His jaw locked, a hard knot of muscle jumping in his cheek. He could feel the blood thrumming in his ears. Rowan’s gaze dropped to the quick rise and fall of her chest, then snapped back to her blazing eyes.
“You do not understand what people can do with weakness,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned into her, “once they see it.”
“And you do not understand what happens to a child when every difficult thing is treated as a shameful one.”
The words struck with the precision of a blade. Rowan looked at her, at the stubborn lift of her chin, the high, frantic color in her cheeks, and the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. She was angry, but she wasn’t reckless.
“You have been his mother for less than a month,” he said, his voice dropping, the fury quieter now.
Something flashed in her eyes. “And yet I seem to have noticed that he breathes more easily when he is not being watched for failure.”
His restraint frayed. She was too near. He could smell the light floral soap on her skin and the sun-warmed scent of her hair—a sweetness that had begun to haunt his sleep. She stood there, lecturing him, and all he could feel was a sudden, violent pull in his gut. He imagined sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her flush against him just to hear her gasp.
He knew she would. He had seen the way her breath hitched when he loomed over her. He had watched her mouth go soft and heavy even while she fought him. He wanted to close the distance. He wanted to see if that fierce defiance would turn to a different kind of shivering if he leaned down and pressed his lips to the sensitive cord of her neck.
He forced himself to take a step back.
Her eyes followed him, searching, and he saw the moment she realized exactly how much effort it took for him to move away.
“You are not to invent remedies without consulting me,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual flint.
“I did not invent anything dangerous. I gave him a way through a word.”
“You made him bark like a dog.”
“I gave him permission to make a sound without fearing he would be judged.”
His fingers flexed at his side, his palms aching. “That sounds very noble. It will sound rather different when some boy in a village mocks him.”
“Then let him be strong enough to laugh at it.”
“Aaron is not strong enough for that yet.”
“He could be,” she said, her voice a soft, urgent lure. “If you would stop deciding the limits of his courage before he has a chance to find them himself.”
A loose curl drifted against her cheek, and Rowan’s gaze caught on it, tracing the curve of her ear before dropping to her mouth. Her lips were parted, ripe and slightly damp, and the air between them seemed to hum with an invisible current.
“Do not look at me like that,” he said, the words dragging low in his throat.
Her breath caught. “Like what?”
“As though you mean to challenge me until I forget why I am angry.”
The flush on her neck deepened, a beautiful, rose-colored stain. “That sounds like your failing, not mine.”
A rough, low sound vibrated in his chest. He moved closer—only half a pace, but it was enough to soften her. Her back was nearly pinned to the silver bark of the beech. Her lashes flickered, and her fingers curled into the silk of her skirt, her knuckles white.
“Careful, Duchess,” he said, leaning in until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth.
Her chin lifted, her breathing coming in shallow, uneven draws. “Or what?”
“Or,” he rumbled, his lips brushing hers with every syllable, “I’ll press you into this bark and find out if you taste as sweet as you look when you’re being wicked.”
Then Biscuit barked, and both of them turned.
Aaron stood several yards away with the puppy in his arms, eyes wide and uncertain. “Biscuit r-r,” he started, then quickly added, “Bark. Ran back.”
The last words came clear.
