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“Do you trust me?”

Her eyes sought his. Phillipa didn’t answer.

“Do you trust me not to hurt you?” he amended.

She did, and was sorry she could not answer his first question. This was no way to begin a marriage. And yet, what choice did she have? But aye, she trusted him not to hurt her.

“I do.”

In response, he took her hand. The gentle touch from such a man, the same one who’d slayed their attackers, who had muscles in places she couldn’t imagine even existed. . . Phillipa swallowed. He led her to the bed, and when she pulled the coverlet down and stepped onto the stool, watching as he closed the curtains so they were completely closed off from any chill, she was no longer scared.

In fact, when her head hit the pillow as she lay down, Phillipa grew curious. Surely it would not feel the way his fingers had. She’d been shocked at the touch, as shocked as what her husband did with his tongue. That kiss could have lasted a lifetime and she’d offer no complaint.

When he lay next to her on his side, Haydn’s hand propping up his head, she wasn’t sure what to expect, but surely it was not his fingers winding through strands of her hair.

“I saw your hair first,” he said. “As you walked toward us, and I could finally see your face, I was struck by how serene you looked. As if you’d accepted what was to come.”

“Because I had. My marriage was never to be my own.”

“Hmmm.” Haydn reached out, his fingertips just barely touching her shoulder.

“You were angry,” she said, remembering his expression. “’Twas what I noticed first.”

“Holt chastised me for not hiding my thoughts from the king more clearly. But then, he knew this would upset me, and my family. There was no use pretending otherwise.”

When his fingers trailed a path down her arm, then slipping coyly over to her breast, she held her breath. He encircled her nipple, and she could not help but watch the effect. It was now hard from his touch. “You’ve done this many times before.” It was not an accusation, just a fact.

“I have.”

Her eyes flew to his. There was a tempest there, so different from his gentle touch. She could not discern what he could possibly be thinking. “Are you this way with me, because of my father? Or with everyone?”

His fingers began to explore again.

“Which way?”

“Indiscernible.”

“Everyone,” he said. “But you especially.”

For some reason his open admission made her smile. Now her husband’s hand was splayed on her stomach. She groaned, thinking what he might do next. Sure enough, his hand did not remain in place for long.

“I wish it were not so,” she admitted.

“As do I.’

“Do you truly?”

He grabbed her inner thigh and pulled it toward him, spreading her legs wider.

“Of course.” When his hand reached her core, Haydn stopped. Rested it there on that very intimate part of her. “I’d have a marriage like my parents, if given the choice.”

“A love match.”

“Aye.”

“You do not strike me as the kind of man who pines for love.”

She thrusted her hips into his hand, encouraging him. But still, it remained in place.