Busick stopped and turned in his chair. “Has something happened?”
Nothing new, just a craving to be in his arms, to lie against his expansive chest, one made for my fingers to smooth, with little tufts of hair that tickled my chin. The urge to hear the rumble of his laugh, the calm of his prayers for Lionel’s health, for my safety and peace overwhelmed my reason. I wanted him.
“Patience?”
How do I say this? How do I tell him that the drills every night, the schedule or rituals of how we went to bed—wrapped in his arms, my heart beside his—left me breathless, so drawn to Busick.
“Come to me, Patience.”
I ran to my duke, and he whipped me up in his arms, pulling me onto his lap. My bottom nestled on his leg, my thigh curled about his wooden stump and boot.
He snuggled my waist as my fingers skirted his scars, smoothed his skin.
There was no denying it. He was my beloved, and I was his.
I hoped I was.
“Patience, my plan will draw Markham out. Gantry’s made a fuss of me being in Town. Inviting my mother to a dinner for her friends at the end of the week at my town house should get ears buzzing. Everyone will think I’m there with Lionel, not here with a goddess at my beck and call.”
Such words while I was on his lap, but I loved it. For the first time in a long time, I was me, just me. This me was for him.
Those pretty eyes, clever and clear—I think he knew.
“You still talk in your sleep, but this time I heard my name.”
My cheeks were on fire. “Sorry. I hate that I’m such a talker.”
“On the contrary. I’m rather happy you’re chatty. It helps me to know I’m doing things right, since you can’t bake bread and get that smoky hearth signaling the family is here, not until this is over.”
He planted a kiss at the base of my throat, then his lips skimmed the sensitive skin of my neck that my chignon often covered.
“See, I’d never know how that entices you, I think you whispered toes curl. I can’t think of more pleasurable interrogation to find secrets. No, I think I can.”
I was wasting away, caught up in my fears, and he made fun. Trying to get up from the chair, I couldn’t. His hands had shifted, tickling me, touching me, driving me mad. I’d slipped down that steep banister of the heart, but I’d flown. I loved Busick.
“Tell me. Wide awake, looking at me. What you think of us?”
I wanted to confess and let him know I wanted his love, but I kissed him instead. My actions should confirm all he needed to know.
His mouth took mine, which mirrored my hunger, a matching sense to please and to show the lessons we’d learned, the things we’d practiced. I knew he liked my hands on his chest, never on his shoulder or thigh.
Surely, he knew I liked him holding me tight, so much so that I breathe Busick—a little sandalwood, a little sweet starch, and a tinge sassy rum.
“I feel strong, Patience. I think we need to discuss some of the legal clauses in our marriage.”
What? Lady Shrewsbury’s warning about reading paperwork stung the pit of my stomach.
A screeching, whining noise sounded below.
Busick put his hand to my lips.
Then we heard a curse. A loud, foul Markham-said expletive.
Running.
Loud booming commands.
Busick set me on my feet and pointed to his sword.
