“Sir, you are as vigorous as a boar!” she cried, and she felt Bartholomew shake with laughter. His rhythm faltered and she feared she had ruined all.
“My lady, you are insatiable,” he retorted. “I fear I will not survive the month in your bed.”
“That is why we will not spend the whole of the month abed, sir.”
“Who would have imagined an innocent to be so lusty?”
“Who would have imagined a bold knight would so complain?”
“I do not complain, lady mine. I simply savor the marvel that you are.”
Anna was surprised by his words, for his tone had dropped low. She wished she might have believed them, and even so a warmth suffused her heart. He held fast to her hand and kept his pledge, which gave her great pleasure. She was close enough to smell his skin and to feel his warmth.
Rather than considering the intimacy of their situation, she thought about their plans. What would happen in the morning? How would they save Percy? How would they escape? She wanted to ask him but Bartholomew’s finger suddenly landed over her lips.
“Moan,” he advised quietly.
“I do not know how,” she confessed quietly.
“Everyone knows how,” he countered and moaned with gusto to prove his point.
Anna listened, then tried to do the same. She was certain she sounded more like a lowing cow than a woman in raptures.
Or a sheep with bloat.
That Bartholomew was trying to disguise his chuckle did little to help. She could feel him shaking and swatted him. “Oh my lady, you are demanding!” he cried, and she swatted him again.
“I feel foolish,” she whispered. “I like it better when we bicker.”
“We cannot bicker all the while we pretend to make love.”
“I am certain there are those who do.”
“Should I silence you with kisses?”
He was teasing her and Anna knew it. Her face burned. “I think not!”
“Shall I compel you to moan, then?”
Anna caught her breath. “You would not.”
“Not unless you asked me to.”
She could imagine how he would look in this moment, his hair tousled and his eyes sparkling with mischief. His confidence was clear, and she wanted to challenge him in return. “You cannot do it,” she insisted. “And you will not do it.”
“I will. I pledge it to you.” His lips brushed across her knuckles. “You have only to ask, and your wish will be my command.”
But Anna did not dare. “You wish only for me to agree so that you can see to your own pleasure.”
“Nay, I will ensure yours alone.”
“It cannot be done.”
Bartholomew chuckled. “Then dare me to do so, Anna,” he whispered, his suggestion making her shiver with desire. “Or moan on your own. The choice is yours.”
Did she dare to trust him?
She was surprised by how much she wished to do so.
