Sarah blew out the candles, sat on the bed and took off her shoes and stockings. Only the dying embers of the fire glowed in the hearth. She glanced at Munro, not dwelling on the reasons she didn’t care if he watched her disrobe.

His promise of sexual delights nurtured a desire to be wanton, to be bold, to be a different Sarah North.

It seemed scandalous; her mother had died scant hours before. Yet, Mary Ward and Henry Marten had obviously enjoyed a relationship that included carnal pleasure. Perhaps her mother might approve of the Sarah who admitted her need for a man she loved.

She licked her lips, remembering the warm, masculine taste of Munro Pendray. The invasion of Reginald’s gin-soaked tongue had always made her gag. She’d suckled Munro’s tongue like a ravenous babe.

She reached for the hem of her frock and peeled it off slowly, savoring the caress of the wool on her skin. For the first time in her life, she smoothed her hands over her breasts, taking pleasure in feeling the nipples pout against the linen of the shift. Stretching up, she removed the pins from her hair, then shook her head, relishing the freedom of long tresses cascading over her shoulders.

She wondered what it would be like to sleep naked, but her courage failed and she slipped between the sheets.

She lay looking up at the ceiling for several minutes, tempted to smile. Thoughts of Munro’s hands on her body had banished Mary’s ghost from the bed.

That was all well and good, but it wasn’t likely the desire seething within would allow her to sleep.

Munro’s shaft didn’t need much light. Indeed, the shadowed outline of Sarah’s body as she disrobed provided more than enough grist for the mill. He supposed he shouldn’t be watching her through hooded eyes, but got the feeling as she ran her hands over her breasts that she wanted him to watch.

He wiggled his toes and inhaled deeply, elated by the expectation that his Sarah would prove to be a woman of long buried passions.

For a brief moment, he thought she was going to peel off the shift in the same sensuous way she’d lifted the frock over her head. But, alas, it was a forlorn hope.

When she slid between the sheets, he cupped his sac to ease the fullness, reluctantly reconciled to a sleepless night.

Sarah’s mind refused to be still.

Memories of past hurts and sorrows resurfaced in the darkness. Loneliness—a little girl abandoned by her parents and separated from her sisters. Shame—discovering she was the daughter of a kingslayer, and illegitimate to boot. Despair—a looming lifetime of degradation and brutality with Reginald. Irritation—expected to give shelter and sustenance to a mother she didn’t know. Regret—Mary Ward had died just as Sarah was getting to know her.

Words from her father’s letters echoed again and again.

Buss my Poppet for me.

She’d learned too late that the monster she’d always believed her father to be didn’t exist. He was simply a man of principle who’d admitted in hindsight to a mistake he regretted, and been severely punished for it. But he was a man who loved his wife and children.

Just as Munro loved her. Suddenly, the unloved Sarah North was basking in the adoring glow of an honorable man. It was surely no coincidence that Munro had come into her life at this turning point.

She’d spent too many years bound by chains of fear and resentment. It was time to be free, to enjoy every moment of life.

She lifted the sheets. “Munro,” she whispered, aware he, too, was awake. “Come to bed.”