19

19

Aimee sat down to supper feeling somewhat baffled. For some reason, her father had accepted her husband’s offer to remain and sup with them, though he had spurned her own invitation the previous day. Throughout the first course, the men had exchanged low murmured conversation, and Aimee had craned her ears in vain to catch what on earth they could be speaking about.

Sadly, she was able to catch barely any of it as Magnatrude seemed determined to talk Freda’s ear off about every last detail of their visit to the palace. Her sister-in-law’s eyes gleamed as she told her cousin of the many embroidered scenes the ladies had been working so diligently on.

“Indeed?” Freda said politely, and Aimee harbored the sudden suspicion that Freda was no more gifted with a needle than she was. It was a comforting thought, for Aimee had been riddled with a crippling sense of inadequacy all day. Some of the queen’s ladies had been so very talented. Aimee vowed she must practice as Lady Wycliffe had adjured her and not neglect the art so shamefully as she had been doing.

“The scenes are religious in nature?” Freda hazarded as she lowered her spoon. “Or perhaps depict King Wymer’s sporting victories?”

“Not at all,” Magnatrude corrected her with a superior air. “The scenes depicted are ones that the queen believes should be commemorated. They have absolutely nothing to do with the masculine pursuits or her husband.”

Freda looked taken aback. “What sort of things?” she asked, looking genuinely interested for the first time in the subject at hand.

“Courtly happenings within the feminine sphere,” Magnatrude said loftily.

“Such as marriages and births? That sort of thing?” Freda guessed uncertainly.

“Nothing of the sort,” Magnatrude responded, tutting with scorn and returning to her food.

Freda turned her enquiring gaze on Aimee who cleared her throat.

“I confess,” Aimee admitted with reluctance. “That my ignorance of courtly affairs meant that I could make scarcely head or tail of most of them. The ladies in the group nearest to us were working on a scene of a lady having her long hair cut short with a pair of shears. She was depicted wearing …” She cleared her throat. “Men’s clothes. I think they said it was something to do with the Martindales, although I scarcely liked to ask for a clearer explanation.”

Freda’s eyes widened. “What else?” she asked with interest.

“Another had a man stood before a pair of scales, and on the one side was a woman with red hair and on the other a pile of gold. He was pointing to the woman.”

“An allegorical tale no doubt,” Magnatrude interrupted in a know-it-all voice, though Aimee suspected her sister-in-law was as ignorant on the intrigues of the southern court as herself. “Of a good woman being worth more than gold.”

“Actually,” Aimee corrected her. “The queen told me it represented the history of the Duke and Duchess of Cadwalader.”

Freda made a startled noise in her throat. “Perhaps it is the custom here in the south for noble grooms to demand a dowry equal to their wives’ weight in gold?” she suggested.

An awkward silence fell over them, and Magnatrude turned rather red. “Freda!” she said freezingly. “Try and have a little tact, for heaven’s sake! The way you let yourself rattle on really is most unfortunate!”

“Oh, but I … !” Freda turned crimson. “I-I did not mean –” Her eyes filled with tears, and her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Oh!” she sobbed, pressing fingers to her mouth and turning to Aimee. “Aimee …”

“I’m sure no offense was taken by me,” Aimee assured her. She frowned at Magnatrude. For her part, she thought her sister-in-law was the tactless one, to make so much of something said without malice. “If that was the custom, then I am sure the feminine ideal at court would not be for slender, elegant women!” She did not think her jest a poor one under the circumstances, but neither of the two women met it with so much as the flicker of a smile.

“If what was the custom?” rumbled a voice from the other end of the table. An awkward silence greeted her husband’s question. Oh bother!

“We were just discussing the queen’s unusual taste in needlework,” Aimee answered brightly. “She means to capture scenes with subjects outside of the usual fare. Subjects pertaining to women at court.”

“Usual fare?” her father repeated looking puzzled.

“Hunting scenes,” she elaborated. “Battle scenes, on land and by sea. That sort of thing.”

“Ah!” He nodded his gray head and returned to his meal, but to Aimee’s discomfiture, she found her husband still regarding her narrowly. She dropped her gaze back to her plate of stew and tried to ignore the rising tide of panic she felt on remembering the queen’s vow that she would have a panel made up to represent the Kentigerns too.

The gods alone knew what Queen Armenal believed would be a fitting tribute to their union, Aimee thought queasily. Perhaps, her sat forlorn as Konrad presented the garland to Lady de Crecy? She pushed away her trencher as her stomach roiled at the thought. Gods. Would that not just be the crowning indignity!

Pushing all such disquieting thoughts from her head, she turned to Freda and set about lifting her spirits. She soon had the other woman smiling again, then her sister-in-law started holding forth on what stitch she would have used instead when representing oak leaves.

“’Tis a pity,” Magnatrude concluded, “that we did not see the Marchioness of Martindale in the queen’s tent. She has a fine way with a needle, and I was quite shocked she had not been recruited for the task.”

“Perhaps because she has such a small baby,” Freda ventured timidly.

Her cousin sent her a scathing look. “I’m sure the child has a nurse,” she retorted, clearly of the opinion that a queen’s demands were of higher importance than those of a mere infant.

“I think the queen finds herself less able to rely on ladies who have family lives outside of serving her,” Aimee commented, remembering Queen Armenal’s pointed remarks on the subject.

Magnatrude looked much struck by this and was quiet for a full minute, frowning into her goblet of wine. “I think you should offer your services, Aimee, in completing the queen’s task,” she said at last. Aimee almost choked on her mouthful of sweet cheese tart. “She has shown you great favor,” her sister-in-law persisted. “And it is only right and fitting that you should do so.”

“I am afraid,” Aimee wheezed once her eyes had stopped watering, “that I am not at all proficient in the art.”

Magnatrude looked shocked. “Surely you know how to embroider and weave?”

“Not well,” Aimee answered with perfect truth.

When her sister-in-law opened her mouth as though to respond, Freda interrupted breathlessly. “I myself wield very little skill, despite instruction from an early age. You are by far the most talented needlewoman I know, Trude. You should volunteer your needle to the service of the southern queen! I am sure she would consider herself fortunate to number you among her ranks.”

Magnatrude’s color deepened. “I?”

Aimee had just steeled herself to argue the point when they were interrupted by her husband.

“Aimee cannot volunteer for the queen’s task right now,” he said pointedly. “I am taking her to Beres Caple with me in two days’ time.”

Aimee’s head came up sharply. “Beres Caple?” she repeated. He was taking her with him? Her heart lurched. “What, pray, is at Beres Caple?”

He frowned. “It is a rural tournament, a half a day’s ride from here.”

“Some obscure tournament hardly sounds a pressing obligation for your wife,” Magnatrude said coldly. “Certainly not as pressing as waiting on a queen.” She levelled a look at him and paused a moment. “This queen has taken a liking to Aimee,” she said stiffly. “She could even make her a lady-in-waiting.”

Lord Kentigern shrugged his massive shoulders. “If I had wanted a courtier for a wife, I’d have married one,” he replied dismissively.

Aimee’s breath caught in her throat. He had not married a courtier; he had married her. Then she noticed it, the signet ring on his finger. He was wearing it. She felt herself turn quite pink with pleasure before caution reasserted itself. She was not the na?ve bride of a week ago. Since then, she had learned some harsh lessons indeed. It would not do to let her reckless heart run away with her.

Instead of letting her head crowd full of wishful dreams, she turned resolutely to her father. “How is Ursula faring in her new house, Father? You must tell me what street it lies in so that I may visit with her.”

Her father cleared his throat. “I do not think she will have much time for visits at present, daughter,” he said. “I was just telling Kentigern. Your sister is nursing her husband, for he broke a limb at the royal tournament.”

“No!” burst forth Aimee. “That is a good deal too bad!” She cast her mind back to her brief glimpse of her brother-in-law. “Was it during the melee that his injury occurred?”

“It is of no use asking me,” her father shrugged. “It was in some skirmish, is all that I know. He got stamped on by a horse which broke his arm.”

“It was the melee apparently,” her husband clarified.

“Poor Sir Renlow!” Aimee’s sympathies were firmly engaged.

“How wretched for the unfortunate young man!” Freda concurred.

“Certainly, a most unlucky start to wedded life,” her father agreed heavily.

Aimee only hoped it would prove a bonding experience for the new husband and wife and that Hilda had not been permitted to take over the nursing in Ursa’s stead. “What a pity that they will not be able to attend the tourney at Beres Caple.”

She, Trude, and Freda withdrew to the oak parlor after supper, while the menfolk had remained in the large chamber below stairs. Magnatrude talked a good deal about their visit that day, and if Aimee had not known better, she would almost have thought she was bragging about her visit to the southern court.

After an hour or so, Aimee made her excuses and retreated to her bedchamber. She had requested a bath be taken up to her room after supper, and she found it had been set up for her with a canopy suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Herbs were strewn into the water, giving it a fresh and pleasant smell. Aimee lowered herself into the warm water with a delighted sigh.

“Can I get you anything else, milady?” Golda asked, fetching her soap scented with musk and cloves.

“No, you have thought of everything, Golda.”

“Here’s drying sheets for you,” she said gesturing toward a chair. “Shall I return in a half hour?”

“That would be perfect, thank you.”

No sooner had the door closed, then it seemed to open again. Aimee craned her neck around. “Golda?”

“It’s me,” a gruff voice rumbled.

Aimee’s eyes widened, and she withdrew behind her curtain. “I am just taking a bath,” she said needlessly.

She heard a huffed breath, then a dry: “So I see.” Something scraped along the ground which she realized after a moment was a chair by the fire.

Quietly, Aimee rearranged her curtain so she could peek through it at him as he threw himself down into the chair, staring moodily into the fire. She cleared her throat. “All is well with you, my lord?” she ventured.

“I want you to buy another gown,” he said heavily. “In my colors.”

The breath stuck in Aimee’s throat, and she clutched at the canopy. Like hells she would! When she made no verbal reply, his head swung around, and she realized she was on his blind side.

“For Beres Caple,” he elaborated.

“It would be quite impossible on such short notice,” Aimee forced herself to reply. “No tailor would accept such a commission.” She had aimed for a light tone, but even to her own ear her voice sounded strained.

His eyes narrowed. “For enough coin, I think you will find they would oblige.”

Aimee shook her head. “Not Mr. Fulcher,” she said resolutely. “He hates being hurried.”

“So then, find a different tailor.” Aimee’s fingers tightened on the edge of the wooden tub, but she kept her mouth closed. “Aimee?”

She gave tiny nod. She would tell him she had failed in the task! There was no way on this earth that she was wearing his colors again. Grabbing her washcloth, she started enthusiastically splashing around in an attempt to put the conversation to an end.

Aimee scrubbed her neck and then thoroughly soaped and washed out her hair, all the while avoiding looking in his direction. As she squeezed the water from her locks, she ventured a sneaky glance his way and found him stretching his legs out in front of him and scratching the side of his face. Was he going to just remain here, then?

Why was he still sat there? Why didn’t he just go? She could feel hot color creeping up her neck even at the thought of lying to him. She had a horrible suspicion he would be able to tell. “Was there something else you wanted to ask of me?” she heard herself ask with a slight edge to her voice. His head turned sharply, and the soap slipped through Aimee’s fingers. It made a thud as it hit the bottom of the tub.

“It so happens,” he answered slowly, “that there is.”

She waited but he seemed to be debating what he was going to say next. “What is it?” she asked at last, unable to bear the suspense.

“Outside of the bedchamber,” his harsh voice grated over the words. “Call me Konrad.”

Aimee stared at him. “Outside of the bedchamber?” she repeated in surprise.

He gazed steadily back at her. “Yes.”

“Surely, my lord,” she could not stop herself from protesting. “You mean the other way around?”

His lips thinned. “That’s the way I want it.”

“Oh.” Aimee regarded him doubtfully. In the most intimate setting, he wanted her to use his most formal title. It made no sense to her. Unless … Unless he merely wished there to be a public show of informality between them that did not exist in private.

Her poor heart throbbed, and Aimee lifted a hand to it almost to comfort herself. Then she remembered she was not in love with him anymore and lowered her hand. She no longer cared.

Lord Kentigern cleared his throat. “Freda gave you a brooch, I hear.” Aimee blinked, but before she could answer, he growled, “Can I see it?”

“It’s on that table over there.” She lifted her arm out of the water to point at a side table. “Next to my beads.”

He stood up and walked to the table. To her surprise, she watched him lift her gold chain first, examine it, and then finger the lapis beads before he picked up the brooch. He half-turned toward her. “Is this the one?”

“Yes.”

He grunted, turning it over as he began to speak. “The family jewelry was broken apart during the war and donated to further the northern cause.”

Aimee nodded, drawing up her knees and hugging them. “Your sister said as much.”

“There are some stones my father put by. With your leave, I will get two of them added to this brooch.”

Aimee flushed. “That would be lovely,” she said simply. “I think Freda would like that.”

He frowned. “And what of you, wife? Should you like that?”

“O-of course!” Aimee stammered, wondering at his expression.

His gaze fell. “I should have had it done before,” he murmured. “I am not good at such … attentions. Not like you.” He lifted his hand, and she saw he was showing her the signet ring upon his finger.

Aimee felt her heart lurch. “It fits?” she asked breathlessly. He nodded. “I’m glad.”

He dropped his hand and glanced about. “Should I leave you to your bath now?” he asked, his tone gruff.

“Stay if you wish it,” she answered uncertainly, though if that was the case, she had no clue what she was supposed to do with him. He gave a brief nod and dropped back into the chair next to the fire. He did wish to stay! Aimee gazed at him in something like astonishment. He had not shown much partiality for her company thus far.

A rap on the door made them both jump, and Golda sailed in carrying a small bottle of milky looking fluid. “Your father’s warehouse sent over a new one, milady,” she said, pulling out the stopper and sniffing it. “Smells like roses.” Then she caught sight of Lord Kentigern and gave a violent start. “Oh, you did make me jump, milord!” she berated him before something occurred to her and she gave him a swiftly assessing look. “Happen you’ll find this more of a treat than me.” She thrust the bottle toward him. “Here.”

“Golda!” Aimee protested.

“What is it for?” Lord Kentigern asked, taking the bottle from her and sniffing it.

“For applying to her ladyship’s skin after bathing,” Golda answered swiftly. “It keeps it supple and sweet-smelling.” She snatched up one of the large drying cloths from the chair and approached Aimee with it, shaking it out.

Seeing as her servant had stepped between her husband and the bath, Aimee made haste to rise out of the water and was enveloped in the large sheet and wrapped about with it. Golda fetched the second sheet from the chair and wrapped it about Aimee’s long hair before leading her in front of the fire and swiftly departed.

Aimee looked after the rapidly disappearing servant with an open mouth. “Gol –” The door shut firmly behind her. “Oh.”

“It seems Mistress Golda expects me to attend on you this evening,” her husband said with a quirk of his lips. If she didn’t know any better, she would almost think he was amused by the notion.

“You don’t have to …”

“Never let it be said that I shirk my duties.”

Aimee stared at him. The lurking gleam in his eye indicated he was jesting. “Well, but –” she started to protest, but he was already pouring a drop of the scented liquid into his hand and rubbing his palms together.

“Come here.” He widened his legs so Aimee could stand between them, and she shuffled closer, still clutching at her sheet. He reached for one of her hands and placed it on his shoulder. At the feel of that solid muscle under her fingers, Aimee’s heart gave a squeeze. “Lift your foot.”

It took her an instant to register his words, but when she did so, she found it immediately engulfed in his large hands. “How’s that?”

Aimee gave an approving murmur as he stroked his thumb over the arch of her foot. “Nice,” she admitted cautiously.

“Your father sells this stuff?” he asked. She nodded. “I thought he was a spice merchant.”

“That was how he started out,” she agreed. “But he soon expanded. Now he imports all sorts of wares, including scented oils, balms, and lotions.”

“Mmmm. Have you ever traveled with him?”

“Not since I was small. We visited the lands of my mother, but I do not remember it as well as Ursula.” Her voice wobbled as he stroked his fingers up over her ankle and calf, tickling the back of her knees. His touch was light though his fingers were rough and calloused. “My father has not traveled the routes for many years. Not since he established them and hired dependable delegates.”

“Other foot.” He poured more from the bottle, and she stood on her other foot as he repeated the firm, light strokes.

“Will you let me do this for you at some point?” Aimee asked impulsively. His hands paused a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admitted cautiously.

“Why not?” Aimee prodded. “You don’t like to be touched?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“What isn’t?”

He hesitated. “Your body is … small and neat. It’s pleasurable for me to touch it.”

Aimee considered this a moment. “Well, your body is large and magnificent. It would be pleasurable for me to touch it also.”

He made a choking sound in his throat. “Aimee.” The groaned word sounded almost like a warning. “Be careful what you ask for. You may get more than you can handle.” He released her foot. What did that mean, she wondered. “What does Golda do next?”

“Hands and arms,” she replied promptly. “But I need to untangle my hair and let it dry before the fire first.”

He gave a rumble of assent, and Aimee sank down onto the hearth rug and unwrapped her hair from the drying cloth. “Can you pass me that comb?” she asked, spreading the sheet to dry over the second chair by the fire. He reached out an arm and grabbed the comb, handing it to her.

Efficiently, Aimee saw to the snarls and knots until her hair lay tamed and damp and curling at the ends. Setting aside the comb, she turned back to her husband to find him steadily watching her.

“Ready?” he asked. Aimee extended her hand by way of an answer, and he took it and started rubbing the fluid into her palm. “What is this?”

“’Tis an almond milk lotion infused with scented oil. This one smells like attar of roses.” She hesitated and directed a look at him through her lashes.

“What?” he prompted, lifting his brows.

“I could get a different scent for you if you did not wish to smell of flowers.”

He snorted and laced his fingers through hers, spreading the lotion over her fingers. “Like what?” he asked after a pause.

Aimee swallowed, her throat feeling rather dry. “Musk,” she suggested. “Or mayhap sandalwood.” His hands were stroking up her arm. It was odd how conscious she felt of every pass of his fingers.

“You have no dry patches,” he commented. “Not even here.” He tapped her elbow and then circled it with his fingertips.

“Well, no,” she responded virtuously. “I always apply unguent after every bath. It prevents your skin from drying out. You should try it.”

He gave a reluctant smile as though her persistence was starting to amuse him. “Maybe I will,” he said absently and repeated the process on her other arm. “Where else?” he asked when he reached her shoulder. There was a decided rasp in his voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where else do you spread your lotion?” He was kneading her shoulder now, and when he spread his hand, his fingers reached the edge of her collarbone.

“Golda only does those areas,” she squeaked back truthfully. Even she could hear the wistful note in her voice.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Don’t you have any areas that you see to yourself?”

Aimee gave a strangled cough. “Well … yes,” she admitted.

“Where? Tell me.” His fingers were tracing lightly along her collarbone now, making her shiver.

“Well …” She gave a cough. “The, er, parts that are kept out of sight,” she admitted, glancing and turning bright red.

“Yes?” he said huskily, and she saw his eyes dip to where she had knotted the sheet. “Would you permit me to do them?”

“You would want to?” she asked, faintly incredulous.

“Very much so,” he replied steadily.

Aimee huffed out her breath. The thought of standing there stripped naked while he rubbed lotion on her made her knees quake. “I would feel nervous of you seeing me like that. All over, I mean.” She pulled a face. “My form is … not ideal.”

He gave a dissenting growl. “I’ve seen you all over already, Aimee,” he reminded her. “And let me assure you, I took great pleasure in the sight.”

“Yes, but … not stood prone before you, letting your eye dwell overlong on me,” she burst out. “I’m not slender,” she muttered, dropping her gaze. “You may not have noticed so much before as you were in something of a hurry.”

He paused as though measuring his next words. “It seems I have been remiss,” he rumbled. “If I rushed before, then this time you must permit me to linger.”

“That’s not what I –”

“What if I promised to return the favor?”

Aimee gasped. “Really? You would allow me do the same for you?” He gave a brief but decisive nod, and she caught her breath. “Then, yes,” she vowed at once. “A thousand times, yes.”

Her turn would have to wait until another day, she realized moments later after his hands had slid under her drying sheet. For she would not have the strength to devote to the task after he had finished with her. The way he was spreading the lotion over her thighs, hips, and belly was making her feel weak. It was almost … worshipful. She blinked down at his bent head, feeling the unhurried way his big hands moved over her skin.

“Next time, you will let me do this without the sheet obstructing my view,” he said throatily. Next time? “Why don’t you straddle my thigh?” he suggested glancing up, and she wondered if he had felt the trembling in her legs. Aimee gulped and he patted his leg. It seemed he liked her sat astride him, she recalled dimly, as she swung her leg over his and seated herself. Which was curious as he seemed to steel himself as she settled over him. Was it because his seated position meant her face was now perilously close to his own, she wondered.

Carefully, she averted her eyes from the ruined side of his face. He breathed out. “That’s it, take your ease,” he murmured as his hands started moving again, swooping over her hips to squeeze her buttocks. Aimee felt her face grow hot. Clearly, her body remembered the feel of him between her thighs, and she grew short of breath at the feel of his hard muscle pressed against her.

Oh gods, she thought, biting her lip. She hoped she did not grow wet as she had before. He still wore his chausses, and likely they would show a wet patch. She bit her lip and suppressed the impulse to groan. You would almost think he was savoring her extra flesh, she thought in confusion. Certainly, he seemed to enjoy handling it, if his kneading fingers were anything to go by.

“Why do you say your form is not ideal?” he asked thickly as his fingers relaxed and tightened over her backside. When she could make no reply, his hands slid up from her bottom to her lower back, his thumbs caressing the slight dip of her waist. “Aimee? Answer me.” He sounded genuinely mystified.

Aimee’s answer stuck in her throat. She hardly wanted to point out her defects to him. Then again, he must already be well acquainted with them by now. “I’m not slight,” she said awkwardly. “I wish I were more delicately made.”

“Delicate?” he repeated with a derisive snort. “If you were, I would be scared to trust myself with you. A delicate woman would not be up to my weight.” Up to his weight? Aimee glanced at him dubiously. “It is true,” he insisted. “I would be scared of crushing you. Besides …” his words trailed off.

“Besides?” Aimee prompted him breathlessly, though it felt rather indecent talking to him while his hands roamed over her so freely.

“I like the feel of you,” he said with a shrug. “I always appreciated a voluptuous woman. Your body is perfect to my taste.”

Aimee wasn’t sure her mouth didn’t fall open. She was to his taste? She hesitated. “You are not just saying that?” she croaked. “To reassure me?”

“As you know,” he answered wryly. “I am far from considerate when it comes to my actions and my words. I just say what I think.”

Aimee took the opportunity to stare at his face as he was otherwise occupied with the lotion. As usual, she felt giddy being in such close proximity to the object of her affection. Would that slightly breathless feeling wear off eventually? When she got used to being around him? Would he even allow her to become accustomed to his presence in her life? Apparently, he truly liked her body. He thought she was perfect according to his tastes. Perfect.

His eyes fell to where her hands clutched the top of her sheet. “I need to do your front now,” he said pointedly.

She nodded, her throat dry. “You want me to remove the sheet?”

He lifted his gaze so it locked on hers. “Would you, Aimee?” he asked richly.

Oh gods, when he looked at her like that, she did not feel in the position to deny him anything. She nodded and started tugging at the knot. The sheet slid to the floor.

Lord Kentigern caught his breath. “Gods,” he groaned, his eyes on her breasts. “How can you not know you embody every womanly ideal?”

Aimee gazed at him dumbfounded, still perched on his leg. “Are you in earnest?” she managed to choke out as he poured more of the lotion into his palms.

His reply was to gently cup her breasts with something approaching reverence. “Deadly earnest,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Does this feel good?”

“Yes,” she admitted with a whimper as his slick thumbs passed over her nipples. “But it’s getting harder to sit up straight. I feel like I’m melting.”

His lips quirked up at the one corner. “Do you want to lie down, Aimee?” She nodded, and he scooped her up with the greatest of ease, carrying her over to the bed and laying her back down on her mattress.

She sighed. “I think you’ve covered all areas of my body now.” There was a slight hitch in her voice, betraying her disappointment that his attentions were completed.

“Should I leave you now to sleep?” he asked.

Aimee slanted her gaze to meet his. She shook her head. “Stay,” she said softly, and after the briefest of hesitations, “I want you to.”

She thought he looked pleased by her boldness as he swiftly undressed and washed in the cooling tub. If she did not feel so limp with pleasure from his hands, she would have liked to have sat up and watched him perform his ablutions and maybe even offer her services.

Sadly, it was as much as she could do to stop her eyelids from drooping down and drifting off into a contented sleep. When he climbed into the bed beside her, he reached for her at once. Aimee went willingly and found him strangely tender in his ministrations. She almost reminded him she was up to his weight, but though he was careful, he still stole all her breath away.

“I confess I am curious as to how you will reward my performance from tonight,” he mused in a satisfied voice as they lay side by side in the aftermath.

“Reward?” she murmured.

“Yes, for you’ve given me costly raiment and jewelry already.”

“Oh? And what, pray, do you think would be due recompense?”

“More importantly wife, what do you?”

She seemed to consider this a moment. “A new pair of hose?” she suggested tartly.

He snorted, crossing his ankles. “I was thinking, at least a ship.”

Aimee tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could buy you a piglet from the market?” she suggested in the spirit of one generously upping the ante. “And mayhap a tub of liniment for your aching bones.”

He gave a short laugh. “I suppose I’ll find out later,” he said, sitting up. Aimee’s heart sank. He was leaving? It seemed, even though she no longer loved him, that still stung. “Can I take the brooch with me?” he asked as he picked his clothes up from the floor.

Aimee nodded, then realized he was not looking at her. “Yes, of course. ’Tis on that table …” she started to explain but saw him cross to it before she had even finished her words. Of course, he knew where it was, he had seen it earlier. He moved to the door.

“I will see you on the morrow. Don’t forget to contact that tailor,” he said and slipped out the door.

Aimee flopped back down on the bed. She still wasn’t going to order that damned dress.