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“Aye. And likely Bothwell among them.”
“You should have told me.”
“Aye, I should have.”
They stared at each other, Kathryn still angry but also . . . something else. Her face flushed, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She had to open and close her hands to keep them from shaking.
The reason for her strong reaction to his revelation was simple. She felt the same way he did. The idea that she would never know his lips on hers again . . .
She’d wanted him to know Sara’s scheme was not hers. For him to understand she’d never presume to believe the disgraced daughter of a murdered man could ever wed the brother of an earl.
“You told me once to stop looking at you the very same way you are looking at me now,” he said.
What in the name of Saint Christopher was she doing?
“I cannot stop looking at you that way. Because despite what you’ve told me, despite my very real anger toward you at this moment, the thought of you leaving this chamber, of never kissing you again . . .”
He reached her in two strides.
* * *
That one look, the desire he had no right to see in her expression after what he’d told her, had done him in.
His mouth crashed onto hers. When she responded with the hesitant touch of her tongue, Neill relinquished every rational thought for the flood of heat that shot between them.
His mouth slanted over hers, giving and taking alternatively. When his hand crept along the nape of her neck, gently closing on the soft, welcoming tresses that tickled his fingertips, Neill had no other choice but to pull her closer.
Kathryn’s moans mingled with his, and he knew this time there would be nothing to interrupt them. No horse neighing nearby, drawing attention to them. No young chaperone.
It was up to him to stop this madness, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That moment of jealousy earlier, when he’d imagined her with another man, had gotten to him. His gut told him he could no sooner let that happen than he could refuse his king.
Shoving the thought aside, he decided something then. He might not be able to offer himself to her the way he wished he could, but he could at least make her feel good.
“Kathryn,” he whispered in her ear, pulling away for long enough to explain. “Let me show you how sorry I am for hurting you.”
She turned her head, her lips so achingly close to his own.
“Show me?”
“Let me pleasure you.” Before she could ask what he meant, he rushed to say, “You will remain a virgin.”
She blinked, the innocent gaze of a woman who’d never received such pleasure. And suddenly, he needed to be the one to show it to her first. Even if he would not be the last.
Nay. Never another.
At war with himself, one thought prevailed. He kissed the spot just below her ear and then tailed a line of kisses down her neck.
“Allow me this.” He kissed her again. “An apology, of sorts.”
He kept kissing. Waiting.
Lower and lower still.
As he pressed his lips to the top of her chest, Neill loosened the ties at each side of her gown. Still, she said nothing. When he turned his attention to the other side of her kirtle, she remained silent.
He stepped back then, lifted the offending garment over her head in one swift movement, and waited.
“I am still angry.” The comment was teasing, yet he saw the truth of it in her eyes.
