The man was a basketful of contradictions, she decided as she headed toward their bedchamber. He held her at some distance, yet obviously wanted her in his bed. He wondered if she might be a threat to him, yet held her close at night and accepted her as mother to his children. He was suspicious of her brothers, yet let them run tame over Clachthrom and appeared to accept their hunt for his enemy as genuine. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, Ilsa wondered if the man was aware of just how confused he was, then she stepped into the bedchamber and lost all track of her thoughts.
Diarmot was sprawled upon their bed wearing nothing more than a smile. She could see the lingering bruises and small, mostly healed, wounds he had suffered. She could also see the stout proof that he was healed enough to feel very randy indeed, Ilsa closed the bedchamber door and walked over to the bed.
"Impressive," she murmured.
"Thank ye, m'dear." He scowled when she turned and walked away. "Where are ye going?"
"Did ye expect me to start tearing my clothes off in a fit of unbridled lust?" she asked as she stepped behind the privacy screen and finally gave in to the urge to grin.
"That would have been satisfactory."
"For ye, nay doubt, but I am rather fond of this gown. And I have seen it all before, after all."
She struggled to muffle her giggle when he grunted in response to that idle disregard of his charms. In the smile he had given her as she had entered their bedchamber Ilsa had seen the ghost of the playful Diarmot she had once known.
That made her feel even more certain of her decision. This time there might be only a glimpse of the man she had loved, only a brief return to the joy she had once known, but she was sure there would be other times, that little by little the Diarmot who had so beguiled her a year ago would return.
Ilsa hurried to shed her clothes and wash. She brushed out her hair then donned the lace-trimmed night shift she had made from the fine blue linen she had bought. The way Diarmot watched her as she walked back toward the bed told her she had not been foolishly vain to think it flattered her.
"Verra fetching," Diarmot murmured. "In truth, there is only one thing I might suggest to make it look even more fetching."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"Drop it on the floor."
She could tell by the challenge in his gaze that he did not think she would do it. A pinch of the modesty she could not fully shake free of caused her to hesitate, but she pushed it aside. This would be their first night together since his memory had begun to return. It was the perfect time to be bold, Ilsa gave him a faint smile and slowly removed her night shift. Still smiling, she held it out at arm's length and dropped it.
"There. Ye think it looks more fetching now?" She noticed he was not looking at her night shift.
"Oh, aye." Diarmot reached for her and cursed softly when she eluded his grasp. "Now where are ye going?"
"Nay to the great hall to pour wine, that is for certain. I thought I had best bank the fire."
"Tis fine. Come back here and tend to this fire instead."
Ilsa moved to the foot of the bed, climbed up on it, and began to crawl toward him on her hands and knees. "There is a fire here that needs banking, is there?" She reached his legs and moved up them slowly, kissing and stroking every strong inch of them with her hands, her lips, and her tongue.
"Och, aye, and tis getting hotter every minute."
Diarmot wondered if she had any idea of how sensuous she was. The way she had crawled up the bed, every move of her strong, slender body holding invitation and promise had been a pleasure to watch. The look upon her face, the tempting curve of her smile, and the heat in her gaze had made his passion soar. The way her long, bright hair had swirled around her had simply been the coup de grace.
She enthralled him and he knew that should worry him, but it did not. Instead he sprawled there, savoring the feel of her small hands, the heat of her mouth and tongue, and the silken caress of her hair as she inched her way up his legs.
His whole body shook with pleasure when she began to use that clever tongue on his manhood. When the moist heat of her mouth enclosed him, he propped himself up on one elbow, and brushed her hair aside with his other hand, needing to see as well as feel her gift him with this delight. Despite all his efforts to cling to some control, to make it last, it was not long before he knew he needed to be inside her. He sat up, grasped her under her arms, and set her astride him. Although he had done nothing to prepare her, he felt only the hot damp of welcome as he entered her, and he groaned at this proof that she could be so stirred by pleasuring him. She moved upon him with a natural skill and a sweet greed that made him tremble, and he gave himself over completely to their passion.
Ilsa roused herself from a sated doze and felt the first tickle of embarrassment. Returning from the delicious oblivion Diarmot could send her to and finding herself sprawled in his arms was not so strange. It was recalling how she had behaved that made her uneasy. Such wanton behavior might not be the best way to win a wary man's trust, especially when that man had been wed to a woman like Anabelle. She eased herself off him, glanced at his face, and caught him frowning at her.
"Ve do that verra weel," he muttered.
Sometimes, Ilsa mused, there was no joy in being right. "What? Moving?"