Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Yes, I was the guest of honor after that. It was quite dark by the time I was returned to my lodging, dressed in clothing that was made for someone of a much smaller stature.”


She shook her head at him. “I do not know if I can believe such a ridiculous tale.”

“I wish it weren’t true.” Jamie shrugged, his blue eyes twinkling. “If only to save my pride.”

Taking a sip of wine, Cat considered her husband. Dark, handsome and smiling, he reminded her of the boy she had fallen in love with. But there was an edge to him now, a maturity that was thrilling and startling at once.

I need an heir, Catherine.

The question remained. Was she ready to welcome him to her bed?





Chapter Eight





HIS WIFE WENT BACK to her room. Alone.

Jamie stared at the connecting door between their chambers, wondering where he’d gone wrong. His embarrassing story had appeared to entertain her. He’d even savored an after-dinner glass of port as Cat played Mozart—his favorite—on the piano. Lacy underthings and soft skin happily danced through his imagination with each small smile she gave him.

Then he had simply stood there, a hopeful fool, as she bid him good night and went upstairs. That was not how he had planned for the evening to end.

Was he to follow? Leave her be? Beg? Insist?

He was flummoxed.

Randy and flummoxed.

He rubbed the back of his neck. A part of him wanted to go after Cat simply because he’d been thinking of touching her all day. Touching her legs, her full breasts, the soft, wet place between her thighs. He would take her on her back, on her knees, every way he could imagine.

But it was more than that. More than lust.

He wanted her back. All of her. Her smile, her excitement, her challenging pride. He wanted the past they had shared, and the years they had spent apart. He wanted to soothe her heart over the loss of their child.

If only he could make her love him again.

Bloody hell, but he was a fool to have stayed away so long. She had every right to slam the door in his face.

Gifts. He would bring her gifts.

He certainly had a lot of treasures to give her. Damn his awkward pride that had hidden the bounty beneath his bed.

He dragged his gaze from the connecting door and pulled the small trunk from beneath his bed frame.

Please, let this work.

His offering in his hands, Jamie knocked on Cat’s bedroom door.

And waited.

“Cat,” he murmured when she did not reply. “Let me in.”

Finally she opened the door a hand’s width and peered around the edge. She wore her green silk dressing robe, her hair brushed loose around her shoulders.

“I brought you something.” The rough tumble of his voice sounded nervous, unsure. He did not care.

“Oh.” She opened the door as wide as her shoulders and peered down at the wooden box in his hands.

He cleared his throat. He did not know what he would do if she refused him. Try again tomorrow. And the day after that. “Might I come in?”

Cat stepped aside and he entered her room, then put the trunk down on her bed. She stood next to him and stared at the box as if snakes might leap out.

He rubbed his sweaty palms together. “Open it.”

“What will I find inside?”

She was so adorable. “Open it.”

It took forever, but finally she released the clasp and lifted the lid. The smallest boxes lined the top.

Cat flicked her gaze up to him and opened the first box. It contained a pair of hair combs. Carved from mother-of-pearl, they were shaped like small butterflies.

“I bought those in Persia.” When he had seen them in the market, his only thought was of how they would look in her hair. Not of how angry he was with her. Not of gossip and shame. He should have known then to come home. “Remember the day we rode by Shepton’s maize fields? Butterflies flew across the crops like living flowers. We stopped for a while to watch. Later, you let me take the pins out of your hair. I think I said your hair was more beautiful than maize silk, or some other such horrid poetry. You laughed at me.”

“Yes, I remember.” Shadows played across Cat’s face as she dipped her chin and studied the combs. “They are beautiful, thank you.”

“There is more.”

Slowly, almost as if she was reluctant, she opened the next box.

“That is from India. She is Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, art and song.” Cat glanced up at him and searched his face. He smiled, wanting to put her at ease. “She reminded me of you.”

“Are these all for me, Jamie?”

“Yes. Every one.” Her hand felt cool when he wrapped it within his. “I never forgot you, Cat. Not once.”

She obviously didn’t know what to say. She withdrew her hand from his and unwrapped the miniature music box. She wound it up and it played a tinkling tune.

“Switzerland,” he said. “We danced to this waltz together at our engagement ball.”