Callum wished he could take Charlotte to the finest palace. They’d celebrated their wedding, but it was now evening. He supposed the inn’s room at least had the advantage of not rocking, even if the curtains were a drab brown that would never be found at even the most modest manors.

The bed lay in the center of the room. Though no silk sheets peeked from it, and no embroidered fabrics draped over it, his pulse still quickened. A strange image of throwing Charlotte onto the bed overcame him.

He avoided her gaze, as if she could read his emotions.

They hadn’t made a love match, and even if they had, the doctor had expressly instructed that Charlotte could experience no excitement.

The light from the lantern flickered over her skin, swathing her in a delightful golden hue. His eyes danced about the room, landing everywhere except her.

“I’ll—er—sleep in the next room of course,” Callum said. “I hope it will be suitable for you.”

“Naturally,” Charlotte said.

“Please let me know if you require anything,” Callum said. “At any time. Please do not hesitate at all.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to stay in your room,” Charlotte said softly.

“What do you mean?”

She swept her long lashes downward. “Only that you’re a man, and you appear to be one in possession of virility.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Men’s cravings,” she said. “I do know about them. I might be untouched, but I’m not naïve.”

Untouched.

There should be a law against women like her saying such a word. The only thought running through his head now was touching her. He desired to touch her...everywhere.

She was beautiful.

Somehow, she had no idea, probably because men like him had dismissed her, sensing there was something about the cut of her dress, the choice of her fabric, and the way the way she was never seen in the same circles as the most distinguished debutantes, that made her unworthy.

“I don’t expect you to uphold your marriage vows,” she said.

*

THE MAN MANAGED TO evoke such shock and innocence that Charlotte blushed.

“The thought isn’t so ridiculous,” she said.

“You’re expecting me to spend the night with someone I just met instead of my own wife?”

She swallowed hard. “We don’t have that kind of marriage.” She raised her chin. “I-I’m open minded about such things. I understand men’s needs.”

“Whom exactly do you think I would like to see? Some woman on the dockyard?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps the baron’s sister. She seems quite sophisticated.”

“Nonsense. Why would my needs include her?”

Charlotte knew the answer to this question. She raised her chin. “The baron’s sister is a beautiful woman.”

“Is she?” Callum seemed amused.

Charlotte frowned. He wasn’t taking this seriously.

“Yes, her features are quite symmetrical. Her hair is golden.”

“So is yours,” Callum said.

“But mine is flaxen. It can’t be described as golden.”

“It’s rarer,” Callum said. “Far more special.”

Charlotte flushed. Why was the man looking at her like that? He shouldn’t look at her like that. It made her yearn for other things. Things that were impossible.

“And she’s tall,” Charlotte said, conscious that for some reason her voice was squeaking. “Statuesque.”

“I don’t want a statue.” Callum narrowed the distance between them.

“I mean of course not,” Charlotte said, laughing, though the sound seemed awkward. “That would be ridiculous. What would you do with a statue?”

“What indeed?” Callum said, and the man’s eyes glimmered for a reason she couldn’t quite define. Most likely, it involved something sultry.

“I only meant her height is similar to you. You might find it convenient.”

“Convenient?” he sputtered.

“Mathematically. A similar height would mean a smaller distance for kissing. Far more convenient. I’m surprised the thought has never occurred to you before.”

“I remember us kissing,” he said.

Fire blazed through her. The room was getting far too warm, despite the steady ocean breeze, and despite the fact that the sun had gone down long before.

She remembered too.

She remembered everything about those few seconds. She remembered the exact sweep of his lips and the exact manner in which his tongue had briefly touched hers. She remembered his scent, and she remembered the brush of his cheek against hers. She even remembered how his arm had briefly grazed hers.

“Differences in heights are no barrier,” Callum murmured.

“No?” she breathed.

“No.” Callum was only inches from her, and in one sudden, glorious movement, he pulled her into his arms, as effortlessly as if he were holding a book.

Her heart soared, conscious of the touch of his arm against her back and under her legs. She might be fully clothed, but the action was utterly intimate. His shirt stretched in interesting manners, some of the linen fabric caught by her dress, and she was aware of his muscles. The thin linen was no true barrier.

He was taller than she was. Most people were taller than she was, but her world was now consumed with the view of his broad shoulders and his face, gazing at her. If she looked at him she would be consumed with contemplating the man’s chiseled features, his straight nose and chin, and his high cheekbones that light seemed to desire to dance over, as if each sunbeam knew that there could be no nicer spot than him. He raked a hand through his curly blond locks. He managed to seem exasperated, a quality she was sure he should not possess.

“The thing is,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m not going to visit the baron’s sister.”

“But her qualities are remarkable.”

“Her qualities are irrelevant. I have what matters in my arms.”

She jerked her head toward him, and he set her down.

*

HE’D SAID TOO MUCH.

The fact was obvious.

Her eyes were widening at an alarming rate.

His words had been spontaneous, not thought out, though he had the uncomfortable sensation that did not render them any less true.

He swallowed hard.

She couldn’t be what mattered to him most. She hadn’t agreed to a love match.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

The images that raced through his mind were not images one shared with a maiden. And yet, the curve of her collarbone seemed utterly enticing, and he was filled with an urge to follow the curve to her bodice.

What would be the shape of her peaks? Would they be rosy? Or a more tawny shade? He longed to glide his hand over them and feel them pebble beneath him.

Her hair dangled over his hand. Charlotte’s hair was usually tied into a sensible updo, but now it was loose and utterly enticing.

She shouldn’t think he would prefer to be elsewhere. He couldn’t let her think she was in any way less than any other member of the ton. Her interests were so varied, so intense. He didn’t need to be with someone who knew the answers to every single line, who knew the steps to every dance, or who knew how to address everyone appropriately.

He’d been bored by the woman of the ton. They’d been beautiful, shimmering in their Parisian gowns, even at the height of war when the only people going to France should have been spies, intent on dismantling the brutal regime, rather than people intent on discovering the latest trends in fashion.

Charlotte was different.

He gazed at her again, and her lashes fluttered downward.

He couldn’t allow her to think she was anything less than wonderful. He stroked her hair, and he still held her in his arms.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

“And you are kind,” she said.

“That’s more than you would have said about me when we first met.”

“You’ve not made any carriage invasions since then,” she said, and humor glimmered in her pale blue eyes.

He kissed her.

His lips brushed against hers, and life was magnificent.

I mustn’t.

The woman was dying. Sudden excitement could cause her deadly harm.

He wanted her to take pleasure in life, not endanger her.

“I—er—should leave,” he said hastily. “I’ll be in the next room.”

He hastened through the adjoining door. His heart thumped madly, as if intent on admonishing him for leaving her.