Christina leaned back against Tor’s chest, the leather folio resting on her naked stomach and the rumpled bed linen twisted around her legs. Bright morning sunlight poured through the open shutter, giving her plenty of light from which to read.
Or at leasttryto read—if her infuriating husband would stop interrupting. She got to the part about Lancelot lowering himself to ride in a cart to save his lady, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a snort.
She put down the book and turned around to give him a sharp look. “If you are going to ruin the story, I’m not going to read anymore.”
“These knights and their foolish codes,” he said with unconcealed disgust. “The gravest dishonor just for consenting to ride in a cart?” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d crawl through a dung heap to save you.”
Christina’s mouth twitched. It was hard to stay angry when he said something like that. Who would have thought that a dung heap could be so romantic?
She scooted up to give him a swift kiss. “That’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” His eyes darkened. “I don’t have a sweet bone in my body.”
And to prove it he dragged her up his chest and kissed her much more thoroughly. The book fell between them as she took advantage of their position, and his sizeable erection, by rolling around on top of him.
Straddling him on her knees, she impaled herself onto him, her body sighing with pleasure as he filled her. And how he filled her! Big and thick, she loved the feeling of him inside her. Aye, she’d learned to appreciate his size, and now understood the look that maid had given her those months ago at Finlaggan.
Groaning, he cupped her breasts in his big, rough hands, squeezing and pinching her nipples between his fingers as she began to ride him. Slowly at first, then faster, finding her rhythm.
She arched her back into his palms, letting her head fall back as she lifted off him, pulling up as high as she could go before sinking back down on top of him with a sensual circle of her hips.
Their bodies moved together so easily—fluidly. In bed, there was nothing left between them. No awkwardness or embarrassment, just the perfect union of lovers.
When she neared her release, he reached down between them and caressed that deliciously sensitive spot with his finger, intensifying her pleasure exactly the way he knew she liked.
She shuddered, crying out, as the spasms wracked her. She was still tingling when he took her by the hips and thrust high and deep, finding his own release.
Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her again. “Was that sweet enough for you?”
“Aye, I’ll ride you over a cart any day.” She giggled and snuggled back against him, retrieving the book from the sheets. With a scolding look, as if he was a bairn who’d misbehaved, she said, “Now do you want me to finish the chapter or not?”
His mouth quirked. “I suppose you might as well.”
She wasn’t fooled by his indifferent attitude. Despite his obvious scorn for the knightly code, she knew he was enjoying the tale.
She managed to get through the rest of the chapter without any further interruptions. But when she finished, he rolled out of bed (reluctantly, she thought) to get dressed.
She watched him with unconcealed interest. Two weeks of waking up in his arms had not dimmed her eagerness any. After that first time, he’d slept beside her every night. Yule had passed a week ago, but each day felt like a gift. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of waking up next to him or of looking at his magnificent body as he went through his morning ablutions, knowing that only minutes before she’d been in his arms.
Her husband had softened toward her—of that she had no doubt. He no longer seemed quite so distant and indifferent, and he was making an effort to open up to her more as he’d promised, though it wasn’t easy for him. Given the brutality of his life and the circumstances of his parents’ death, she understood why.
Waking up in his arms every morning gave her some of the closeness she’d yearned for, but there was something missing. The divide between them was still there. It seemed he had two lives—one with her and one with everyone else.
She was as much in the dark about what he was doing as before. But she told herself to be patient. She just needed to give him a chance.
He dressed quickly; cleaned his teeth with a wash of white wine, a fine cloth, and a mint-and-salt paste; ran a comb through his hair, splashed water on his face from the urn on the table, and dragged the drying cloth over his face to wipe away the excess. But the cool water did not wash away the signs of worry etched on his face.
Something was weighing on him. She knew him better now and had learned to decipher the nearly imperceptible signs: a slight tightening of the mouth, heaviness in the brow, and distance in his gaze.
“What is it?” she asked. “What is bothering you?”
Was it the rumors of the growing rift between Bruce and Comyn, and the looming threat of war between Scotland and England? After learning of his struggle to rebuild his clan from the ashes of destruction, she understood his reasons for wanting to avoid the war and maintain his neutrality.
He smiled and shook his head, her clue that he had no intention of telling her. She fought back the wave of disappointment. It wasn’t just the lack of trust—or that he’d confided in others—but the fear that he still saw her as a fragile plaything who needed to be cosseted and protected.
It will take time, she reminded herself. And they had a lifetime.
“Just something I’ve been putting off.” He turned to meet her gaze. “I might not be back for the rest of the week.”
