Chapter Fifteen

L ady Annaliese tore through her chamber, throwing anything small enough to fit into her hand.

“I told you to kill him, Jacques!”

“But, milady—” the dark knight began.

“No excuses,” she seethed. Her plans to ship her daughter back to Normandy were falling apart. First the Scots barbarian rescued her then he married her. It was intolerable!

“How hard can it be to kill someone?” she demanded.

The knight flexed his hands and looked away from her.

She flew across the room and poked him in the chest. “I asked you a question.”

He flinched and stepped back. “I…not hard, milady.”

“Then do it,” she said turning her back on the warrior.

“But he’ll suspect—”

She whirled around. “Were my instructions not clear?” she asked, her voice pitched low.

The knight bowed and backed out of the room.

*

“What are ye doing out of bed?”

Genvieve flinched, but held her ground, waiting for her husband to catch up to her. She needed to escape the walls of their home for just a little while.

“Walking?” she said, trying to hide the tremor racing up her spine at the sight of Winslow striding toward her, his kilt molding to his powerful thighs. The afternoon breeze blew his glorious red hair away from his handsome face. She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped.

“Are ye well enough?”

It was telling that he hadn’t referred to her as lass since the other day when she’d offered him a draught for his headache.

They were no closer to discovering who had added the deadly herb to her mix, and she’d taken the precaution of storing her healing herbs in their chamber.

No one entered their chamber, Anna or Beatrice and only when either Winslow or she were present so for now, no one would be able to poison her husband.

“Aye.”

When he reached her side, Genvieve started walking again. She really didn’t know what to say to her husband. How did one broach the subject of the attempt on one’s life without arousing suspicions? She’d heard the rumors and knew what was being said about her.

They walked in silence for another ten minutes before she stopped and turned toward him. “Why don’t you just ask me?”

“Ask ye what?” His voice had a rough edge to it. If she hadn’t been intimately acquainted with the Scotsman, she’d worry that he was angry with her. As it was, she knew he was worried, not angry.

They’d reached the bend in the road and were halfway to the edge of the forest. Genvieve wished she wasn’t concerned with what Sedgeworth’s people thought of her or her new husband. From what she’d overheard, their last overlord was a vain, selfish man, only interested in what he could glean from the revenues he owed to the king. It was ultimately that part which he held back that led to his ultimate death.

His intense scrutiny proved to be her undoing as finally, she simply bit out, “Do you think I tried to kill you?”

“I canna say.”

Anguish slashed through her middle, flaying her belly wide open. How could he doubt her? Why would he believe her? The need to be alone and think overwhelmed her. Rather than ask permission, as she may have done before she’d been kidnapped, she simply spun about on her heel and strode off without saying a word.

What could she say, anyway? That she would never hurt him? That he was the reason she lived and breathed? That her heart hurt just knowing that Winslow didn’t trust her? Each and every thought lanced through her, leaving the wounds to fester.

The heavy footfalls close behind her had Genvieve drawing in a deep breath. He was not going to let this lie. Without turning around, she asked, “If you don’t trust me, why haven’t you had me locked in our chamber?”

The deep, rumbling chuckle was not the answer she expected. Looking over her shoulder, she frowned at him. “You find this funny?”

“Aye, lass.”

Her heart warmed when he called her lass . Maybe things were not so bad after all. “Which part, the part where I’m locked in our chamber, or the—”

“’Tis yer temper, lass. It does ye credit.”

Before she could steel herself against whatever comment her husband made next, he gripped her shoulders and spun her around. She lost her footing and fell into his arms.

Pushing away from him, she said, “I don’t have a temper.”

He brushed the tips of his fingers across her brow. Drawing in a steadying breath, she opened her eyes, ready to tell him how much his distrust hurt her. He was waiting for her and dipped his head to capture her lips.

And all thought ceased.

“Winslow,” she moaned, need clawing deep inside of her, struggling to be freed. Desire, hot and potent, raged to the point where she could not control it. Rather than try, she gave in to the glorious feelings coursing through her, heating her to the point of conflagration.

His hands were everywhere at once, molding…seducing. Her body surrendered to his deft but gentle caresses. How had he remembered where to touch and how much pressure to use?

When she felt the breeze caressing the tops of her thighs, she jolted back to awareness. They were standing beside the road, her husband’s hands lifting the hem of her bliaut and chainse, and from the look in his eyes, he had no intention of stopping before he’d taken what she desperately wanted to give.

“We can’t.” She gripped his upper arms, trying to keep him from leaning back down and kissing her senseless again.

“I beg to differ, lass.” His mouth curved up on one side as the light of devilment danced in his amber eyes.

Genvieve knew if she didn’t do something, he’d be laying her down and making love to her on the soft-packed dirt of the road.

“I’d rather not…here…in the dirt.”

Winslow swept her up into his arms and nuzzled the side of her neck. “Dinna think to put me off. I wilna wait for ye.”

“But—”

Again, his lips insistently coaxed a reaction from her. She stopped worrying and gave herself over to her husband’s commanding touch. The grass beneath her was cool, the trees overhead thick with leaves, but the slumberous gaze boring into hers had her world narrowing to the man poised above her and the feelings only he could rouse.

“Lass, I’ve been worried about ye,” he rasped, trailing a line of kisses along the edge of her jaw and onto her collarbone.

“I thought you were angry.”

His lips lingered on a spot just below the hollow at the base of her throat. She shivered.

“I thought I’d lost ye.”

“You thought I was trying to poison you,” she accused him.

“For an intelligent woman, lass, ye’re not very bright.”

She drew in a breath, ready to tell him what she thought of him, but never got the chance—his hips ground against hers and the longing pooled low in her belly. The need to join with this man filled her, overwhelming every other need, every other thought.

“Winslow,” she breathed out, a whispered prayer. “I love you.”

He stiffened, poised to slide into her warmth.

Her heart had spoken, though her head had warned it not to.

Dropping his forehead onto hers, he didn’t move until she prodded him. “You don’t have to love me back,” she told him. Honesty deserved honesty. Though she hadn’t planned on confessing what had been blossoming in her heart since the day he’d saved her from certain death. Now that the words had been said, there was no taking them back. As if she would—as if she could.

The longer her husband remained silent, the deeper her worry that he’d never repeat those words to her became. She didn’t expect him to, but she’d hoped. Lord, how she’d hoped.

*

MacInness couldn’t think. His mind was muddled with lust, passion, and a healthy dose of fear. Fear that she hadn’t meant to say she loved him, and fear that he could never say the words back. If ever a woman deserved to hear them, it was his raven-haired wife.

When he’d succumbed to the feelings rioting inside of him, he couldn’t say. He’d thought his heart securely held in the hands of Lady Jillian. But now, looking down into eyes as gray as storm clouds skidding across a Highland sky, he couldn’t remember when he had not loved Genvieve.

“’Tis the greatest gift, lass.” His voice broke over the words, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’ll no’ do anythin’ to make ye regret the givin’ of it.”

Her hands swept up his sides and curved around to his back, pressing him closer, bringing his mouth down to hers. He followed willingly, letting his lips explore the contours of her mouth fully, penetrating her sweetness with his tongue, then sipping from her lips to savor the richness of her flavor.

A different kind of tasting had him growing hard with desire. “Will ye let me love ye?”

In answer, Genvieve lifted her hips, helping him to slide home in the honeyed warmth his body craved.

He tried to control his thrusts, the pace of them, the depth, but her wild cries of ecstasy snapped his control. Mindless, steeped in the feel of her, the scent of her, MacInness gave himself over to the madness making love to Genvieve had become. When his brain simply shut down, his body took control, dragged them both to the peak of passion, and tossed them over.