“Here,” she said, reaching for a supple strand. She bent it in toward them, pulling and testing its strength so that Gray could see it as well. “See the texture?” she asked, holding it for him to touch. “’Tis nearly ripe, and yet it must grow longer before ’tis ready for cutting. Then, once the strands are harvested, they must be boiled and peeled, which leaves them a deep golden color as they dry.” She let the rod go, and it swung back to dance gracefully with the others in the breeze.
“How much longer?” Gray murmured. “Until they can be cut, I mean.”
“Another week or two, when they reach above our heads. Willow ripens last of all, so that when the farmers are sitting back and surveying the wealth they’ve worked from the land, weavers are just beginning their harvest. ’Tis difficult, oftentimes cold work, with winter nipping at your fingers.”
“And yet you seem to relish the thought of doing it.”
“Aye,” she smiled as they walked further along the edge of the field. “Though ’tis not the harvest itself that I take pleasure in, but the fruits of that labor. I can spend the winter months creating beautiful things, thanks to it.”
“You’re quite skilled, from what I’ve seen of your work at the castle,” he said, stepping closer to inspect another frond.
“I love to weave. I’ve been practicing since I was a child.”
“Ah. No wonder you seemed so amused, then, when I asked if you possessed skill enough to repair my basket that first day I took you to train.”
Heat rushed to Catherine’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be so obvious. I hope you don’t think I was making light of your request. In truth I was pleased that you asked me to help you.”
“’Twas not your fault,” Gray said, smiling and shaking his head. “You masked your reaction well. I, unfortunately, have the galling habit of watching people too closely. I seem to do it without even trying, most of the time.”
Catherine nodded, glad that his perceptiveness hadn’t revealed some of her other secrets to him. Not yet, anyway. He would learn about her sins against him all too soon, she thought—as soon as she could muster enough courage to tell him. They were alone here, after all. No servants, no knights or ladies…no spies. ’T was the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth. But a part of her held back, craving just a few more moments of happiness with him.
At his suggestion, they began to make their way back to where they’d left their horses tied. Anxiety tightened her belly. ’Twas almost time, then; she’d have to make her confession before they rode away from this solitude and back into the danger-filled community of the castle. They’d reached within several paces of their mounts, when a flutter of red-tipped wings startled them.
“Look!” Gray called, pointing to follow the silk-tail’s path. It flew into a tree just past the field’s edge. Nestled in a deep crook there, the bird had built a shelter of twigs and leaves. It was unusually late in the season for chicks, but peeping over the top of the nest, Catherine could see two shiny heads; the nearly grown birds were so plump that they filled their modest home to bursting. At their mother’s approach, they still craned their necks up greedily, their beaks gaping open for food.
“Oh, look at them,” she said, trying to creep nearer for a better look. She walked slowly, keeping her gaze trained on the birds to avoid startling them with her movements. As she stepped on the edge of the swampy field, her foot slipped and she began to pitch headlong into the muck.
Her eyes shut instinctively, her arms flailing as she fell, when she suddenly felt a strong grip on her elbow, swinging her around. She slammed into Gray’s chest, and the force of her momentum toppled them to the ground.
When she opened her eyes, she realized that she lay atop him, her face hovering inches above his. It was the reverse of how they’d fallen on the bank of the river during her fishing lesson, but the effect of his body pressed to hers was the same. He gazed up at her, his eyes beautiful, clear green and fringed in those impossible lashes. Their breath mingled in the chill air, and his chest rose in opposite rhythm with hers, making her breasts push against him with each inhalation.
She blinked, and a slow smile lifted Gray’s mouth, sending a stab of longing through her.
“We seem to be making a habit of this, wife. I trust that I make a useful cushion.”
His comment startled her into action. She tried to scramble off of him, murmuring apologies about his getting muddy for her sake, but she stopped her squirming when she realized that she wasn’t going anywhere. His hands held her hips firmly to him, and her struggles only succeeded in causing delicious sensations to blossom, forcing her into unavoidable, teasing contact with the hard length of his body.
Every inch of him seemed to touch her, tantalizing her senses and releasing a flood of warmth through her belly and to the tingling points of her nipples where they rubbed against his chest. When she stilled, his smile eased away, leaving his expression open, vulnerable and utterly sensual. His gaze flicked from her mouth to her eyes, and he shifted suddenly, dry leaves crackling as he rolled so that she lay half beneath him.
Gray’s arm cradled her head, but when his thigh slipped between hers, she gasped. Need curled hot and sleek through her, swirling up to ignite a desire that rippled to the ends of her fingers and toes. Her eyes fluttered shut and then opened again as he cupped her face with his palm.
His breath whispered over her jaw. Lifting one hand, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. “There’s no mud here, lady. In truth, I’d wager our leafy carpet as soft as the finest bed of feathers.”
Catherine couldn’t breathe for a moment. The very birds seemed to cease their chirping, the rustling of the leaves faded into silence. Everything seemed to still around them, all but for the warm flutter of Gray’s breath on her cheek, and the exquisite, gentle caress of his thumb on her skin.
“The leaves are soft, my lord,” she managed to say, struggling to keep the husky note from her voice. “Yet the ground beneath is very…hard.”
“Aye, lady. ’Tis hard, indeed.”
Another wave of warmth swept through her; she couldn’t help but feel the swollen, rigid length of him that burned through her skirt against her thigh. A tiny moan escaped her before she could stop it, as with a tenderness that almost shattered her, Gray bent his head and kissed her.
Then he rested his cheek on hers, closing his eyes and whispering into her ear, “’Tis a hard and soft that God made to fit together, lady.” He brushed his mouth over her again, this time tantalizing the delicate spot at the tip of her jaw. “Let me teach you how perfect it can be. Let me love you as a man is made to love a woman. As a husband is made to love his wife.”
Desire curled up to surround her, filling her with cravings, with wants and needs she’d never known. “I wish it more than anything,” she whispered, caution fleeing under the heated onslaught of emotion. She broke into a throaty moan when he moved to tease the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Ah, Gray, teach me to be your wife in truth. To be yours in every way.”
Catherine wound her hands round his neck, threading them into his hair, pulling him down to meld her mouth to his. With a groan he leaned into her, slanting his lips across hers with passion that left her breathless and hungry for more.
He shifted over her more fully, and instinctively, she opened to him, cradling him between her thighs. Her breath came shallow, his kisses spilling across her cheek and nibbling down her neck. She clung to him, in turn raining kisses along the stubborn line of his jaw, reveling in the tickle of his stubble against her lips. His skin tasted faintly salty, his scent utterly masculine. Intoxicating.
