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He just did not know how.

But this . . .

As she became accustomed to him, Conrad pressed for more. Deeper he fell, or they fell together, until he didn’t know where he ended and Cait began.

Kissing her was not what he’d expected.

It was so much more. The sound she made, deep in her throat, only encouraged him.

She’d learned quickly, and Conrad took advantage of it. Her lips, so much sweeter than he had imagined. Deeper and deeper, until . . .

“My lord?”

Conrad broke away with the same force he had used to pull her to him.

Their eyes met briefly before he opened the flap of the tent.

“Pardon, my lord,” his captain said, not daring to look past him. “One of the men wounded his leg this morn.”

“How? We’ve done nothing but ride all day.” His tone was harsher than normal, but he was desperate to speak to Cait.

“He . . . it appears he scratched it on a branch while . . . while relieving himself, my lord.”

“A scratch? You come to me because a man’s leg is scratched?”

“’Tis festering, Lord Licheford. He can hardly stand.”

A foolish complaint, this early on in their campaign, but he could hardly ignore it. “Attend to him until I come.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Letting the flap drop, Conrad took in the sight before him. Those damned breeches were much too fitted against her legs. And though her hair was pulled back, her surcoat covering all but her calves, he’d never seen a more enticing picture.

“There is a bedroll there.” He nodded to the darkened corner of the small tent. Had he known she would be staying here . . . “It appears we have a wounded man. You can return to Licheford with him in the morning.”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, but he would not relent. Cait would not be coming with him to London. He would not risk her.

“I will return if I’m able,” he said.

“Conrad, wait.”

He was almost through the opening when she said it. Despite himself, Conrad complied.

“Please come back.”

A retort nearly flew out of his mouth. He’d asked the same of her, many, many times. Begged her to write to him. Begged her to explain why she’d disappeared. But bitter rebukes would serve no purpose now.

“I am so sorry.”

Conrad ignored her beseeching tone, which was nearly enough for him to ignore his duties and stay with her. He would not do this right now.

Leaving, Conrad stalked to the other end of camp, where a crowd gathered around the fool who’d been bested by a branch.

Scattering, the men left him alone with the wounded fool, no doubt sensing his dark mood. There was no physician here. But he didn’t need one to see the wound had already festered, dangerously so. After inspecting it, he found Ansel and made arrangements for the man to be sent back to Licheford. Two others would return with him to guard Cait.

Later, much later, he sat by the fire watching as each of the men settled down for the night. Only two remained awake, on guard. They would tend to the fire, watch the camp. The area was relatively safe. Though they’d traveled far south of Licheford, their camp was on the property of a dear friend of his father’s. An old man who had no children, despite having tried with three separate wives.

Children.