Her breath stuttered.
“And Two: I ken,” he continued, voice dropping to a sinful murmur, “that ye are afraid of wanting me.”
“That is nae true,” she protested.
His hand slid along her jaw, gently turning her face toward him again. She resisted for only a heartbeat.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “It is.Bothare.”
She swallowed hard. “It’s just… Ye said ye didnae want an heir.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“Then why? Why are we even —”
He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear.
“There are ways,” he whispered, his teeth grazing her earlobe, “to claim a wife without risking an heir.”
Her entire body went hot enough to melt stone. She gasped, her entire body jolting. “Maxwell —”
“Ariella.”
He drew back slowly, eyes dark and fixed on her.
Ariella made a strangled noise, gathered her skirts, and fled.
She did not stop until she reached her own chamber, slammed the door, and pressed her burning face into her hands.
Her heart refused to slow.
Her breath refused to steady.
And her lips still tingled.
She had come to confront him about trust. Instead, he had showed her precisely how capable he was to dance around it.
8
Maxwell woke before dawn with one thought that had lodged itself firmly in the front of his mind.
She is too unpredictable.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, braced his elbows on his knees, and rubbed a hand hard over his face.
“Fool,” he muttered to himself.
He had kissed her. Worse. He had touched her. Pulled her against him and whispered things no husband should whisper unless he intended to follow through on them. Then he had let her run from him.
And now, the memory of her pressed to him refused to leave him be.
He cursed himself again.
He had no intention of claiming her. No intention of bedding her. No intention of taking her innocence to settle a marriage neither of them planned. Not when an heir was something he would never give her. Not when she deserved a man whose past would not stain her future.
He would not be that man.
And yet he had touched her.
