So this was passion.

It was as much a torment as it was delightful.

Bridget tried to hold her head steady while covering the space between the trees and the wagon. She couldn’t recall being so ill at ease before, not even when she was younger and first placed in a position of authority over the household. Tonight, it felt as if every man watching her could tell that her nipples were hard behind her stays. Her cheeks colored because she was very sure that Curan knew it.

She certainly understood that he was the one causing her such upset.

Passion …

Hot and thick, moving through her veins like strong cider. The sort that her mother had insisted she sample so that she would know how potent it was, just as her mother had brought Marie to show her the power passion might yield over a man. At the moment Bridget found herself longing for that final lesson Marie had promised her.

Curan seemed very willing to instruct her; that was as clear as a summer day. To be honest, she was enjoying his tutoring. Watching Marie and Tomas had not been nearly as enjoyable as having Curan’s hand on her thigh.

What did it feel like to be touched on more sensitive parts of her body?

She was sure her blush was burning bright enough to illuminate her shame now, but the men around her only looked away when their gazes connected with her. It was a reflex, something they did without thinking because they turned their attention to any motion near them. Once they realized it was their lord’s bride, their eyes shifted. That was true respect for the man they followed. She reached the wagon and climbed in, only pausing on the tailgate to unlace her boots lest she track dirt into her bed. The evening air was chilly on her stocking-clad feet, and she scooted into the back of the wagon where she might pull her toes up into the folds of her clothing.

Someone had laid out one of the rolls of bedding. Considering that ninety percent of the men making the trip to northern England would be passing the night on the hard ground, the fact that any of them had even taken time to see to her comforts was an extreme luxury.

“Beg pardon, lady.”

Bridget looked back at the foot of the wagon to see one of Curan’s officers. She recalled his face from those who had stood nearest him when he had first arrived. This was the man who had moved her mother. He had light blue eyes that seemed to make his gaze sharper.

“We downed a few deer today, and your mother had her kitchens bake bread for us as well.”

He stretched out his arm and placed a large wooden bowl as close to her as his arm length allowed. Even covered with a linen cloth, the rich aroma of roasted meat teased her nose.

“Thank you.”

“I am Synclair, first in command. You may look to me when Lord Ryppon is not present; he has charged me with your welfare, lady.”

“I see.”

Synclair inclined his head but did not lower his gaze. There was a firm confidence in him that reminded her of Curan, but it did not send a jolt down her spine. This man was just as hardened, just as polished in his skills, but there was nothing drawing her closer to him.

At least it would appear that she was not wanton. Or only when it came to Curan, it seemed. A curse with a blessing attached, now there was a paradox if ever she had heard one.

“You should eat, lady.”

Her thoughts had distracted her yet again. “Yes, I shall.”

She reached for the bowl and had to force herself to do so calmly. Her belly rumbled low and long, berating her for losing sight of how hungry she was. The night would seem endless if she neglected to fill her stomach.

Synclair watched her silently. His armor breastplate was missing, but a gold knight’s chain sat proudly over his shoulders. It was a symbol of his years in service, and the intense focus of his eyes on her felt misplaced because every other man had spent the day looking away from her. This knight appeared to take the matter of her not eating as more important than the need to allow her privacy. That spoke of command and grooming to rise in rank. Unless she judged incorrectly, this knight was one whom Curan relied upon to help command his men. One of his captains, his helmet would have feathers that proclaimed his rank. He was one that she would have to watch if she planned to escape.

“It is not necessary for you or Lord Ryppon to give so much attention to my eating habits.”

She found it difficult to consider taking even one bite while being scrutinized so closely.

“The pair of you are treating me like a prized mare. I am not some child who must be monitored.”

Surprise registered on Synclair’s face, but he remained firmly in place for another long moment, clearly considering her words against those of his lord’s.

“Yet you are prized, lady. The border land is an uncertain place. Attention must be paid to ensure your safe arrival at Amber Hill.” His gaze shifted to the wagon cover that was tied securely in place along the sides of the wagon now. “It is not my intention or Lord Ryppon’s to see your modesty bruised.”

But keeping a close eye on her would be their way, no matter her feeling on the matter. Bridget saw that truth clearly illuminated in his eyes. A firm, unwavering set to his expression confirmed his opinion of her position as his responsibility. Her mother’s words returned.

“Trust no one with a sword …”

Wise advice, indeed. Synclair did not move until she uncovered the meal he had brought. The way he watched her definitely bruised her pride. She felt the sting of this hurt even after the knight inclined his head and left her to eat in privacy. Escaping would not prove simple. She resisted thinking that it might be impossible. She resisted thinking that she would prefer it to be impossible.

Then she truly would be free to enjoy what delights Curan promised her.

She scoffed at her own ideas. The man had more threatened her with those pleasures of the flesh than promised her them. She recalled very plainly the look in his eyes and the feeling of his hand tugging her skirt up. Firm purpose, coupled with the same passion she felt burning her as well. A passion that removed any conscious choice in the matter because her body had already decided to yield.

She had to remain firm; to falter would see her ruined. No matter how much Curan desired her body, the man had contracted her for the connections and dowry that came from her father. If her sire cut her off without a shilling for disobeying his command to marry Lord Oswald, she would be less fortunate than a whore, for she would have nothing for the favors she gave to Curan.

Not only would she have nothing at all, but possibly a child in her belly. Her best option was to beg to remain as his leman when he took another wife who brought him everything he desired from marriage.

She stopped eating before finishing the portion given to her, her grim thoughts killing her appetite. When had life become so dim? Truthfully, she had been spoiled. Never had there been such a lack of hope in her life. Now there was only the very difficult task of somehow escaping the diligence of Synclair and Curan, before attempting to cross the border into Scotland while avoiding any Scots who might decide to slit her throat simply because she was English.

These thoughts were quite dark indeed, crowding her mind and giving her little peace throughout the night. She huddled beneath the bedding and woke several times, keenly aware of the howl of the wind. It sounded colder and lonelier than she could ever recall. The only mercy came when the camp began to stir at the very first hint of dawn. But the day was gray; the thick clouds massing above them were black with the promise of rain.

The precipitation began to fall before noon, but there was nothing to do save continue onward. The wagon cover was well oiled, providing her with a haven of dryness that none of her escort enjoyed. From the opening at the foot of the wagon she could see the water turning chest armor shiny. Drops dripped off helmet edges, and the horses’ coats darkened. The steady clop of their hooves became a sloshing sound when the road turned to mud. The wagon began to sink, and the team pulling it snorted as they tried to drag it through the mire.

Bridget truly tried to temper her thoughts and recall that appearing docile would serve her intentions best, but when Synclair or Curan did not appear at the rear of the wagon and the team continued to struggle, she lost the resolve to not challenge Curan’s authority publicly. Sliding to the edge of the wagon, she made sure her shoes were tied well before jumping to the ground. Her feet instantly became cold, but she turned and stepped out of the way of the mud being flung by the wagon’s wheels.

Horses snorted and jostled at her appearance, making the knights riding them struggle to control them. More than one annoyed glance was shot at her, but the grumbling was kept low. The felted wool of her surcoat absorbed the rain quickly, making it necessary to grip the front and hold it up to avoid tripping. The clouds were pressing down on them, creeping along the sides of the hills to promise her a long day of chilling rain.

“Get back into the wagon.”

Curan was angry with her. A side glance showed her an expression that was tight and inflexible. He held the reins of his stallion in one gloved hand while the other rested on top of his thigh in a hard fist.

“You will stay where I place you, madam.”

“I will walk, for I shall not add to the burden of the team pulling that heavy wagon. My legs work as well as any man marching under your command.”

“You have the concept of being under my command quite correct.” His words were still hard and edged with anger, but he shut his mouth before finishing. His gaze rose to the wagon and the way it sank into the mud. His lips turned white from being pressed tighter, but his eyes were full of displeasure over her questioning of his will.

“I suppose I should admire the fact that you are wise enough to notice need around you. That is a good trait in a wife. Yet I do not favor your manner of acting on your impulses when it places you in jeopardy.”

“There is no danger here, only mud.”

His gaze settled on her, and one of his dark eyebrows lifted. In a smooth motion he slid from the saddle to land next to her. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the water reaching her skin. He fell into step alongside her easily, while maintaining a firm grip on his stallion’s bridle. Another shiver went down her spine as she noticed just how much taller he was—her eyes were not even level with his shoulder. He tucked his chin to angle his face so that their eyes might meet.

“Be assured that there is plenty of danger on this road, Bridget. The Scots cross the border now that word has reached their ears that the king is nearing his final days.” He broke away and scanned the horizon. “Do you not wonder why I am being given permission to maintain such a large number of men?” He looked back at her. “I am being charged with maintaining the border. The Barras clan resides on the other side of the land that I call mine. Their clan laird would pay a large reward for you if someone were brave enough to attempt to snatch you away.”

“Are you saying you wanted to hide me inside that wagon?”

“Exactly. A ploy that has been rendered useless by your impulsive action.”

His tone attempted to condemn her as a foolish girl who should know enough to trust in the men around her, but Bridget held her chin level.

“Anyone intent on stealing me would already know that I travel with you. A wagon cover would not blind them to my presence, which makes it ridiculous to burden the horses with my weight when I am able-bodied.”

He swept her from head to toe with a quick, yet efficient look.

“A simple boast to make when you have not yet spent hours in the rain.”

Her pride flared up, chasing the chill from her. “An easy enough matter to prove as well, Lord Ryppon, since I see no castle in front of me to announce the end of this journey.”

His attention was on her once more, and she shot a hard look straight into his eyes. A flicker of male enjoyment lit then, drawing a soft sound from her. Men made no sense. In one breath he demanded obedience, and yet he appeared to enjoy it when she refused his will.

No sense at all.

A soft chuckle teased her into returning her attention to his face. His lips were curved up now, smug male enjoyment making his expression far less imposing.

“You ruffle too easily, Bridget.”

He rolled her name, lingering over it as his gaze dropped to her lips.

“I wonder how well you shall rise to my suggestions when we are alone. Although I confess to looking forward to your rise in passion quite a bit.”

She jerked her attention away from him and set her sights on the road in front of her. “An unimportant question when we are where we are.” She cared not if she sounded surly; the man was being obnoxious.

“I find the topic drives away the chill, leaving me quite warm.”

She found herself agreeing.

In spite of wanting to shun him, she turned to fix him with a narrow look. “Begone if all you want to do is toy with me. I have not practiced the art as much as you clearly have.”

The grin melted until his lips were a hard line once more. “Good.”

His tone was hard and edged with possession. He held her gaze for a long moment, and she felt the heat ripple across her skin in spite of the chilling rain. “I find the idea of you flirting with other men very displeasing.”

She laughed at him. There was no stopping the rise of amusement; not even the hard glint in his eyes was able to warn her sufficiently enough to remain silent.

“Ah, and yet you are so practiced in the art of, as you said … ruffling me. Where have you practiced such skills?” Bridget leaned closer so that her next words would not carry. “Perhaps with a courtesan?”

“How better to make sure I understand how to keep you satisfied in my bed, Bridget, than to take lessons from a woman who might instruct me on the very intimate details of her body?”

“That is—” Words failed her as she felt her face burn scarlet. He leaned even closer until she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes on his but stared at his mouth instead.

His kiss was intoxicating …

“My solemn promise to you.”

A moment later he remounted his stallion. Settling atop the huge animal, Curan resumed the role of commander. She clearly saw the change, actually felt it. The man who had been verbally sparring with her now hid behind the polished exterior of his command.

The transformation was complete, except a slight flicker of heat in his eyes. Deep in those dark eyes was a flame that promised he was not finished toying with her. In sooth, the man appeared to consider her his favorite plaything.

“We shall make Amber Hill sometime tomorrow.”

There was a finality in his tone that sent a shaft of fear through her heart. She cast her attention forward and heard him make a sound of frustration before the stallion moved away.

Tomorrow.

So close and unavoidable. It felt as if someone had their hands locked around her neck, squeezing and tightening their grip until she couldn’t breathe. That idea persisted the rest of the day. With nothing but rain and mud to look at, her thoughts churned like the swollen rivers they crossed. It grew colder the farther north they traveled, but it wasn’t the location she dreaded. It was the groom who intended to claim her on the morrow who was the source of her concern.

Crawling into the wagon at dusk, she gratefully took shelter in it. Curan’s men sought out the trees, pulling the lower branches down to drape oilcloth over to form crude tents. The blanket of leaves that had fallen beneath those trees last fall gave the men a drier place to pass the night. They scraped aside the moist top layer, and soon there was the scent of smoke in the air. She did not have a fire, but the wagon was by far drier than anything else. Bridget pulled her shoes off and even stripped off her stockings because they were soaked. One of her trunks was sitting near, and she was able to open it slightly. The cover prevented her from raising the lid very far, so she reached in to pull what she might from inside. A chemise came out first, and then a light dressing gown. While she wouldn’t have normally considered wearing so little while surrounded by an army, the night was cooling down rapidly. Getting out of her wet dress was imperative before she caught a chill. Reaching up, she untied the flap that would cover the back of the wagon and act as a curtain to give her privacy.

Removing her dress proved difficult. Her fingers fumbled the hooks, and the knot in her laces stuck tight. She couldn’t help but notice the difference between the practice disrobing she had performed for Marie and the struggling efforts she had to use to strip the wet garment from her. She shivered when her bare skin was exposed. A quick look at the tail of the wagon showed her that the curtain was still in place. Tugging on her wet chemise, she pulled the wet fabric over her head. She used the linen cloth that had covered her supper last evening to dry off as best as possible. Her teeth started to chatter, and she clamped her jaw tight to keep them still. Even lightweight clothing that was dry would be welcome. Besides, she could use the bedding to provide the additional warmth she craved.

“Lady?”

Synclair’s voice came through the curtain, sending Bridget beneath the blankets before she even had the dressing gown tied.

“You may lift the flap.”

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she watched the knight use one hand to open the flap. He still wore his helmet for the protection it might provide him.

“It is cold fare, but I found you a bit of wine to cut the chill.”

“I am grateful, but you need not pamper me, sir.”

“You are not alone. Lord Ryppon has opened the stores to ease the aches this rain brings.”

So Curan was a generous lord. Somehow she found that bit of information heartwarming. Synclair pushed a wooden tray toward her. A wineskin was sitting in it, too.

“Good evening, lady.”

The knight offered her a quick nod before the flap fell back into place and she was left in privacy.

She was being kept in luxury and felt a surge of guilt for the dry wagon bed at her disposal. Her intention to flee made her unworthy of such comforts, for they were being provided to her because she was the mistress.

In the bowl, her fingers found little droplets of water clinging to the bread and beading on top of the thick slice of cheese. Feeling the little drops of water made her realize that she was dry for the first time since leaving the wagon that morning. While it was still cold, the air lacked the bite of winter ice, making her count her blessings that they were not traveling in the dead of winter. Having anything to eat was welcome; even simple fare would be filling and a comfort to enjoy. The wine truly did chase the chill from her nose, warming her cheeks, while the bedding helped relieve the bite of cold from her feet. Her legs ached from pulling her feet out of the mud all day long. A throbbing pain bit between her shoulder blades from the weight of her soaked surcoat hanging on her shoulders. She shied away from thinking about getting back into her wet clothing at dawn. Better to enjoy the warm, dry bed, even if it was hard against her back. She slipped into sleep but found dark eyes watching her there.

Eyes that flickered with passion while they came nearer. She felt his hands on her, first only a single brush of fingertips and then his entire hand stroking her until she yearned for his possession. She twisted away but couldn’t escape her own passion. It slithered across her skin, giving her no reprieve until she threw herself out of the bed she lay in.

She hit a hard body and opened her eyes to stare into pitch blackness.

“What troubles you, Bridget?”

“Curan?”

“Aye. No one else would dare approach your bed. Even if you did cry out.”

His voice was husky and edged with concern. There was also a hint of tenderness she did not expect from the imposing man. Her hands pressed flat against his hard chest while she tried to decide if her nightmare was over or simply beginning.

“What are you doing here?”

The arms around her shifted, moving her so that she was once again lying on the bedding that was unrolled inside the wagon. Curan was beside her, propped on his side, but his larger body dwarfed hers, and she was keenly aware of it.

“As I said, you cried out. Softly, yet ‘twas enough to carry past the wagon cover.”

He stroked a hand over one side of her cheek, sending a shiver down her chest and across her breasts.

“I am well.”

She wasn’t, but keeping her voice lower disguised that fact. A soft grunt brushed her ear before she felt the press of his lips against her temple.

“You are not.”

One large hand pressed down in the center of her chest, directly over her heart. There was no hiding the frantic pace of it, but it was the feeling of having his fingers so close to her nipples that sent her rolling away from him. She was keenly aware of how simple it would be for him to touch one of those soft tips. It was almost as if she longed for it.

“I am, and know myself better than you do.” She tried to sit up and push him away from her. She needed some space between them for her mind to begin functioning once more.

He snorted softly and pressed her back down.

“I know that you enjoy my touch.” His words were edged with frustration now. “So lie still, Bridget, and do not act as if you do not like my hand upon you. No one sees us, and there is no other way to begin my education of you, for you are correct—I do not know you well enough at all.”

“You said you would wait until we reached your holding.”

“To possess you, yes, I would wait until we have a bed beneath us. A maiden deserves such respect from her groom. That does not mean I will not begin the process of learning more about you before then.”

He found her mouth in the darkness, claiming her lips with a hard kiss. She was suddenly aware of how thin the dressing gown was and how exposed her natural shape was to his hand. Strangely, his kiss was perfect coupled with the darkness encasing them, as though she had never truly understood what the night was made for. The dark hours were crafted for veiling lovers, the lack of light allowing her to feel every touch more deeply. Without her sight, her skin was aware of each touch, each stroke. She noticed what his skin smelled like and detected the scent of rainwater clinging to his hair. So many little details suddenly grabbed her attention. She turned her head and drew in a deeper breath that brought the scent of new spring grass with it. She could smell the faint traces of bread that clung to his fingers where he held her head in position for his kiss. But most of all, she noticed how warm his lips were against hers, the way they slid across the tender surface, producing a friction that was sweetly enjoyable. His weight was even pleasing. Part of her enjoyed knowing that he had her pressed down for his pleasure. Hidden deep within her own thoughts was some unexpected longing to feel him completely on top of her.

It became impossible not to reach for him, her hands longing to seek out the warmth of his chest. Each fingertip ultra-aware of the moment when they made contact with him, first one and then another until her hands were resting lightly against him.

Bridget shivered, and he pressed her lips wide for a deeper kiss. The tip of his tongue slipped gently over her lower lip in a slow motion that sent ripples of sensation through her. He was tasting her, lingering over her lips like fine French wine. Her confidence swelled as she felt the power of her own attractiveness. Her jaw relaxed, allowing him to penetrate her mouth with a slow thrust of his tongue. It wasn’t the bold invasion she expected from him, but that did not mean it was soft. Steady and sure, he stroked her tongue with his until she mimicked his motion, kissing him back.

“Sweet Bridget, I must thank you for having mercy and giving me an excuse to join you. I confess I’ve been discarding reason after reason to come in here since you lowered the flap and shut me out.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

A low chuckle drifted over her. In the dark she felt it as much as she heard it. His fingers threaded into her hair, slipping through the strands to rest against her scalp and cradle her head. He turned her face up to his, but all she saw was a shadow. Her sight failed her, but her other senses were keenly aware of him. She could feel his warmth and smell his clean male scent. It sent her heart racing once more, as if she had fallen back into her dream and his arms.

“Yet you enjoy having me here as well.” His hand trailed down to rest over her heart once more. He tapped against her chest in time with the frantic tempo her heart was keeping. “The proof is plain. Besides, you should be happy that you have snared my attention.”

“Why? Because you believe that all women thirst for male admirers?”

He chuckled again, and his opposite hand moved, sliding gently over the soft mound of her breast. She shucked in a harsh breath, her body attempting to roll away from the sheer abundance of sensation that touch produced. But he denied her any escape, his body leaning over hers and the hand cradling her head keeping her firmly in place while his hand gently fingered her breast. Soft strokes made the breath freeze in her lungs.

“I think it is time I demonstrated just how much you may expect to enjoy being admired by me, Bridget.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I disagree wholeheartedly.”

And he wasn’t going to continue to debate the issue, either. His fingers circled her breast, sending ripples of delight through the soft flesh. With naught but two thin layers of linen between his fingers and her skin, she felt the heat from his hand scorching her. A soft sound made it past her lips, but she honestly didn’t know if it was born of distress or delight. She felt suspended between the two emotions, but her body was rapidly losing the will to protest. She wanted to arch up and offer her breast to his grasp, to his will.

“I believe I made a grave error in leaving our union uncelebrated. The knowledge of how close I came to losing you sticks to my thoughts like tar. I find myself jealous of even the idea of another having you.”

His voice turned husky and deep, drawing her closer to him to ensure that she heard each word. She felt his breath against her cheek, and his hand closed gently around her breast. A soft sound came from her that she didn’t recognize as her own. The night air was no longer chilly, Curan’s body warming her until she was hot. Her racing heart warming her more completely than a summer day.

“Perhaps it was best, though, else I might never have been able to complete my duty knowing how sweet you sound with my hand upon you. Knowing how soft your flesh was might have turned me traitor to my king’s will just so that I might lie with you again.”

His hand moved away from her breast, and disappointment surged through her. A tiny groan came from her, but it became a gasp when he slid his hand beneath the neckline of her chemise. Delight raced across her skin, startling her with its intensity. Excitement twisted through her belly so tight she jerked with it. He controlled her easily, moving with her as though he understood what his touch was doing to her.

“You shouldn’t—”

“It would be a sin against the flesh nature gifted us with not to show you what delights await you as my wife.”

She lost track of what she was trying to forbid him to do as his hand cupped her breast. Skin against skin, it flooded her with pleasure. It seemed as if she were finally experiencing what her breasts had been created for. With them contained behind stiffly boned stays for years, she had never realized how much the mounds of flesh might feel.

“Disagreeing with you is becoming an enjoyable thing, sweet Bridget.” His thumb glided across the hard peak of her nipple, wringing another gasp from her. “I believe it is time to crush this desire you have to tell me no so often. Maybe you doubt my ability to make my bed a place you will eagerly look forward to sharing.”

“You mustn’t say things like that. What would the church say?”

He pinched her nipple, the harder touch shocking her with how much she enjoyed the sensation. She pushed against his chest, but it was more reaction than a desire to be free. Curan didn’t move; he remained solid and hard beside her, resting most of his weight on one elbow. His fingers remained closed about the hard point of her nipple, gently rolling the woman’s tip.

“I have followed their teachings and taken you as my wife. I expect the church to bid me well and leave me to enjoy my bride, in every manner I desire or you do.”

“Your words are far from humble and quite lustful.”

He grunted and tightened his hand on her breast. “You begin to know me better, Bridget. A task I believe we shall delve into deeper.”

His hand left her breast, and this time he grasped the tie that held her dressing robe closed. With a sharp jerk it opened, and he grasped the edge of her chemise to pull it down and bare her chest. She felt the brush of the night air against her hard nipple a mere moment before he leaned over her and captured the puckered tip between his lips.

Another cry crossed her open lips, but she was not intent on escape. Her body arched, offering her breast to his mouth. Sweet delight flowed from that point of contact, his mouth hotter than anything she might have imagined. His hand moved from cradling her head to the center of her back, where he lifted her to him so that he could suck more strongly on her nipple. The pleasure bit into her, sharp and hard, racing through her flesh to the spot hidden in the folds of her sex. A throbbing began there that spread to her sheath. It became a needy ache that made her twist, because remaining still was impossible.

She wanted to touch him, spread her hands over him just as boldly as she had witnessed Marie doing. There was no forcing herself to do it. She reached for the hard shoulders that her attention had rested on so frequently and muttered with enjoyment as her fingertips glided over the hard ridges.

His knee dropped over her thigh, locking one of her legs in place. He teased the hard top of her nipple with his tongue, lashing it with soft motions that set her heart racing faster. Her blood felt as though it were on fire, and she didn’t truly protest when he tugged her chemise up to bare her thighs. The cool air was a relief and so freeing, she shuddered. Her eyes opened, and she realized how overwhelmed she was. She wanted more than that, craved the same level of involvement she had seen Marie taking.

Curan released her nipple, and the night air turned it cold where her skin was wet. Slipping her hands up to his face, she held him cupped in her hands and lifted her head up to press a kiss against his mouth. He shook slightly, surprised by her boldness, and that filled her with confidence. She held on to him and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. He didn’t take command of it, only allowed her to push his lips apart so that she might deepen the kiss. His hand cupped her breast lightly, tenderly, before slipping down her body to her belly, where it rested.

Sensation twisted beneath that hand. An insane sort of excitement made her kiss him harder. Curan abandoned his relaxed demeanor, his lips meeting hers with equal passion while his hand ventured lower to where his knee kept her thighs slightly parted.

She gasped, and it broke their kiss. Knowing what happened between a man and woman did not completely prepare her for the first touch on the top of her mons. The throbbing increased, and she was suddenly aware of her passage being empty.

His cock would fill you …

It was a wicked thought, but her mind was filled with the memory of the way Marie had so confidently lowered her body onto Tomas’s hard flesh. Curan was watching her, trying to gauge her mood, but her expression was hidden in the dark. He kept his hand on her mons, as sure and steady as he did everything else. There was no retreat in this man, only steady, onward progress that would win the day.

She could be taken on her back or rise to meet him …

Stretching up, she pressed a soft kiss against his neck. His skin was not as rough as she might have thought it would be. Her hands on his chest felt him shiver slightly in response. This tiny vibration filled her with a sense of victory.

“You tease me, Bridget.”

His voice was rough, but she detected a note of admiration in it.

“Because I do not remain still and simply allow you to cover me, while I lay still in submission?”

She relaxed and did exactly that, forcing her limbs to go limp. “Is this better?”

He growled at her with a low sound that practically defined the idea of frustration. Bridget laughed softly at him, but her amusement died swiftly when his hand moved lower until it was resting directly over that spot that throbbed so incessantly between the folds of her flesh.

“Two may play the game of taunting. Be careful what you begin. I enjoy victory a great deal. It might be interesting to pit our wills against one another, to see exactly how long you might remain still while I tried to entice you into responding.”

His fingers moved, rubbing her directly on top of her sex. Pleasure shot up into her passage so fast she cried out. She quickly lost her ability to remain in place, her body bucking with the amount of sensation his touch produced. His chest rumbled with his amusement as his fingers continued to move. He covered her lips with his, smothering the sound while his larger body held her on her back and at his mercy.

“I believe the victory goes to me.”

“You are arrogant. Why do you torment me?”

Yet it was a sweet torment he inflicted upon her. His fingers rubbed, working in a slow motion that produced as much pleasure as need. She felt torn by the twin emotions, each so opposite from one another but being created by the same action. Her hips wanted to lift up to his hand and increase the pressure. She felt compelled to strain toward him, seeking some form of release from the aching need filling her passage.

“Have you ever been pleasured?”

“What?”

That single word sounded hoarse. She shut her mouth and swallowed to try to force herself to recall how to answer in a smooth tone.

“You have never fingered yourself?”

“Of course not.” She tried to twist away but was pinned quite securely. His fingers continued their slow and lazy motion. Her taut muscles began to ache. It seemed impossible to relax or to even be completely still.

She wanted to be filled. Wanted it so badly she almost cried out in demand.

“Release me. You promised we would wait.”

Her words sounded sulky, as though she wanted to taunt him until he lost his own control and gave her what she craved. In the night, it seemed right to feed the desire tearing at her. The darkness hinted at absolution for any sins committed while hidden in its velvety folds.

He leaned down and bit her neck, a soft nip that sent a ripple of pleasure down her spine.

“I don’t want to wait, I want to fill you tonight and feel you clasping me with your thighs. I can feel the need shaking you, Bridget. Tell me you desire release.”

His tone was gruff, and part of her rejoiced. His lips found her breast again, and he nuzzled the soft mound before teasing the nipple with little kisses. It was too soft for what she needed, and she arched up to press against him.

“I will not.” The words felt as if they were torn from her. Her body shivered in disappointment.

“I shall not make it such a simple thing for you, Bridget.”

His finger continued to torment her, building more hunger beneath its slow motion. She wanted something more, but she was powerless within his grasp to obtain it.

“You are my wife; there is no shame in taking pleasure from my touch.”

He loomed over her again, and she could feel the change in his mood. Tension felt thick in the air when his fingers stilled. She shuddered, her body reacting to the lack of motion. She still needed more. Needed something harder and faster to satisfy her.

“Tell me you desire pleasure from my hand.”

Hard and unyielding, his words drew a sharp gasp from her. She shut her jaw so fast her teeth clicked against one another, but he chuckled at her response and gave a sharp tug on her chemise. The lightweight fabric rose up her legs quickly, baring her to the top of her thighs.

“Begone, Curan.” She didn’t care if he took exception to her tone. He’d been warned to avoid her in private if he wanted properness from her.

He snorted, sounding as frustrated as she. “And leave you hungering, sweet Bridget?”

He pulled on the fabric of her clothing again. Even her weight did not prevent him from raising it above her waist. A soft sound came from her lips as she felt her sex being touched by the night air. She shivered just a tiny amount as the first layer of her innocence was stripped away.

“Where has your confidence gone?” The trace of amusement in his tone chaffed her pride.

“You shouldn’t jest. Would you rather I was a slut? Well accustomed to a man’s touch? Eager to follow my lustful impulses the moment I laid eyes upon a man who pleased me?”

His fingers gently returned to her mons, petting the soft curls that grew there in a gentle motion before seeking out the cleft that lay beneath them.

“I would rather you accept that I am your husband. The man you will willingly welcome into your body without further hesitation or excuse.” His fingers penetrated the folds of her sex, sinking down until they connected with that point that was keeping pace with her heart rate.

“I want to hear you say that you are mine.”

She wanted to. The need was clawing at her insides. Her hips were begging to lift once again and press her clitoris against his fingertips. She felt desperate for that contact, so intensely hungry that her body shivered while she battled against her pride. But she would not submit so simply. Reaching out, she touched his thigh and trailed her fingers across it until she found the hard bulge of his cock.

He drew in a sharp breath that whistled through his clenched teeth.

“And what about what I desire, Curan? Submission is quite boring when it is the only thing allowed.”

His finger moved on top of her clitoris, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure up her passage. This was what she had craved. Direct contact, his flesh against her own.

“This is very much about what you desire, sweet Bridget. Submission to my will has rewards.”

His finger rubbed the sensitive little point, drawing a moan from her. She had never made such a sound before but seemed to be a stranger unto herself at that moment. Stripped away were the polished manners and poise she had spent years perfecting. There was no set of rules that she understood to follow as his finger drove her into a mindless state where nothing mattered but the need twisting tighter and tighter beneath his touch. She clamped her thighs closed, but his hand remained in place. He leaned down over her to pin her shoulders flat, filling her senses with his warm, male scent. It was intoxicating and impossible to ignore. Her thoughts dis-solved into impulses that all centered on having him pleasure her, the hard body pressing down on her adding to the moment and increasing the frantic need pulsing through her.

“Submission can be sweet. So sweet because it feeds what you crave.”

He kissed her hard and with a demand that she struggled against but found her will bending to accept. His finger moved faster, applying more pressure, and it became impossible to remain still. Her hips strained up toward his hand, her thighs grasping his forearm now out of the need to keep that hand exactly where it was. Her thighs burned because she strained up so strongly, but that only added to the pulsing sensation gripping her. It all centered under his finger. Her passage begged to be filled, but her clitoris became white-hot a moment before pleasure squeezed her in a grasp so tight it felt as if she were shattering under the pressure. Delight raced through her, burning along her muscles and limbs without missing a single inch of her body. She cried out into their kiss, his lips smothering the sounds. Time ceased to exist. She found herself suspended in that moment, with pleasure glowing in her belly like a flame. There was no thinking, only feeling.

“And that, my sweet wife, is the reason for submission. The pleasure my touch can give you.”

She lay willingly on her back now. Every muscle in her body feeling lax and limp. Exhaustion clouded her thinking while delight still warmed her passage and clitoris. He trailed his hand up to rest over her womb, gently massaging the quivering muscles. Her hand still lay near his cock, and her fingers brushed against it, telling her that he was still hard and unsatisfied.

He shifted away from her touch, a snort brushing past her lips.

“We shall sleep beneath my roof tomorrow night and I shall be happy to allow you to stroke my cock as much as you like … wife.”

“But—”

He growled, the sound full of impatience.

“There is nothing further to say, Bridget, unless you wish to discuss exactly what delights we shall share tomorrow. I, for one, am dwelling on the idea of you clasping your thighs about my hips as you just did to my forearm.”

He was being blunt on purpose in an attempt to intimidate her. It was strange how she noticed it. Her body was basking in a glow of contentment, but her wits had returned. He tucked the bedding back around her, and the wagon rocked as he left it. When he lifted the flap, enough light illuminated him to show her the rigid set of his face. She suddenly understood what Marie had meant when she spoke of power over a man when he was hungry.

Curan was hungry for her. Yet he had pleasured her and left unsatisfied. She tried to dwell on that fact, but slumber stole her away, her body happily slipping into its restful embrace now that her passion had been fed.