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His eyes remained closed. "Doing what?"

"Trying to turn your stomach into stone every time I touch you."

One eye opened. "Perhaps your hands are cold."

"They aren't."

"No."

His eye closed again.

"They aren't."

The bastard. I pressed a little harder than necessary. His hand shot out and closed around mine.

Not hard, but just enough to stop me.

Our eyes met. "You did that deliberately."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar."

"Not with me."

My heart gave one hard beat. His thumb rested against the inside of my wrist. Right over my pulse. I knew he could feel it jumping under this touch. His gaze lowered to where he held me. Then slowly returned to my face. And because apparently I had misplaced every sensible thought I'd ever possessed, I didn't pull away.

For several seconds neither of us moved. Then his thumb shifted once over my pulse.

Barely anything. My scent betrayed me immediately.

Guy inhaled and his eyes darkened. I should’ve pulled my hand away.

Instead I whispered, "Still think my hands are cold?"

His mouth twitched. "No."

That one word went through me like heat. I took my hand back before I did something stupid.

Or before he did.

I wasn't certain which possibility frightened me more.

I sat back on my heels beside the bed and asked the thing that had been circling me all day.

"Why did you come?"

"I told you."

"No. You told me what you found." I shook my head. "I'm asking why you rode into Sherwood alone in the dark to tell me, instead of sending a man, or waiting for daylight, or doing nothing at all."

He turned his head on the pillow to look at me.

"Because I heard two of Fitzwalter's men in the corridor outside the archive."

"What did they say?"