“Would you…likeme to wait?” she asked.
“I would,” he grinned.
“Then I will wait for you in your room—ourroom. I will have my things sent from the hospital.”
“I could almost…” Seth pressed his hands to her cheek and kissed her again, harder this time.
There came a loudharrumphfrom behind him. A large man with black hair and the build of an oak tree had emerged from the gate, a hammer held casually in one hand.
“Ah, Mr. McCreavie, I was just about to hammer in a new nail for this animal,” Seth laughed.
“Aye, looked like it,” McCreavie rumbled, eyeing them both. “Ye’ll find it a damn sight easier to swing a hammer wi’ both hands free, lad.”
He laughed again. “Ah, may I introduce my wife, Charlotte.”
McCreavie gave her a nod, his voice softening, “Well met, lass. But mind ye—this is a forge, not a parlour. Save the courtin’ for after hours, aye dearie?”
Charlotte took her leave then, her stomach fluttering as she walked along the green toward Seth’s accommodation.
He had been here for the entirety of the last two weeks watching over me. He sacrificed for me something that few men of his rank would be willing to.
To her surprise, the landlord of the Weaver’s Arms Inn was expecting her and directed her to the room Seth had taken for himself. From the room’s window, Charlotte could see the smithy. She was high enough to see over the fence that bordered it and watched Seth working throughout the day.
She watched the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders glistening with sweat. Watched him carry out the repair on the horseshoe with competence, then proceed to check the others. When he straightened from his task, she bit her lower lip, gazingat his Herculean physique from the front. She wondered if he could see her watching him and found herself willing him to look in her direction.
He did not, but found other tasks to do in the yard. Charlotte smiled, lost in a fantasy that he knew she would be watching him and was putting on a show.
My husband. My beautiful, magnificent husband.
Eventually, he went into the smithy, and Charlotte experienced a moment’s disappointment. It vanished as he emerged, pulling his shirt back on and striding towards the gate that led out onto the green.
Charlotte stood suddenly, heart fluttering. Seth’s long-legged stride was carrying him back to her.
She wanted him to hurry—and wanted him to wait. Wanted the stretch of seconds where she could picture his hands on her, could savor the knowing he was close, just outside, and not quite here, and what would happen when she was finally in his arms.
She dashed to the bed and sat, tugging off her boots in quick, jerking motions. Stockings next. She peeled them down her legs, stuffed them into the boots, then stood again. Her fingers moved to the buttons of her dress. From downstairs came the creak of the front door. Her fingers fumbled faster. Male voices murmured from the common room.
The last button slipped. The dress dropped to the floor. She kicked it aside, smoothed her petticoat with trembling hands, then stripped it off too, leaving it to crumple beside the rest.
Nude now, she stood still, the sunlight from the window painting her skin in sharp lines. Her pulse pounded. Her breasts lifted with each shallow breath. Someone laughed outside, far off, irrelevant. The only sound that mattered was his footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Measured. Each one drawing louder until they stopped—just the other side of the door.
She crossed the room to the door and took hold of the handle just as she saw it begin to turn. The movement stopped when she tightened her grip. She held it. Paused. Then pulled it open.
Seth stood in the doorway, hand extended for the doorknob. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her nakedness. She refused to cover herself. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she backed up. He followed. The door slammed behind him with force.
Then his hands were on her waist.
He lifted her without hesitation. Bare thighs locked high around his waist, calves pressing into his back, skin meeting cloth in an overwhelming rush of sensation. Her arms locked around his shoulders, nails scraping his neck. She clung to him, her mouth grazing the line of his jaw, already tasting salt and heat. He was solid beneath her, strong, hot—she could feel the thick press of him straining through his trousers with every step. Her breath caught at the way his fingers gripped her bottom, bruising and without pretense.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured hoarsely.
She tilted her head and kissed the underside of his throat. “Then don’t stop!”
A low, guttural sound roiled from his chest. He reached the bed in three strides and threw her down, her back sinking into the mattress as she reached for him—pulling, tugging, frantic for bare skin. She shoved his coat aside, ripped his shirt open without care for buttons. He wrestled free of the rest, stripped her completely, and came down over her with nothing left between them.
His mouth found hers, deep and urgent. Hands skimming over ribs, breasts, thighs. When he slid a hand between her legs, she arched into it, gasping at the first touch. He groaned, dragging his mouth to her neck as her fingers tangled in the damp curls at his nape.
“You’re soaked,” he said hoarsely. “Christ, Charlotte, how long...”
