Page 43 of Against the Wind

“He’s a beautiful boy,” said Kit, happy to bring a smile to the woman’s face, though she wanted to leave and get Martin to a place where she could properly tend the gash in his arm.

“’Twas a splendid quick move, sir,” John remarked.

Kit couldn’t help smiling at the pair, so quickly heroes in the eyes of the villagers. Heroes in her eyes as well. She wasn’t surprised Martin had rushed into danger to save a child; somehow she knew he would always be the first into the path of harm to rescue someone in need. He had rescued her more than once. But the knowledge both comforted and frightened her. While proud of his bravery, she suspected this would not be the last time he put himself at risk. That he might be put in danger—that she could lose him—was not something she wanted to think upon.

Accepting the congratulations of the villagers and ordering John to take the horses back to the stable, Martin turned his attention to Kit, a frown on his face. “It was less serious than I’d thought, Kit, but I see you did not see fit to stay where I left you.”

“I could not allow you to go into danger alone, not without knowing what was happening. I just could not, Martin.”

Holding her gaze for a moment, he finally shook his head as one might at the antics of an errant child, and taking her hand he led her back to the inn. “It was for your own good.”

“Yes, but—”

“I meant my words, Kit. I don’t deal lightly where your safety is concerned. You are precious to me.”

She was precious to him? Her anger disappeared as joy leapt in her heart. With a pleased smile on her face she said, “I must tend your wound.”

He shook her off. “You need not bother with my arm, Kit. It’s only a small nick. Why don’t you have a bath before dinner and, as soon as I speak with John, I’ll meet you in our rooms?”

Martin hoped to be alone with his rebellious bride before dinner, and it was with that thought in mind, after he’d seen to the cut on his forearm, that he asked the proprietress of the inn to scour the cellar for some red wine. A young man returned dust-covered but victorious, and Martin was delighted. It might not be the finest Bordeaux, but it would suffice.

Carrying two glasses and the decanter of the rich red liquid upstairs, Martin was not disappointed when he opened the door and his eyes reached past the sitting room to their bedchamber. Kit was rising from her bath like Aphrodite rising from the sea, her auburn hair piled atop her head with a few tendrils loose around her neck. Water dripped enticingly from her alabaster skin.

He set down the wine and glasses and strode to her, reaching for the drying cloth. “Can I help?” he asked, his eyes feasting on her lush curves.

She gasped and turned, grabbing the linen from him, wrapping it around her and depriving him of the view. “You frightened me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He couldn’t resist the pull of her. While she turned her back to him to wrap the cloth more tightly around her, he pulled the pins from her hair and ran his lips across her damp shoulder. The now familiar scent of roses intoxicated him, and kissing the base of her neck he pulled her against his chest.

“How is your arm?” she asked.

“I’ve cleaned it; it’s fine.”

She looked at his forearm now in front of her and peeled back his coat. The shirt had been cut away. She placed a kiss on his hand. “I was worried.”

“Ah…Kitten.” Her lips were warm on his skin. “You worry about my meager cut, while I have thought of little else all afternoon but this beautiful body of yours. Surely we know each other well enough now. The young man who works here managed to find some wine, and we’ve time to enjoy both it and each other before dinner.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. “I want you.”

As Martin’s hands caressed her breasts, Kit realized she very much wanted him, too. He had played the overprotective but sensitive husband, become a hero to a village child. How could she deny him what she wanted herself? Doing so would be cruel to the both of them.

She turned in his arms, her heart beating a fierce tattoo. The smells of horse and man were strangely titillating, and the thin cloth did nothing to prevent her every nerve from coming alive. Drawn into his heat, she felt her nipples harden into tight buds. She had only to cast aside the towel and give him his way.

She gazed into his eyes so dark with desire. “I think it’s time.”

“Time?” he said, wrinkling his brow.

“I want to be with you again. To make love with you.” To become his wife in truth.

A slow smile spread across his face, and he came alive at her words. “Kitten, are you sure? I’ll not ask twice.”

“Yes, quite sure.” And she was. They had said the vows that bound them, but that had been a marriage of necessity. This was now a marriage of love, for she had fallen for this man to whom she had given herself that night at Willow House. Mary predicted it, and her fear for his safety as he confronted the bull convinced Kit. She would no longer deny him.

“I must be the happiest man in England tonight.”

He gathered her up in his arms, and she embraced him eagerly as he kissed her, a deep penetrating kiss that foretold all that would follow. Then he pulled the towel from her body and cupped her breasts with his palms. He bent to kiss the base of her neck while he slid his warm hands to her buttocks.

“You smell of roses. So warm, so lush. So beautiful. You’ve driven me half mad waiting for you, Kitten.”

She nearly purred when he ran his lips over the sensitive skin of her ear then kissed her neck. His hands, still on her bottom, drew her tightly against him. She shivered and felt her whole body respond as he carried her to the bed and laid her down.