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A small black and white striped face peered from the burrow with another jostling for position behind it. The badgers froze, staring for a moment, and then abruptly disappeared.
“Oh, that was nice.” Helen’s voice came from behind them. Alistair turned to find her smiling at him. “Better anyway than the scat, I think. What shall we search for now?”
And she looked at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world to spend an afternoon with him. To share her children with him.
He shuddered and abruptly turned in the direction of Castle Greaves. “Nothing. I have work to do.”
He strode away, not waiting for Helen or the children, aware that his movement looked like he was fleeing from them, when what he fled from was far more dangerous: hope for the future.
AFTER THE WAY Alistair had so rudely cut short their afternoon ramble, Helen had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t go to him again. Yet as the hour struck midnight, she found herself stealing through the dim castle halls toward his room. She knew she was playing with a particularly hot fire, knew she was risking both herself and her children, and yet she couldn’t seem to stay away from him. Maybe, some rash, perpetually hopeful part of her whispered, maybe he’ll open himself to you. Maybe he’ll grow to love you. Maybe he’ll want you for his wife.
Silly, childish whispers. She’d spent half her life with a man who’d never truly cared for her, and there was a practical, hard part of her that knew when this thing with Alistair ended, she would have to leave with her children.
But it wouldn’t be tonight.
Helen hesitated outside his door, but somehow he must’ve heard her, though she hadn’t knocked. He opened the door, grabbed her arm, and drew her inside.
“Good evening,” she began, but he swallowed the last word with his mouth. His lips were hot and so demanding they were nearly desperate. She forgot everything around her.
Then he raised his head and pulled her toward the bed. “I have something to show you.”
She blinked. “What is it?”
“Sit.” He didn’t wait for her to comply but turned to rummage in the drawer of his bedside table. “Ah. Here it is.”
He held up a small lemon, no bigger than the tip of his thumb.
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“I had Mrs. McCleod purchase it last time she bought groceries. I thought…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I thought you might wish to use a preventative.”
“A preventative for… oh.” She felt heat invade her cheeks. Actually, since she was newly over her courses, she’d figured that she wasn’t fertile at the present moment. But since this was now her third assignation with Alistair, she supposed she would’ve shortly have had to worry about preventing a pregnancy. It was oddly touching that he’d thought—and acted—on the worry first.
“I’ve never… um, that is…” She belatedly remembered that she was supposed to be a respectable widow. Presumably she’d never have heard of preventatives, if so. In fact, the duke sometimes had used specially made sheaths, although not usually.
Alistair’s cheekbones had tinged a dark red as well. “I can show you. Just lean back.”
She realized what he meant to do and wanted to object. It was one thing to let him see her when they were intimate, but while he was still dressed and standing, it was… unseemly.
“Helen,” he said quietly.
“Oh, all right.” She lowered herself to the bed and stared at the ceiling. She lay horizontally across the bed, her legs hanging over the side.
She felt him push up the skirts of her wrap and chemise, the slide of silk against her flesh a soft whisper in the quiet room. He bunched the fabric at her waist, and then his hands left her. She heard him rummage in the side table again and then she smelled the sharp scent of citrus. She craned her head up and saw him holding the halved lemon. His eyes met hers, and then he knelt on the carpet beside the bed. She drew in her breath. His warm hand touched her legs again, and she realized he was urging her thighs apart. She swallowed and parted her legs.
“More,” he rasped.
She closed her eyes. Oh, God, he was so close to her intimate parts. He’d be able to see everything. He’d be able to scent her. She bit her lip and parted her legs still farther.
“Again,” he whispered.
And she did, widening her legs until her thighs trembled. Until the flanges of her sex parted as well, exposing her utterly to his gaze. She felt his hand slowly stroke up her thigh.
“When I was fifteen,” he said conversationally, “I found a book of anatomy that belonged to my father. It was most instructive, especially in regards to the female form.”
She swallowed. His fingers were combing delicately through her hair.
“This”—he spread his broad palm over her mound—“is called the mons veneris. The Mound of Venus.”
