“’Tis hard to change someone’s will, Gwen, especially one as strong as my first-in-command.”

“Not really. They just need a little push. Well, only Gavin needs the push.”

“I’ve tried to broach the subject, but he refuses to listen,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ahh, don’t shake,” she hissed, pulling back the razor. “Has Gavin admitted his feelings?”

“Nay, he stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns.”

“I know that look.”

Greylen rolled his eyes. “I’m not surprised.” He sighed. “Dress for dinner tonight, wife.” He squeezed her thighs.

“You’re kidding, right? Greylen, I dress every day and every night.”

“I’m aware that you dress, Gwendolyn. I’m suggesting that you do so appropriately.”

“Appropriately. Gee that’s such a big word, I don’t think I understand.”

“You understand precisely,” he said, bringing her closer. “You could take the Eastern Hemisphere with an army at your disposal.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.”

“’Twas an insult,” he muttered.

“Take it back,” she cried with a laugh.

“Nay.” He shook his head. “You drive me mad, woman.”

And she did. Pliable in his hands one minute, and Armageddon in the blink of an eye. His wife was intelligent, loving, and mindful; foul-mouthed, headstrong, and downright feisty. She openly questioned his authority, and good God, her looks alone could raise the dead. Not to mention that finger of hers. She’d start pointing, and he’d seek escape. Or fight back if necessary.

He’d tried to change the way she dressed, but his attempts were futile. In truth, they were explosive. One morning, he’d even gone to the trouble of choosing a gown for her to wear while she’d finished in the bathing chamber. Then he called to her that he’d meet her below stairs.

He’d waited at the head of the table in the great hall, facing the archway. His mother, Gavin, and Duncan sat to his left and Isabelle to his right. He’d just taken a sip of coffee when his wife entered—the contents spewed from his mouth.

Gwen, his wife, was not in the dress he’d carefully placed on the bed, but in the clothing that she’d come to him in. A tight white shirt revealing her arms, most of her chest, and the outline of everything beneath. And her trews, good God, her trews were the tightest pair of anything he could ever remember. They clung to her so low he could see her navel.

And she was barefoot as well.

She’d smiled as she approached the table, where everyone, save he, had covered their mouths and laughed. “Good morn, everyone,” she’d said sweetly as she looked to them. Then she’d turned to him. “Greylen, husband…” she had begun, her voice forced honey.

He was going to nail her…against the wall, on the floor, to the door, the bed.