Highland Groom by Hannah Howell

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.
    Tearing her gaze from his groin, Ilsa quickly scolded herself for that sudden flicker of unease. She was no virgin. Except for the first time they had made love, she recalled no pain, only pleasure. Since she doubted a man could become more impressively endowed in just a year, she had obviously accommodated him well in the past and could do so again.
    She tensed when he crouched over her and began to remove her shift. A protest formed upon her tongue, but she bit it back. This, too, was his right. If he was planning to do more than rut on her, however, it would certainly be impossible to pretend she was giving him only reluctant duty. She blushed when he tossed her shift aside and stared at her bared body. He looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Obviously the sight of her stirred no memory, but, if she judged his expression correctly, it did stir his lust. She could make that be enough for now.
    Diarmot told himself to cease dawdling and get about the business of easing his needs. He then told himself that enjoying the sight of such loveliness revealed no more than any man's natural interest in the female form. Ilsa's breasts were round and full, the nipples a dusky rose. Her waist was tiny, her stomach taut with only a few faint scars from when pregnant with her sons, and her legs were long and strong. Her skin was smooth, soft, and without blemish.
    Between her pale, slender thighs was a neat little triangle of copper curls that had him aching, his mind rapidly filling with thoughts of all the ways he wished to enjoy that treasure.
    And why not enjoy himself?, he thought. Even the slowest of wits knew passion had