His expression hardened. “Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I’m well rid of them both.”
“Trick—” She bit her tongue. Disparaging her husband’s feelings was no way to fortify their shaky relationship. She forced a gentle smile. “How does it feel having a brother?”
He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she’d seen from him that wasn’t tainted with a touch of cynicism. “He’s quite nice, isn’t he?” His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. “I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man.”
She wasn’t surprised to find he didn’t care for Hamish, either. “Niall looks just like you.”
“I know. It’s bloody amazing.” Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. “I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he’ll come visit us at Amberley.”
“That would be nice.” The more of Trick’s clothes that came off, the more her stomach quaked at the thought of what she’d promised last night. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she stood and wandered over to a small arched door. “Where does this lead?”
“To another staircase, if I remember right.” In stockinged feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. “Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner’s Leap.”
“Prisoner’s what?”
“Prisoner’s Leap.” He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. “In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start.”
“My heavens. Did any of them make it?”
“I expect not.” His lips turned up in a half-smile. “Maybe that’s why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today.”
A little shiver ran through her. “I’m not sure I like this place, Trick.”
“Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?” Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. “There’s no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know.”
“So far as—”
“I’m jesting.” He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. “Come here.”
“Not until you bar that door.”
With a strangled laugh, he did so. “There, we’re safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight.”
No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a woman’s heart. Frightened as she was, she walked into his arms.
When his mouth met hers, her reservations faded away. If her head didn’t remember what had made her decide she wanted him last night, her body certainly did. She knew what he could make her feel now, and she wanted that again, and more. Much more. The tinge of fear in her stomach transformed to a rush of anticipation.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue swept inside, soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he’d sipped downstairs.
He eased back to plant little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there, suckling gently while his hands went to work on the front of her gown. Her own hands streaked between their bodies to tug the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.
Her stomacher dropped to the floor as she worked the shirt up his torso, his bare flesh warm against her questing palms. She yanked the shirt over his head, and he gave a frustrated laugh when his arms tangled in the full-blown sleeves.
Soon their clothes were gone, and she plastered herself against him. Ah, the give and the take, the heat and the scent, the pure pleasure of his skin touching hers. He bent his head to take her mouth, running his hands down her sides and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer still.
At the intimate contact, she felt a jolt, a flood of excitement that at the same time made her feel heavy and lethargic. Her body trembled. He smelled of soap and sandalwood, and she couldn’t tell where he stopped and she started. If he wasn’t holding her up, surely she’d melt to the floor in a puddle of sensation.
Slowly he backed her up and eased her onto the bed, coming down beside her. He hesitated, levering up on an elbow, his head hovering above hers. Beneath his shining gold hair, his eyes caught and held her gaze. The faint stubble on his chin glistened in the candlelight.
Her heart pounded, and her breath came ragged and uneven. Every fiber of her being ached for his touch, screamed for release. She reached to pull him close.
The air was rent by a strangled groan.
“I cannot do this,” he gritted out and rolled away. “I cannot do this. I cannot do this with my mother lying in a box downstairs.”
She felt an instant of stunned disappointment before her head cleared and her arms went around him anyway. She squeezed tight. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just cannot—”
