Violet’s breath caught as a sound from below rose through the floorboards. A man laughed in the tavern, and a chair creaked. Connor’s eyes did not leave her face.
“Now I am asking ye nae to leave,” she said.
“That isnae the same thing.”
“I ken.”
He searched her face with intense focus that made lies difficult. She had told too many already. About the market. About the herbs. About fear. This, at least, she could make as clear as possible.
“Are ye certain?” he asked.
“Aye.”
His fingers flexed once at her waist. “Ye ken very well that ye can say it without trying to be brave.”
That nearly undid her.
“I am certain,” she insisted.
Connor closed his eyes for one brief moment. When he opened them, the hunger had not softened, though his hands stayed careful as he guided her toward the bed.
The bed was plain and narrow, the blanket rough beneath her palm when she reached back to steady herself. The room smelled of cold bathwater, angelica root, damp linen, smoke, and Connor’s skin.
Nothing here held the polished danger of his study. No ledgers. No sealed letters. No heavy desk that anchored her to the present and told her exactly where she was and why she couldn’t do anything otherwise.
Here, there was only a locked door, a low fire, a cup of bitter tea, and the husband she had asked to remain.
Connor knelt before her, still dressed, as if undressing himself fully would break some line he had drawn without telling her. He touched her ankle, then paused.
“Tell me if the dizziness returns,” he said.
A breathless laugh escaped her. “That is what ye want to discuss now?”
“Aye.”
“Ye are impossible.”
“Alive and conscious, wife. Ye will find that I am very fond of both.”
The words should have made her roll her eyes. Instead, she reached down and touched his face. No anger forced the contact. No stumbling excuse. Her fingertips moved along his jaw, her chest tightening when his expression softened.
Connor turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm.
Violet forgot the tavern below. She forgot the cold water in the tub and the herb bundle on the table until he kissed her again and the bitter taste of angelica met the heat of his skin.
Fear and want crossed on her tongue as she gripped the blanket in one hand and his shoulder in the other.
He moved slowly enough that every pause became a question. His hand stopped at her knee. Then higher. Then at the linen, where he waited until she loosened her fingers.
“Violet,” he rasped.
“I ken.”
“Tell me.”
She swallowed. “I want this.”
His head bowed for half a second, then he kissed the inside of her wrist. That small, restrained touch shook her harder than his command would have.
