11
Cake woke in her own bed, in the chamber she shared with Marguerite. It seemed wrong. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, she could not remember making her way back through the sleeping palace.
Ah, yes. That was because she had not.
In a wash of sudden heat, she recalled Ross sliding from his bed the night before and padding to a basin, returning with a cloth. He had cleansed her with such thorough care that she’d almost moaned with the arousing nature of it except she feared he would think her in pain. Afterward, he had found her shift and straightened it before putting it over her head. That process had taken some time, as he seemed reluctant to actually cover any important portion of her body. He had dressed her completely once, only to strip everything away again and pull her into his arms.
They had slept the sleep of exhaustion afterward, slept until cockcrow. In the gray dawn, he had thrown on his own clothes, then tossed her shift and gown over her head, flung her cloak around her in haste and carried her back to her chamber. He’d kissed her and left her there, left her to slip into bed beside Marguerite where she belonged.
Where she belonged? It did not seem so, not any longer.
Cate stretched in the bed, easing muscles she had not known could become strained. She felt exquisitely tender in myriad places, sore inside yet replete. She should feel some shame for what she had done, or so the nuns would surely tell her, but she could not. She was fiercely glad she had gone to Ross. She knew now what passed between a man and a woman.
Yes, she knew, and the thought that she might never have it again was so painful she turned to her side, drew up her knees and pulled the coverlet over her head. Tears burned behind her nose, but did not seep under her tightly shut eyelids. What prevented them was the sudden realization that she could be with child. As with Isabel, a new life could be quickening inside her.
Ah, no, not like Isabel. In contrast to her sister with Rand Braesford, Cate did not love Ross, nor did he love her. What lay between them was lust of the kind the priests railed against. It was a thing of the flesh rather than the spirit, of bodies aflame and hands touching and grasping; of kisses so deep they were an exchange of life’s breath, and of purest animal coupling. There was nothing of the distant worship of the knight for his lady as was described in the annals of courtly love.
No, indeed not. They were neither of them in love.
“Are you still abed, Cate?”
Marguerite banged into the chamber as she made that inquiry, bringing with her a rush of cold air that smelled of the fresh outdoors. Cate moaned a little at such rude energy.
Quick footsteps approached the bed, and the curtains were flung open. “The morning is half-gone, and a fine one it is, with promise of sunshine. You will miss it if you don’t bestir yourself. You’ve already neglected to wave farewell to one of your favorites.”
Cate sat up, moving with more speed than grace. She was naked under the coverlet, but Marguerite would not mind, as she slept in the same state of nature. “Which favorite would that be?”
“Trilborn, my dear,” her sister answered with laughing irony. “Are you not pleased?”
Cate sighed with relief as she reached to push a pillow behind her back. For a moment she had feared that Ross…but it was not so. “Dare we hope he will be away for some time?”
“We may, indeed.” Marguerite went on to give the latest palace tittle-tattle, which said Henry had been closeted with the nobleman for some little time the evening before, and his departure was the result.
“What passed between them, I wonder.”
“It’s said Lord Trilborn is to visit every manse and castle between here and the northern marches, letting them know the number of men and arms Henry expects to have supplied to him in the event of rebellion. It’s this business of the pretender. Many claim it’s naught but a farce, while others predict armies upon the roads come summer.”
A shiver feathered down Cate’s spine. “Surely not.”
Her sister looked grave, as well she might after a childhood made terrible by reports of battles where men were slaughtered like cattle, followed by grisly executions of traitors. “I tell you only what I’ve heard. And there is more.”
“More?” Cate pushed a hand through her hair, trying to free it of what appeared to be a rats’ nest of tangles. How it had gotten that way, she preferred not to think.
“Word is, Lord Trilborn is to send back reports from everywhere he goes, lists of the men and supplies pledged to Henry’s army.”
“Showing proof of his industry?”
“Or his willingness to aid Henry’s cause. The mission was decided upon, they say, during a private meeting between the king and your future husband.”
“But that was about our marriage,” Cate said in protest.
“Was it?” Marguerite asked with her most secretive smile. “Or was the marriage about the mission that has taken Trilborn from among us?”
It was a question for which there was no answer. In truth, it did not matter. It was enough that Winston Dangerfield, Lord Trilborn, was truly gone.
He was gone, which meant the danger from the feud had been removed. If Ross was going to die before the wedding, which was fast approaching, it would have to be from some other cause.
And if he did not die, if he lived, what would that mean? Cate refused to think of it. Her chest ached at the knowledge of just how unlikely that would be.
“What will you do tonight?”
Cate jerked her head up to stare at her sister. “What do you mean?”
“Will you go to Ross or not?”
“How do you—”
“I am a light sleeper, so saw you return this morning. Moreover, I’m no longer a child, have known about the act of procreation for some time.”
“Please, not so loud,” Cate said with a wince.
“Don’t think I blame you, for I don’t. It was brave of you to venture out for what you wanted.” Her sister frowned, lifting a corner of her veil to her mouth, biting on the edge of it. “I don’t know if I’d have had the courage.”
“Courage?”
Marguerite gave her a dark look. “For the bedding, also what comes after it. Suppose you fall desperately in love with your future husband, but the sentiment is not returned. What if he dies, anyway? You will have nothing but heartache to show for your nights in his arms. Even if you have his child, they will take it from you.”
“Never!”
“Of course they will, if you go into a convent as you’ve sworn. If not, it will be the same. They’ll take the babe and banish you to some faraway keep, hold you under guard till you molder away. I would join you either place if allowed, but will it be?”
“You cheer me so, dear sister. I don’t know where I would be without you.” Cate should have seen the pitfalls herself, might have except for all else that was on her mind.
Her younger sister scowled at her. “Watching you and Isabel, I’ve quite made up my mind. I shall avoid being betrothed again at all costs.”
“The choice may not be yours.”
“I’ll run away before agreeing, I will. If I find a man who suits me, I shall live in sin with him, without need of vows between us.”
“But if he loves you…”
“How are we to be certain of that, you and I? Any man can say he loves us, but the only way we will know is to wait and see if he dies before the wedding. What kind of person does it make us that we can allow a man to risk his life that way?”
“It’s horrible, I agree,” Cate said, her voice not quite even, “yet what else are we to do?”
“You could go to Ross tonight and ask him to take you away.”
Cate gave a short laugh. “I did ask him to go for himself. He refused as a matter of honor, and I can’t believe he would consider it any different if he took me with him. He would probably think it a worse abuse of Henry’s trust.”
“Of course he would,” Marguerite muttered, “the great Scots numbskull.” She looked up. “I don’t know what is to be done, then, except wait. Well, and take what joy you can of him.”
Cate could find no way to argue with such logic. She thought, in truth, that it had much to recommend it.
She failed to allow for the whims of the king.
At midmorning, Henry gathered a group of friends and rode out from the palace. The all-male hunting party would be gone several days. Naturally, Ross was obliged to go with them.
The news, when Cate heard it, sent horror through her in a blind rush. Ross had seemed reasonably safe from the dangers of the curse while he remained within the palace walls. That was now at an end. Accidents happened with alarming frequency on royal hunts. Men competed with bow and lance to prove their prowess or win favor by providing the most meat for the royal table. Competition led to recklessness.
Beyond the dangers of galloping over uneven ground, crossing streams running high with snow melt or cornering stags and boars that might turn on their pursuers, there were arrows that went astray. All such hunting deaths were not accidental. William Rufus, son and heir to William the Conqueror, had been killed that way. It was claimed his younger brother, Henry I Beauclerc, arranged it to take the crown. If a king could fall, how much easier might it not be for someone less protected?
Nor did it help her fears to know Trilborn was not with the hunt. He could be lingering close by to make certain the wedding did not take place.
Yes, and what of Henry’s purpose? The palace larder might need replenishing before the wedding feast. It was possible he thought the Scotsman should help provide venison and pork for it. Nevertheless, she could not but wonder if Henry knew what had passed between the two of them. He might prefer to remove any suggestion that Ross had been seduced away from loyalty to his native land.
Time dragged past. The palace was unnaturally quiet without the king’s presence or his guard. Messengers galloped back and forth between the hunt and the palace. Wagons loaded with every manner of game trundled into the kitchen yard each evening, proving the outing a success. No news of disaster arrived from the hunting party. No message arrived to say when they would return. As the wedding loomed ever nearer, it began to seem that Henry meant to keep Ross away until it was past.
Then on the wedding eve, shortly before vespers, a mighty salute of trumpets was heard. Cries echoed through the palace. To the sound of shouts and full-throated cheers, the cavalcade of returning huntsmen clattered through the palace gates.
Cate, hearing the firestorm of welcome that swept through the old pile of stone and wood, ran in haste to a window overlooking the stable yard. She leaned out, watching the men dismount as stable hands came running. For long moments, she could make no sense of the confusion there in the gathering dusk.
Then she saw him.
There was Ross, swinging from his mount in a swirl of plaid, tossing the reins to a stable lad with a smile and a coin. He was safe, unharmed, moving with less saddle stiffness than most as he turned from the milling group of riders and dogs.
Abruptly, he halted and stared up at the palace. He searched the windows as if he felt her presence, knew she watched him.
Cate drew back inside, away from the window, with her heart pounding in her throat. What was she doing? She wasn’t supposed to care about her betrothed. It would be fatal to fall into that trap, for only pain could come of it.
But of course she didn’t care for Ross Dunbar beyond appreciation for him as an attractive man and breathtaking lover. His life or death meant no more to her than that of any man in whose company she had whiled away a few hours. She would always remember him because of the gift of caring initiation he had given her, but she would not be devastated by his passing. Her most fierce pang would be from guilt that he had become embroiled in the curse that followed her and her sisters.
Yes, that was it. Guilt alone caused the odd choking feeling in her chest. Well, and mayhap dread for what might yet take place between this moment and the hour of her wedding.
The figure of a woman glimpsed at a window set Ross on fire. It had been Cate standing there; he knew it as surely as he knew his name and lineage. He had hunted like a madman these past few days, chasing red deer as if trying to outdistance the gut-wrenching longings that plagued him. It was as if he had drunk some witch’s brew designed to put him in thrall. He could not get Cate out of his head. She rode with him, talked to him in the thunder of his horse’s hooves, appeared in the heart of the fire as he sat beside it, and visited him in his dreams.
Lust, he told himself. His body, denied these many months, had rediscovered the pounding joy of carnal sur-cease and wanted more of it. His thoughts were centered on his bride-to-be because he had tasted her honeyed sweetness but not had his surfeit. The talons of need that raked him would be routed by a few hours behind bed curtains.
Striding toward the nearest entrance to the palace, he made swift plans to visit the common bathing stew at the laundry room to remove the sweat, mud, horse and animal stench of the hunt, followed by a meal to quiet the clamor in his belly. He’d then find some way to convey the message that he’d be elated to have Lady Catherine lie with him this night.
The room set aside for bathing was warm from a constantly burning fire, and steamy from the cauldrons of water that hung above the flames. The bath was hot, herb-scented and deep. Its canopy of mildewed linen on a wooden framework closed off drafts on three sides, leaving the fourth open to the fire. The maidservant sent to tend him was saucy, plump and clean. The look she gave him from under her lashes held blatant invitation.
Ross was not tempted. He had a finer quarry in mind.
Dismissing the woman with a few curt words, he rubbed a handful of soft soap through his hair, lathered and rinsed. He scrubbed the rest of him and then lay back with his arms draped around the edges of the wooden tub, which were covered by its linen liner. The warmth of the water took the soreness from his muscles and routed the last chill of the long day. The night was deepening, the candles flickering on their stands, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. He closed his eyes while his chest rose and fell in a luxurious sigh.
He could make an assignation with Lady Catherine over their evening meal, but that required the rather chancy assumption that she would be willing to risk coming to him again. He could walk with her after they ate, and entice her into his chamber, but such a ploy would expose her to censure if they were seen. He could prowl the palace in search of some corner where they could be private, rather than expect her to be closeted with him, though any place he could think of would be subject to discovery. Or he could simply appear at her small nun’s cell of a chamber and hope that Marguerite would be both complaisant and discreet enough to allow them privacy.
Somehow, the drawbacks of these possibilities loomed larger than they had as he lay trying to sleep while the king’s men snored around him. None of the ploys suited him, yet the alternative pleased him even less. Abstinence was no doubt suitable for a bridegroom on the eve of his wedding, but Ross could see no benefit in it.
A soft sound, like the creak of a hinge, scattered his musings. With it came a draft that gently wafted the canopy above him and brought the rise of goose bumps across the tops of his shoulders. No one spoke, however, and no footsteps sounded.
This was not the entry of another hunter bent on cleanliness, nor was it a serving woman with towels, more water to replenish the cauldrons or a more personal offer. Ross lay perfectly still, barely breathing as he listened to the whisper of fabric against fabric caused by a stealthy advance. Man or woman, he could not tell. Not until he caught the acrid whiff of male sweat and belched ale.
Above him, on the canvas tent that enclosed the tub, a shadow crept forward, cast by the light of a bowllike lamp on its corner stand. The silhouette moved higher, wider, turned into the shape of a man with something short and pointed clutched in his raised fist. The intruder eased forward, lifted his arm higher.
Linen ripped with a dull scream. Ross thrust up a hand to catch the thick hairy wrist that appeared above him. He twisted with such force that the knife the intruder held dropped, splattering into the tub between Ross’s spread knees. Surging upward with hard power and a sluicing cascade of sudsy water, he brought the arm down across his bent knee with a hard crack.
The man screamed, jerking, flailing backward so he dragged the split bath canopy half off its supports. Ross gave him a hard push to send him farther. The attacker landed so hard he rolled, halting just short of the fireplace. Eyes wild, he scrambled to his feet.
Ross leaped from the tub to plunge after him, but his foot caught in the dragging canopy, skidded in the soap scum spreading over the floor. He staggered, lunging enough that his hand closed on a filthy doublet, but the man grunted and tore free.
Thrown off balance, Ross hit the stone floor full length, sprawling in dirty suds, jarring his half healed knife wound to a vicious ache. As his attacker lurched toward the open doorway and fled through, Ross leaped up again, swearing in blistering phrases as he sprinted after him.
Naked, wet and raging, he halted in the antechamber outside, holding his side. A door stood open along the way. He sprinted toward it, emerging in the palace’s laundry yard. The space was a maze of wooden troughs and sagging drying lines, deserted at this time of evening, made hazardous by gathering darkness.
He could go floundering after the bastard, but the chances of running him down were not good. The fellow seemed to know the palace, and had the additional advantage of being clothed. With a curse at every step, Ross turned and retraced the path made by his wet footprints, closed himself back into the bathing chamber.
He was dirty again, his skin coated with grit. Stepping back into the lukewarm tub, he splashed mightily to clear it away. As he scooped deep, he knocked against the knife dropped by his assailant. Ross groped for it, curled his fingers around the hilt to bring it up into the light.
His breath left him in a soundless grunt.
The blade in his hand was a dainty thing, a ladies’ knife of the kind that usually nestled in a scabbard swinging from a chatelaine. Lethally sharp, it was a poniard with a chased silver blade and a hilt of ebony worked with silver filigree. It was the knife used at meals by Lady Catherine Milton of Graydon.
Ross felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if the thing had struck his vitals, after all. The wedding was nigh, and he had not yet died the convenient death that would leave the lady free. He had survived whatever accidents and disease usually carried off the suitors of the Three Graces.
The lady had no wish to be his wife. What was she to do if she was not to be wed on the morrow?
Why, take matters into her own hands, of course.
Cate had meant to see that she was spared. She had, so it appeared, decided to invoke the curse herself with the aid of a paid assassin.
It had not worked, as she would soon discover. What would she do now, with the wedding almost upon them? Might she attempt the job herself?
His hand closed slowly around hilt and blade, tightening until he felt the sting of a cut and seep of warm blood winding down his wrist. The Cate he had come to know was willful, determined and fearless, yes; she did not bow meekly to her fate as was expected of a lady in her position. Still, he had not judged her to be a murderess.
What if she wasn’t? What if the point had been a mere reminder of his vow not to be wed? If he withdrew as a bridegroom, might the curse not be nullified?
But no, that would not serve. She must know he was not so craven. Ross had signed the contracts, which meant he was her husband even if their union was never blessed by the church. The only way to be rid of him was to see him dead.
Well, then, let her try. Let her, though he would not provide his future bride with so convenient an opportunity as his bed this night.
Closing his eyes, he whispered a curse more virulent than all the rest.
Cate’s heartbeat raced as she entered the great hall. Though it was thronged with people, she saw no one except Ross, in his seat against one wall. He lounged in his chair with a wine cup in his hand and brooding intensity in his eyes. His saffron linen shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, with the end of his plaid thrown over his left, but the new jerkin he wore was of blue-dyed leather that made his eyes appear as dark as a northern storm. His hair was furrowed, as if he’d combed it with his fingers before it dried, yet glinted with health and cleanliness in the torch light. He was every inch the Scots nobleman, easily the most handsome man present, and he was hers.
She paused, aghast at that instant of possessive pride. Of course, it might have been occasioned by the two ladies who sat at a table not far away, whispering as they batted their lashes in Ross’s direction. How dare they ogle him when tomorrow he would be wed to Cate?
Skimming forward with the long back hem of her gown sweeping the rushes, she headed toward her bridegroom. Halfway there, she saw him turn his head in her direction.
He gave no sign of welcome. His features were calm, his gaze as appraising as if she had been a stranger.
Tightness seized her throat. She had expected a smile, or at least some small acknowledgment of the intimacy they had shared. The lack seemed damning in some way she could not grasp. She did not falter, however, but lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with all the boldness at her command.
He rose to his feet, inclined his upper body in a bow. It was shallow and far from deferential. Still, he waved her to a seat at his side and pulled out the bench for her convenience.
“Good day, my lady,” he said, his voice even. “I pray I see you well.”
“Full well.” She swept her skirt aside and seated herself, though dismay crowded her chest, making it hard to breathe. Such a formal greeting, as if he barely knew her, as if they had not strained together skin to skin, or tangled tongues and breaths. The insult was almost as hurtful as the injury of it.
He regained his seat, leaned toward her so her view of the room was blotted out. “I rejoice to see you. I had thought I must wait until after midnight.”
“Why, when you could have sought me out?”
“Did you expect it, fair Cate? Were you waiting for it?”
Alarm shifted inside her, though more from the look in his eyes than anything he was saying. “It would have been natural, surely.”
“Because of what we did together, you mean to say.”
His voice was deep and layered with suggestion. He searched her face, gazing into her eyes as if he weighed her every expression, every word. She could feel the heat of a flush rise from her breasts to her neck and sweep upward into her face, not all of it from embarrassment. She opened her lips to speak, but could find only a single curt word in reply. “Yes.”
“You were not expecting me to return your property?”
“I…don’t know what you mean.” Had she left something behind in his chamber? She could not think what it might be.
“This, mayhap.” He reached into his sporran and drew something out, placing it carefully on the table in front of her. With a single finger, he gave it a spin. It whirled, catching the light again and again, until he stopped it suddenly, with its sharp tip pointing directly at her heart.
A poniard. Her poniard.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, reaching for the hilt, “where did you find it? I’ve been looking everywhere.”
He caught her wrist, gripping hard. “When did you last see it?”
She blinked at that stern demand, but answered readily enough. “Two evenings ago. I thought I must have lost it beneath the trestle while I ate, though the servants who break them down had not seen it. How did you come by it?” Her fingers were growing numb, but she refused to acknowledge it, just as she refused to give him the satisfaction of struggling in his grip.
“Why, I found it in my bath.”
“Your bath,” she repeated in blank incomprehension.
“After it was dropped there by the assassin who tried to bury it in my back.”
She inhaled with a sharp gasp. “And you think that I…”
“It would be one way of making certain you need not marry. These deaths that left you and your sisters free so long have been opportune. Could it be that doing away with unwanted suitors is a family habit?”
Anger and alarm flickered like lightning in her brain. He was her husband, in all but the final vow. If he accused her of trying to murder him, the knife might be enough to prove her guilt. The penalty would be hanging, though some wives who did away with their husbands were burned at the stake.
She moistened lips gone suddenly dry. “You can’t believe I would be stupid enough to hand an assassin my personal knife?”
“You might, had he no weapon of his own. It would have a certain justice about it, I will admit.”
“Never would I have parted with it!”
He tipped his head. “You value it more than most then.”
“It was a gift,” she answered through stiff lips.
“From?”
Her fingers were turning bluish-purple. He glanced at them but did not release her.
“A friend met at court.”
“A friend you see no longer, else we would have met. Allow me to guess then. The Frenchman, Henry’s master of revels?”
She stared at him, surprised out of her hauteur. “How did you know?”
“The design, for one thing. Though in the Italian style, the workmanship is French. For the rest, I’ve heard of how familiar he was with you and your sisters, and even with Elizabeth of York.”
“Leon was never familiar, not in the way you suggest,” Cate corrected, her voice not quite steady. “His manner was always most respectful.”
“What, even in the throes of passion?”
She met Ross’s dark gaze while anguish rose inside her. “There was nothing like that. You know that, know I had never—”
Abruptly he released her, closing his fist on the knife’s hilt instead. He kept his gaze on it as he answered. “You were a virgin. That much I’ll give you.”
“How kind of you,” she said in trembling scorn as she rubbed her wrist and hand, which tingled with a thousand pinpricks as the feeling returned. “You might also give me my knife.”
“And have its blade rammed between my ribs? I think not.” He spun the poniard again, his gaze on the glittering show it made. “What was this Leon to you, then?”
“I hardly see that it matters if there is to be no wedding.”
Ross looked up, his pupils so wide his eyes looked black. “Who said not?”
“You can hardly wish to marry a woman you think tried to kill you. But no doubt that was Trilborn’s intention. If his man did his job, then well and good. If not, it would be all the same.”
“Trilborn is no longer with us,” Ross said evenly.
Her smile was bleak. “But he is not long gone, and he did say, before he left, that he would see you dead.”
“Though you failed to warn me of it.”
“What need, when his family and yours have been threatening each other for years? I might have mentioned it, however, if I’d known you would be hunting again. I did fear that something might befall you there.”
“Because of this threat?”
“And the curse, though whether it was that or Trilborn’s doing, the end would have been the same,” she said impatiently. “You would have been gone.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, so tightly his lips made a straight line. Spinning the knife in an idle gesture, he asked finally, “This Frenchman, tell me about him.”
“He befriended us, my sisters and I, when we came to court,” she said with a resigned shrug. “Our reputation for broken betrothals preceded us, as you may imagine, and Leon was unusual enough, elegant enough, powerful enough in his way, that others followed his lead.” She looked up briefly. “That was secondary to the lead and the fashion set by the king, of course.”
“Of course,” Ross said dryly.
“That Leon accepted us meant the rest did the same. Afterward, there was a matter of treason, also a threat against Henry and his queen. He was forced to leave England.”
“You loved him.” The words were quiet, but had not an iota of softness in them. They demanded an answer, though she could imagine only one reason for it. While unlikely to be jealous, Ross might be inclined to guard against any threat to his property. A wife was chattel, after all.
“He was different from my stepfather and stepbrother, not so crude or loud or quick with his fists. He was a musician and a poet who sang of love and joy and spring. He teased and smiled instead of frowning, shouting or demanding his proper homage every instant of the day.”
“And you loved him,” Ross said again, his tone implacable.
“I…may have, in a way. Most young girls lose their hearts to unsuitable men at least once or twice. It meant nothing.”
“Unsuitable.”
“He was an agent for Louis XII, commanded to join Henry during his last weeks in exile so he might send back private reports after Henry came to the throne. If Leon had lands or title, or even a surname, he never said so, though he had a gentleman’s knowledge of letters and writing.”
“You still look upon the knife he gave you as a treasure.”
She disregarded that comment as inspiration struck her. “If you see that’s so, then you must also see I would never let it out of my sight.”
“But you did.”
“I didn’t! At least not…not intentionally. I had it at the noon meal, but missed it some time later.”
“So it could have been taken from your chamber?”
“It isn’t always locked, there being little worth stealing.” She gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s possible I dropped it from its scabbard while kneeling in the chapel or walking in the cloister. All I know is that it was gone, until now.”
“A weak explanation.”
“What else can I say? I don’t know how the man who attacked you came to have it. I only know I am not your enemy.”
Ross snorted. “So we are back to Trilborn.”
Cate met his gaze, angry that she must defend herself, yet willing him to believe her. “Which is more likely? He did attack you with a knife before.”
Ross watched her while dark currents of conjecture shifted in the blue depths of his eyes. Then he pushed the poniard toward her.
Slowly, she put out her hand, wrapped her fingers around the hilt. He seemed relaxed, accepting. That did not mean he was unguarded. Cate knew beyond doubt that his strength was merely held in restraint while he waited to see what she would do. The least gesture toward him with the blade would earn swift and painful retribution.
Not that she intended such a thing. Though it was both maddening and curiously painful to have him think her capable of such a deed.
“You believe me?” she asked, her throat tight.
“Mayhap.”
“And the wedding?”
“Ah, well,” he said as he watched her slide the poniard into the scabbard that dangled from her girdle, “nothing like a bit of danger to whet a man’s appetite for bed sport with his wife.”