnae trust me as far as ye can spit, I dinnae understand why ye e'en ask for my word on that. Ye willnae believe it."
"Give it anyway and then our truce can begin."
"Do I have your word to try no tricks or attempt to harm me then?"
"Of course."
"Weel enough, then ye have mine." She shook hands with him again then got out of bed.
"Where are ye going?"
"Behind that screen set in the corner which should have told me that I had been put into your bedchamber. Ye would have no need of a privacy screen in your own room, nor I in mine." She slipped behind the screen and began to wash. "I hadnae looked about much, either, so hadnae noticed any signs that this was your bedchamber." She peeked around the screen and frowned at him. "Tis a verra plain bedchamber. Thought it was one kept ready for guests." She returned to the chore of washing. "Ye have made no mark upon the room."
Diarmot looked around his bedchamber and realized she was right. There was nothing to mark it as his unless one opened his clothes chests. Although he was not sure what he could do to change that, it was strange that he had not yet done so. Considering the many long months he had spent in the room recovering from the beating, there should have been some clear sign of his presence.