Sitting up, she cupped the sides of his head and kissed him. Her own scent clung to his lips, but that did not deter her. She pressed a hungry kiss against his mouth, pushing him back onto his knees while she rose onto her own to keep their lips together. His hands reached for her hips, cupping each one in a strong grasp that pulled her up until the head of his erection brushed against her opening.

He lowered her onto his cock, the hard flesh easily penetrating her wetness. She was startled by the position and lifted her lips away from his.

“Did your tutor not tell you that there are many positions for lovemaking?”

She made a little sound of enjoyment as he pressed her all the way down. Her passage ached just a tiny amount as it was once again stretched by his hard flesh.

“I watched her ride like this.”

“You watched them doing this?” He growled his question, jealousy evident in his eyes.

“It was the best way to learn since actually trying my own hand was not permitted.”

“You are correct about that, madam. I would not have permitted another man to touch you.”

His hands tightened on her hips, confirming his jealousy, but she found it tender. Clasping her thighs on either side of his hips, she lifted herself up, rising off his cock and then lowering herself back down until she felt the entire length lodged tight inside her again.

“I learned that the woman can ride, not simply wait.”

He growled, but it was a sound rich with male enjoyment. “I begin to find my judgment softening.”

She rose once again and then began a steady motion of up-and-down strokes that sent rekindled desire through her. “I rather enjoy you being rigid with me.”

He chuckled through gritted teeth while his hands began to help lift her up and push her back down. “You have that effect upon me.”

A soft blush colored her cheeks, and he made a low sound beneath his breath.

“Your blush is touching, Bridget. Does it surprise you to know that we might tease about intimacies?”

“It does.”

Yet it was becoming much harder to concentrate on words. Her heart was racing again, and she wanted to move faster. She pressed herself down with more force and heard him growl softly with appreciation. Her thighs clasped him tighter, and still she wanted to be closer.

“I am done with teasing and waiting. I want you beneath me, taking my seed.”

He growled and pushed her back onto the bed without pulling out of her body. His chest pressed her down, but he clamped his hands on her wrists and pulled her arms above her head, stretching her body out while his hips began to pound against her.

The union was wild, and pleasure swiftly built under the hard strokes. The bed shook, but that only added to the fury of the emotions swirling deep inside her. She wanted to be thrown into the center of that storm, wanted to let it whip her flesh with its strength. Her hips rose to capture more of his hard flesh, her body straining against the hold he had on it as she tried to get closer to him.

She didn’t need to; he came to her, riding her with lightning-fast thrusts that drove deep into her. Pleasure broke like a thunderstorm, the deluge drenching her in seconds. The flood rained down over every inch of her skin, and she laughed with delight, marveling at the amount of sensation her body could feel. Her lover pumped his hot seed deep inside her while his chest labored just as hard as hers. He lay on top of her for long moments, when the only thing that she could hear was the sound of his breathing and the beat of both their hearts.

Her body was limp and content with the glow of satisfaction, her eyelids drooping as sleep lulled her away. Curan rolled over and pulled her along his side. She nuzzled against his shoulder, wondering in her fuzzy mind just how she had ever slept alone without his warm body to cling to.

It was the most perfect moment of her life.


Curan slept deeply. But his hand remained curled around her hip, keeping her against him. Bridget moved slowly to avoid disturbing him. The bed was like a sanctuary, a place devoid of all of the worries that had plagued her. Here there was only the way that he held onto her, even while he slept. Tenderness filled her heart, and she did not resist its sweetness.

The fire crackled; the large log that had been burning when Curan brought her into the room split in half to expose the red-hot coals it had been reduced to. But one large chunk rolled too far over in the hearth for her liking. Fire was always a danger and one that must be given attention.

Easing herself out of the bed, she moved slowly to avoid waking Curan. The floor was cold, but there was a thick rug set down near the hearth. Sinking down onto her knees, she used a thick iron poker to push the glowing log back where its heat might be enjoyed but not cause worry.

The room was still very much a mystery to her. The hearth was large and had a good chimney that drew the smoke up and out of the room. Large glass-pane windows ran along one side of the room, and a long table with several chairs occupied one wall. Her trunks were pushed off to one corner, and Curan’s own baggage was there as well. The more important items were stacked very precisely on the table. Things like his writing desk and his secretary’s box. The candles had burned down and died while they slept, but her eyes were adjusted, and the ruby glow from the coals made it possible to see.

A stack of parchments was there, too, and it drew her attention. The parchments lacked any sort of wax seals or ornate ribbons that might have indicated their importance as papers a commander needed to carry. Parchments that would have confirmed Curan’s authority with the king’s seal or something of that nature.

Instead these were folded, and the small wax that had once sealed them long since fallen away. In the dim light it was difficult to identify the papers, but something drew her interest. She stepped closer and lifted a hand to her lips to smother a gasp when she recognized her own pen strokes on the outside of one.

They were her letters to Curan, the ones she had written once they took the blessing on their union. Once a month, without fail, she had penned a letter to him and sent them off when the chance permitted. Sometimes that meant that two or three months passed before someone stopped at their country estate who might carry letters to London so they might be sent on to France.

She looked at the stack, and every one was there. The folds along the edges were worn, showing that the paper had been opened and refolded many, many times. The very fact that the stack was placed with his desk and secretary’s box was proof that he had held her letters in the highest regard. She was stunned down to her core. Never had she suspected that she meant so much to him. Suddenly, she saw all of his determination to see her brought to Amber Hill in a new light. Instead of possessive, she realized that he treasured her, her … not simply the union he had negotiated with her father. The letters would have meant little to him if his heart was not touched by them.

“Reading them kept me sane, when the campaign felt endless.”

She gasped again and shook her head. “But there is nothing in those letters save the simple words of a girl.”

Her husband merely lifted his eyebrow in response. “Each one was more valuable to me than gold.”

He hadn’t pulled anything from the bed to cover himself, appearing perfectly at ease in nothing save his skin and the glow from the coals. He offered her a rare smile, but the look in his eyes was very serious.

“I cherished them. Every word, every sentence. Reading them took me to where you were and where I longed to be. You took me away from the war that was pinching out lives for nothing more than greed. It was my duty to be there, yet I needed your letters to keep me from deserting.”

She reached for the stack, running her finger over frayed edges and even a few places where the parchment had cracked because it had been opened and closed so many times. They looked a decade old instead of merely three years. Her eyes filled with tears, for no man faked such longing. It was the sort of thing that words alone might never convey. Right there in the ragged edges was proof that his heart longed for her.

“I learned to love you through those letters, Bridget.”

“But you rarely wrote me back … Love me? You cannot mean such a thing. We are still strangers … having spent little time in one another’s company …”

He took the stack, and his face transformed into an expression of pure enjoyment, his fingers cradling the letters in a loving manner. This tenderness touched her because there were no words to describe it; only the sight was powerful enough to impart just how much he truly did value her letters.

“I marched my army into Scotland after you. That is my way of showing devotion.” He sighed. “It is a truth that I feared you would find my attempts at wooing you lacking. I am a man of action, not rhyming couplets. Yet the thought of buying verse from some poet to send to you made me jealous. I wrote each letter with my own hand. That was the best I could do.”

Many a noble knight paid for some other man to write his love letters. She realized instantly that she would far rather read the few, short ones he had sent her than any polished one bought like a beet in the market. The very fact that he had penned his letters himself sent tenderness through her. If she were naught but a mare to breed his children upon, he would have paid the poet and never considered the matter again.

“Action is not your only way of showing devotion.” She reached out and stroked the top of the letter bundle. Her heart was suddenly filled with joy. It sent her lips up into a broad smile. Love … she had so feared it and yet she had discovered that it felt wonderful.