Jerome stared up at the canvas ceiling, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep. The interior of the tent was already starting to lighten with the morning sun’s rays, yet he’d only caught a few winks of sleep all night.

He’d slept near Elaine before. Though Finn had tried to watch the two of them like a hawk when they’d been traveling to Scone, he couldn’t prevent them from both needing to sleep. Yet even then, Finn had always been nearby, and Jerome hadn’t been close enough to hear Elaine’s soft, steady breaths or smell the delicate, womanly fragrance of her skin and hair.

Last night, they’d found a tray of bread, cheese, meat, and the season’s first strawberries, along with a jug of wine, outside their tent. After washing their faces and hands in the basin, they’d taken the simple meal together, she sitting on the cot and he standing.

Jerome had turned away to give her a moment to unlace her silk gown and drape it over the little folding table, for it was her only one. He’d heard the rustling of fabric and then her hurried steps to the cot, all the while imagining what she looked like standing in naught but a chemise—and within arm’s reach of him.

When she was settled with the coverlet pulled up to her chin, he’d turned back around and stretched himself alongside the cot on the ground. And then lain awake damn near the whole night listening to Elaine breathing.

He huffed a sigh, sitting up. He wasn’t likely to sleep anymore now that the sun had broken the horizon, so he might as well rise.

He pushed to his feet from his makeshift bed. Elaine had insisted that he sleep on her cloak, despite the fact that he had spent many a night with naught to separate him from the ground but his plaid. No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep—her scent had nigh enveloped him all night.

With a barely suppressed curse, he let his extra length of plaid fall in a pile with her cloak, then hoisted his shirt over his head and went to the basin. He needed to clear his head, and naught was more likely to help with that than cold water. Besides, he hadn’t properly washed since disembarking the ship.

He began scrubbing himself using what was left of the water in the pitcher and a linen cloth one of the servants had left. Today was a new day. The shock of seeing Elaine in France had retreated, and now only the grim reality that his mission was in danger remained. Aye, they would have to maintain the ruse of being in love, but that shouldn’t be—

Behind him, he heard a little gasp. He spun to find Elaine sitting upright in the cot, her hair like a copper halo around her head and her creamy shoulders peeking out from the coverlet.

Her bright blue eyes were fixed on him, her berry lips open in shock.

“What are you doing?” Her gaze roved over his bare chest with a hunger that sent blood rushing straight to his cock.

“I needed more of a wash,” he replied, his voice coming out harsh because of the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Oh. Of course. I—that is…” Absently, she pushed aside a lock of russet hair from her face. The coverlet slid away to pool around her waist, and it was Jerome’s turn to stare.

Her skin was nearly as pale as her white chemise. Her collarbone cut a delicate ridge across her chest, and below, he could see her breasts rising and falling with unnatural speed against the linen.

The material was thin enough that he could just make out the pinkish shadows of her nipples.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll just…” He lifted the washing cloth but couldn’t manage to turn back around to the basin. Instead, he simply stood there like a fool, letting her look her fill and gazing his own as well.

Distantly, he registered the sound of footsteps approaching their tent, but he assumed it was a servant—until he heard a casually commanding voice just on the other side of the canvas.

“And how are my lovebirds this morning?” King Philip’s tone was filled with merriment. “I hope I will not find you indisposed.”

Elaine’s eyes widened. At last Jerome snapped out of his daze. His gaze fell to the ground beside the cot. Elaine’s cloak, plus his plaid and discarded shirt, made for quite the cozy-looking nest—and if the King saw it, their ruse would be up.

He did the only thing he could think of. In two swift steps, he was to the cot. He kicked his makeshift bedding asunder even as he dove under the coverlet with Elaine.

“What—”

He stopped her next word with a kiss just as the King pulled back the tent flap and bright sunlight poured inside.

When he heard the King chuckle, Jerome knew he’d seen enough to convince him that he’d walked in on a tryst. He broke off the kiss, his gaze snagging on Elaine’s rounded eyes and softly parted lips before he managed to look at the King.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said with another chuckle. “Ah, jeune amour. You remind me of what it was like to court my Queen. Always stealing away, enjoying each other wherever we could.”

He waved at the now disheveled pile of clothes that had a moment before been Jerome’s bed. “And always in a hurry, non? I am sorry that I have caused you to rush over that which should be given all the time in the world, mes amis, but we must be off if we wish to reach Paris in another three days.”

Jerome barely managed to stifle a curse. He’d been so caught up in thoughts of Elaine that he hadn’t even heard the stirrings beyond their tent walls. Through the open flap, he saw that the other tents were being disassembled and the wagons loaded.

“Aye, of course, Majesty,” Jerome replied gruffly.

With another chuckle, the King dropped the tent flap and left them alone.

In bed. Half-naked.

Belatedly, Jerome realized that in his haste to convince the King of their ruse, he’d pulled Elaine flush against him. One hand lingered on her hip while the other was buried in her cascading copper locks.

Her chemise was like a whisper between them, providing little barrier between their skin. He could feel the heat of her, the softness of her breasts against his chest.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, yet he couldn’t seem to pull away. “My only thought was to maintain our cover story.”

She didn’t draw back or push his hands off her. Instead, she continued to gaze at him, her eyes roaming over his bare shoulders, his jawline, and at last his lips. “Of course,” she replied absently. “You did what you had to.”

Damn it all. He couldn’t take the look in her eyes anymore—a look of hunger, of longing. Of desire.

The kiss he’d stolen a moment before hadn’t been enough, only a brushing of lips to satisfy King Philip. The memory of it left him burning. Some unthinking, instinctual part of him howled for more.

Unbidden, he lowered his head, his lips coming within a hair’s breadth of Elaine’s. But he wouldn’t catch her by surprise again. He wanted her to know exactly what he was about and wanted her to long for it just as badly as he did.

She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, her breath fanning his lips in a maddening tease.

He could take no more. He closed the distance between them with a ravenous kiss. Though he attempted to leash his desire, his control snapped the moment their lips touched. When she moaned, he immediately claimed her mouth, his tongue delving and tangling with hers.

His cock grew painfully hard beneath his kilt as their voracious kiss continued. To his surprised pleasure, she met him stroke for stroke despite her innocence. She clung to him as if he were her anchor in a storm, her arms looped around his neck and her fingers buried in his hair.

Lost in the building heat, he rolled on top of her, pushing her down into the cot. Even as he propped himself on his elbows, taking some of his weight to avoid crushing her, she arched up into him, silently demanding that their bodies’ contact not be broken.

Her breasts brushed his chest, the pearled nipples dragging a burning path over his skin. He lifted a hand to one breast, but instead of slowly teasing her as he had before, he cupped her fully, swallowing her gasp of pleasure with his kiss.

He thumbed her beaded nipple, feeling her jolt beneath him. Heaven help him, Elaine’s pleasure was like the finest Munro whisky—heady, powerful, and intoxicating. Like a drunkard, he couldn’t get enough. He longed to draw out her ecstasy. He would lave each breast with torturous thoroughness, then move between her legs until she was trembling and begging for all of him.

Bloody hell. He rocked his hips against her, needing more contact, needing her to feel the hard length of his desire. She responded on instinct, lifting one knee so that he settled between her legs. He could feel the heat of her womanhood even through her chemise and his thick wool plaid.

A nigh-blinding urge to rip off his kilt and her thin chemise stole over him. He felt himself teetering on the edge of sanity, a heartbeat away from doing something irrevocable.

The realization of just how close he was coming to spreading her legs wider and driving into her, consequences be damned, was like a splash of cold water. He jerked back, breaking their kiss, and hissed a curse as if he’d been burned.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled, her voice thick with passion.

“I’m stopping,” he said on a ragged breath, “before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Hurt flashed through her eyes as he threw back the coverlet and rose from the bed. Cursing the tremble in his legs and his throbbing cock, he snatched up his discarded shirt and yanked it over his head.

“Was that part of the ruse as well?” she asked behind him. He turned to find her propped on one elbow, looking thoroughly ravished. Her hair was a riot of russet waves, her lips swollen and glistening from their kiss. Her rapid breaths pushed her breasts against the thin chemise, which hung somewhat askew from her shoulders.

“Bloody hell, Elaine,” he rasped. “I dinnae ken. Something powerful burns between us, but that doesnae mean—”

“Then why would we both regret where we were headed?”

He cursed again, raking his hair away from his forehead. “Ye dinnae understand of what ye speak. Ye dinnae ken the consequences of what we were about.”

That damned hurt look flickered in her vibrant eyes again, and it was like a knife to his chest.

“I may be innocent, but I am not a child, nor an idiot. I…” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. “I want you.”

He let a long breath go. Good God, what was she doing to him? “Ye ken I want ye, too,” he replied at last, keeping his voice low. “But there are far greater things at stake than our desire. We must remain focused on the mission—and the threat from de Soules.”

She sat up, pulling the coverlet over her chest. “Aye, but you’ll forgive me for being confused as to where you draw the line between the task of pretending to desire me and your true feelings.”

She was right, damn it. There was naught he could say, for he’d agreed to this ruse, yet he’d also initiated that blazing kiss.

And the shameful truth was, when she’d first proclaimed her love, he’d wanted it to be real. Some irrational part of him didn’t want it to be a ruse at all. But while their desire was genuine, her feelings weren’t—she’d admitted it had been a lie.

He should be glad, for it made matters simpler, but instead his chest ached and his thoughts swirled in confusion. So all he said was, “Dress yerself. We cannae keep the King waiting.”

He knew even before he saw her eyes fill with frustrated tears that he was being an arse. She was not some cheap whore to be tumbled and then kicked out of bed. Nay, she was a lady, and what was more, a soulful, spirited, deeply feeling woman.

But she was not his, regardless of the ruse they had to maintain or the undeniable heat that crackled between them.

As he threw the extra length of his plaid over his shoulder and gathered her cloak from the ground, Jerome silently cursed himself up and down. Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself into?