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Epilogue

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Hannah still marveled over the fact that she’d married a medieval knight, an actual lord who literally carried a sword commanded many under him. Less than a fortnight had passed since their hasty wedding, an event that would have made her former self weep for its simplicity. But Hannah was a changed woman. Tristan had just tossed her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, something that would have shocked her if she were back home. Now she simply asked a very reasonable question.

“Your favorite epithet,” he teased. Tristan ignored her question and continued to carry her up the stairway that led from the kitchen to the courtyard above.

“Cook has had you locked inside there for long enough,” he complained.

Hannah tried to raise her head to deny the claim, but she forgot all about her next retort when his hand slipped from her waist to the bare skin just above her leather boot. It moved higher and higher with each step they climbed until it splayed across her thigh, much too high for him to pull it away with any modicum of decorum were they to be discovered.

It was nearly sundown, and while most of the residents of Saxford had already begun to filter into the hall for the evening meal, she’d chosen to skip the ridiculous custom of changing for supper to help Cook with his final preparations for Lord Kenton’s visit. Tristan’s mentor would be arriving any day to discuss both the peace treaty with Sutherland and, presumably, to congratulate them on their nuptials. Kenton unnerved Cook, which she could understand, and he’d gone into overdrive to ensure all was ready for the overlord’s arrival.

“I was just helping him prepare for Kenton,” she argued. “Certainly no reason to . . . oh!”

His hand slid even higher, and she could no longer ignore the fluttering inside her stomach. In such an awkward position, Hannah should be concentrating on getting down and preserving her decency, not on anticipating what her husband would do next.

When he lowered her to the ground nearly as abruptly as he’d picked her up, Hannah did protest. Or attempted to protest, at least. Just when she opened her mouth to say something, Tristan took full advantage and slammed his mouth against hers. He kissed her with such force it pushed them both back against the stone wall of the kitchen from which they’d just emerged. Luckily, he’d moved them to the side of the building first, away from prying eyes.

But still . . .

Vague thoughts of teasingly berating him drifted away as a deep longing bubbled up from her core and coursed through every inch of her body. He affected her this way every. Damn. Time. When Tristan planted his hands on the wall behind her, bracketing her head, she pulled him toward her. She only stopped when the evidence of his need was pressed against her.

“My lord . . .”

Groaning, Hannah hid behind Tristan as he pulled his lips from hers. She didn’t dare laugh at his expression. Poor Gerard.

“The king,” Tristan ground out, his annoyance evident, “and his men better be waiting at the gates.” He did not turn to look at the steward. Instead, he watched her, his eyes hooded and his lips still wet from their kiss.

Damn, he was hot.

“We do not know who the riders are, my lord. But a small party is approaching from the north.”

Still, he did not turn. His gaze held her in its thrall.

Hannah knew she shouldn’t taunt her husband. If she did, she was likely to pay for it later that evening.

That very thought was what made her do it.

Hannah opened her mouth ever so slightly, letting the tip of her tongue rest against her top lip. Then, moving as slowly as she could manage with him looking at her like that, she brought her lower lip into the fold, biting it.

When his low, tortured groan elicited a laugh from her, Gerard cleared his throat.

Tristan finally did turn toward his steward. “Meet them at the gate,” he said, the authority in his voice making her even more eager for him. “We will be on the walk.”

The wall-walk, he meant, where he could see the riders approach from a safe distance. If he were alone, Tristan would have joined Gerard, but he took more precautions with her safety. And judging from some of the conversations between he and his marshal, such measures were warranted.

Grabbing her hand and winding his fingers through hers, Tristan led her through the courtyard as Gerard hurried away in the opposite direction, toward the gatehouse.

“Do you think Kenton is here early?”

“His colors would have been recognized.”

Of course. She still had so much to learn about her new home, her new time.

“So why exactly did you drag me from the kitchen like that?”

She stood a step above him, which meant they were nearly equal in height.