“Oh, intensely, but not to each other.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they headed toward the others, who were now a dangerous distance ahead. “My father was devoted to wine and dice—an unfortunate combination, you must admit. My mother loved another but was compelled to marry my father. Upon his death, she married her true love and moved abroad.”
“A sorry tale, but she did love.”
“But pity the poor child who perhaps hoped he was loved, too.” He stopped. “Though devil alone knowswhy it should matter. I hardly ever saw her before my father died.”
A loud crash rocked the earth beneath their feet.
“Alack and alas,” he said, “they’ve conquered the Yule log without my vigor. Will the house of Rothgar fall with an equally earth-shaking crack? Come, before we miss the drama.”
He grabbed her gloved hand and pulled her toward the trees at a run. She picked up her skirts and went, still dazed by his words. They were true, painful, and perhaps words he had never spoken to another.
He probably wished them unsaid, but for all those reasons and many others, Genova was storing them in her heart and her mind like a precious treasure.
They ran into the woodland and she almost tripped on a branch. He put an arm around her, sweeping her along, up over a rotting boll, down under a low branch.
“Stop!” she cried, gasping.
He swept her into his arms and carried her. “What have you been doing with your vigor, Genova, my sweet?”
She laughed into his shoulder, still having to suck in breaths. It was that or cry. It was as if the earth had cracked and they’d fallen into another, deeper world.
His wicked earring twinkled before her eyes. His fine jaw, slightly darkened, was close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. His smell could already make her head swim.
He looked down at her, then stilled, reflecting, surely, her bewildered thoughts. The world receded and Genova trembled, with fear as much as anything. She did not want to feel like this. Not about this man. Not when nothing connected them but artificial threads.
But was that true?
He looked away and strode forward.
“At last!”
Genova turned her head and saw they’d entered a clearing where everyone was observing them with anamused expression. Except Damaris Myddleton, of course.
It had been Lord Rothgar who’d spoken. To Genova’s astonishment, he was stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and his wife was playing the servant by carrying his outer clothes.
Some other men were in the same casual state, and other women were loaded with clothing. Despite the crisp air, some of the men had taken off their cravats, as well, so that their shirts stood open. One had rolled up his shirtsleeves.
The gentlemen were playing woodsmen for the day. The real woodsmen, fully dressed in rougher clothing and heavy boots, observed the games with good humor. It would be a treat for them to have the lords doing the work.
A tree trunk two or more feet in diameter lay across the space. It was cut roughly at one end, but more neatly at the other, and without side branches. Even Genova’s inexpert eye could tell that this tree was long dead and had been carefully prepared for the ceremonial felling.
Ash slid Genova to her feet in a way that caused a ripple of shock, and not just in her. She pushed him away in reproof, and he fell back farther than she pushed.
Despite his smile, the wolf was back. She knew it was recoil because of what he had revealed, but she frowned at him anyway. It was the only appropriate response.
“I hope you have enough vigor left for the sawing,” Lord Rothgar said, indicating the big two-handed saw. Two guests—Lord Theo Dacre and Mr. Thomas Malloren, Genova thought—picked it up and set to, pushing and pulling the big saw so it bit into the wood.
Ash shrugged out of his coat with a slight air of disdain and held it out to Genova. She took it, resisting a need to snuggle it close and inhale his scent.
“I suspect I can play the maid more easily than you can play the carpenter, my lord.”
“Playthe maid?” He unpinned his cravat and unwrapped the length of soft, lace-trimmed cloth. He draped it around Genova’s neck and fixed the jeweled pin through the ends, his fingers brushing against her throat. “I thought you claimed to be pure,” he murmured, his eyes coldly rakish.
She ignored his comment.
“Carpenter is a noble calling, though,” he said. “Even saintly.”
He unfastened the placket of his shirt, then undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, exposing long, strong muscles. It was as if he had her snared. She couldn’t look away from arms, throat, and the chest she could envision all too well.
