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When she gasps against my mouth at the first touch, I do not relent. Instead, I tell her with our kiss that such a thing between man and wife is acceptable. My fingers move in rhythm with my tongue, surging and retreating until she grasps the material at my arm so tightly, I know she is about to find release.

When she does, it is glorious. She cries out, and I break our kiss to let her. Eyes wide, her lips parted, Reyne looks down at my hand, which is still inside her breeches.

Not for long.

I remove it and pull the breeches down completely. Reyne kicks them off and continues to stare up at me.

“This is not at all what I envisioned our first time would be like,” I say, my voice low. “If you’d prefer, we can wait.”

She looks around us, and only when we are both silent do I hear the water nearby and realize the significance of this place.

“It is perfect,” she says, smiling like a woman well pleased. As I reach down to free myself, now straining and very much ready to make love to my wife, a sound in the distance startles us both.

Immediately on my feet, my sword out and at the ready, I’m prepared to face the intruder, until I see Reyne creeping toward her discarded bow and realize this is no intruder, but the deer.

A buck.

One who miraculously does not see us. Quietly, I lower my sword and watch as Reyne moves her bow into position. As she nocks her arrow, I ingrain the sight before me, one for a lifetime. Lady Reyne Moray, legs and feet bare, her surcoat falling just low enough to cover her bottom, aims. The waning sun touches her hair, glinting off a piece of metal, and though I cannot see it clearly at this distance, I know it is the pin she favors, the one with the Kona she purchased from the Garra that second day.

Watching her rather than the deer, I only shift my attention to the woods after she releases the arrow. Seeing nothing, I can nevertheless hear the distant thwack of her arrow connecting with the target. We wait, and listen.

“You got him,” I say finally as Reyne realizes what she is wearing. The sight of her laughing, barefoot and barelegged, having just shot a buck, not even realizing how close she is to the riverbank, almost distracts me from the thought that, instead of consummating our marriage, I will now be dragging a buck back to camp.

28

Erik

We finally arrive at Carwell Castle.

The journey is torturous—made so by exchanged glances, innocent touches as we sit together at the fire for meals, and not-so-innocent touches during the few hours my wife and I have had in between late-night watches and early-morning rousings—and I am more than ready to stomp out this rebellion, arrest Rawlins and Whitley both, and make love to my wife.

Although not necessarily in that order.

In fact, as the towers of the castle come into view, my thoughts are firmly fixed on the latter as I wait for Reyne, who rides in the rear alongside the queen. Our riding party will be able to sleep tonight, within the safety of the castle walls.

Or at least the others will rest.

I look forward to not resting. Tonight I intend to make good on the promise I made to Reyne this morn as we woke.

“This night, you will be mine in every way.”

I had thought she was sleeping, but as I pulled back the flap of our tent, no light streaming inside just yet, my sleeping wife whispered, “As you will be mine.”

Smiling like a fool the rest of the morn, and grateful our journey had been an uneventful one, I saw Reyne just once that day. We pushed hard, knowing Carwell was within our reach. Watching now as the men ride past, I urge my mount forward so that I might find Reyne and Cettina. My wife’s face lights up when she sees me, and I feel a reflection of that light within me. I turn and my horse falls in next to Reyne’s mount. It is then I greet Cettina, who appears worried.

“When will the scouts return?” the queen asks.

I break my gaze with Reyne to answer.

“Those to the west and east may already be within the castle walls. But I don’t expect those across the river just yet.”

By arriving early, we’ve time to scour the area surrounding Craighcebor and Firley Dinch too, before Rawlins and Whitley are due to attack. Doing so without alerting anyone beyond Carwell of our presence will be as tricky as containing the information we are staying at the castle.

The Curia agreed Lord Carwell, a loyalist to the crown, could be trusted, and even now the gates are being secured. No one in, or out, of these walls until this is all over. Any who question the reason will be told a sickness is within, a regular enough occurrence that it will not raise suspicions.

“I would speak with Lord Carwell immediately,” she says.

“Of course.”