“Yes,” she breathed, meeting his intense blue gaze.
In a flurry of movement, blankets were arranged and clothes discarded until it was just flesh against flesh. Skye shivered as the cold air met her bare skin, but Bradford’s heated body beneath the wool blanket quickly chased away the chill.
He worshipped her with hands and mouth until she was writhing beneath him, desperate and ready. With a groan, he joined their bodies in one smooth stroke. She cried out, arching up to meet him.
As they moved together in primal rhythm, the world narrowed down to sheer sensation. Snow swirled around them, but they felt only the heat of passion, the intensity building until ecstasy crashed over them.
Afterward they lay entwined beneath the blankets, skin flushed and hearts racing as their breath formed frosty plumes in the winter air. Skye smiled up at him, this surprising, maddening, irresistible man who made her feel truly alive for the first time in forever.
She nestled against his broad chest, her body still humming from their passionate encounter. His arms enveloped her in a warm, secure embrace as they caught their breath, the evidence of their tryst steaming in the cold air.
She tilted her head up to look at him, his chiseled features softened in the afterglow. “That was...” she began, searching for the right words.
“Incredible,” he supplied, his voice a low rumble. He brushed a sweat-dampened curl back from her face, his eyes drinking her in with undisguised admiration.
Skye’s cheeks flushed pink, a shy smile playing on her lips. “Yes, incredible,” she agreed. She traced abstract patterns on his bare chest with her fingers. “I daresay, I hope the snow never melts.”
Seven
Skye stood at the frost-laced window, gazing out at the snow-smothered landscape. She shivered, though not from the cold. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest. She had found joy here, a thaw in the frost surrounding her heart. Laughter, passion, a teasing light in smiling blue eyes that warmed her blood. But it was ephemeral, a mere fancy destined to fade.
She was the widowed Countess of Hampton, a woman who everyone knew had failed to produce an heir for her late husband. Bradford would someday be a duke, his path set in stone. They came from the same world, and both knew the expectations. He would need a wife capable of securing his line. This stolen moment of pretend could not last.
Strong arms enveloped her from behind. She relaxed into Bradford’s embrace, savoring his warmth.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her hair. “What troubles you, my dear?”
Skye hesitated. “Nothing.” The lie slipped free, as delicate as the snowflakes drifting past the window.
Bradford turned her gently to face him, tilting her chin up to meet his earnest gaze. He pressed a fervent kiss to her forehead, then her lips, a promise sealed in passion.
As she melted into his embrace, the hollow ache inside her glowed with fragile hope. The future remained unknown, but here, now, they had each other. For this moment, it was enough.
Skye pulled back slightly, meeting Bradford’s gaze.
“Come, let us get out of this room for a spell,” he suggested, taking her hand. “There is a library downstairs. Nothing like the comfort of books to lift the spirits.”
Skye allowed him to lead her from the room and down the grand staircase to the inn’s library. It was just as Bradford had promised—warm and cozy, with floor-to-ceiling oak shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, warding off the winter chill.
She inhaled deeply, immediately feeling soothed by the familiar scents of parchment and wood polish. Bradford guided her to a plush armchair near the fire and handed her a book of poetry.
“Read to me?” he asked with a playful smile as he settled into the neighboring chair.
Skye flushed, secretly thrilled by this glimpse of the romantic side beneath his rakish exterior. She opened the book of sonnets and began reading aloud, the beautiful words washing over them.
Her voice faltered as she read the next sonnet, the words sparking bittersweet memories of her late husband. Though their marriage had been one of duty, they’d shared a few precious moments of genuine affection. She thought of how she’d failed to give him a child, the heir he’d so desperately wanted.
She glanced at Bradford. He would need an heir to carry on his noble lineage. It was expected of any gentleman in his position. The familiar feelings of inadequacy and sorrow rose within her once more.
Sensing the shift in her mood, Bradford reached over and gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “It is plain to see that something is bothering you,” he said.
Skye looked up, surprised. “I was thinking about the past. About my marriage.”
“Was it a happy union?” Bradford asked.
“For the most part,” Skye said. “Though ours was a marriage of convenience, we came to share a true affection. But in time my inability to give the earl an heir weighed heavily on our marriage.”
“I know society puts immense pressure on women to bear children, especially in the aristocracy,” Bradford said. “But a woman’s worth is not solely defined by her fertility. You are so much more than that—intelligent, witty, caring. Any man would be lucky to have you by his side, with or without children.”
