He’d thought to wear her down, make her agree to his wishes—once she had his son, she could travel all she wished, and with his blessing. It seemed a fair enough request, but she’d been far from agreeable. What was worse was that he’d underestimated one small facet of his lovely wife’s character—her overgrown sense of pride. It was equal to his own, if not larger and far more entrenched.

In response to his ultimatums, she’d done what she could to make Kilkairn Castle the uncomfortable mess it was today, irritating the capable servants until they left and neglecting to oversee the ones that stayed. Malcolm had uneasy dreams of Fiona dancing through the castle, tossing dust in the air. Then, once she tired of that game, resting in his favorite chair by the fire to knit cobwebs of every shape, size, and color.

Malcolm paused outside a wide oak door and straightened his shoulders. “Do not give an inch,” he muttered to himself. His father would have never put up with such nonsense, and neither would Malcolm. Still, it was difficult to maintain his pride because he loved Fiona…didn’t he?

A cold grip of uncertainty held him in place. As always, it was the one question he couldn’t answer. What if his love for his wife only lasted as long as his father’s love had lasted for his mother? Malcolm remembered his mother’s pain each time his father strayed.

It was a long moment before he lifted his hand and knocked on the door and then entered.

The room was decorated in delicate blue and white, Fiona’s favorite colors. A large bed sat in the center of one wall, an ornate dressing table across the room, near the large fireplace.

His bride sat at the dressing table, a lace gown tossed over her shoulders, her hair streaming down her back as her maid brushed out the long curls.

Fiona’s gaze met Malcolm’s in the mirror and a stubborn flush rose in her cheeks as she looked away.

Malcolm flicked a glance toward the maid. “Marie, I wish to speak with Lady Strathmore privately.”

Marie’s gaunt face reddened and she gripped the back of Fiona’s chair in a protective manner. “I was just brushing Her Ladyship’s hair and—”

“That will be all, Marie,” Malcolm said firmly.

The maid sniffed and then looked at Fiona. “Madam?”

Fiona sighed. “You may go, Marie.”

“Oui, but—” Marie glanced at Malcolm as if to ascertain his trustworthiness.

That irked him. By the saints, he was the man of this house, and he wouldn’t stand for such impertinence. He spun on his heel and went to the door and held it open.

Head high as if she were on her way to the guillotine, Marie slowly went to the door. The second she crossed the threshold, Malcolm kicked the door closed behind her.

Fiona jumped. “Malcolm!”