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She shook her head. “Where did you get the idea to do that?”

“I wanted to honor your family,” he said, “and it seemed one way to do so. Acknowledging the important role they play here at Camburg.”

Her eyes began to tear.

“Nay, Reggie. There will be no tears this eve. As I said, I’ve plans for us. Ones long overdue.” Taking her hand, Tristan moved to the nearby door and, opening it, stepped into his bedchamber. It was also decorated with garland and candles, like the hall. But inside, holly adorned nearly every surface. Mistletoe hung from every doorframe, including the one they stood under.

And so he kissed her. Then, just to be sure, he said, “With the Christmas festivities already underway, my mother and sister insist they need time to help you plan a proper wedding. They proposed May. I agreed to no later than February.”

He could see she finally understood what he intended.

“But my parents are belowstairs.”

“None will suspect we would be so bold. How often have we gone missing in the past?”

“But never to your bedchamber to . . .”

He smiled and leaned down to whisper into her ear. “Make love, Reggie.”

He kissed her ear, and then the sensitive skin under it. Moving downward, Tristan kissed her neck next. And then lower, and lower still, using his tongue to coax her to his position.

Wait until the first of February, a date his mother proposed for their wedding.

Hell, no.

Tristan kissed lower still, his head dipping into the décolleté he’d been so tempted to touch all evening. Reggie leaned her head back, giving him access as he ascended once again, leaving a trail of kisses up her neck, until he finally found her lips once again.

Slanting his head for greater access, Tristan did not go gently then. His tongue found hers and slashed his intentions over and over again until she groaned, his cue. Unbuttoning each and every damn button on the back of her gown, he pulled away, spinning Reggie around and doing precisely what he’d wanted to do for many, many years.

He began to undress her, every bit of skin revealed making him grow harder than he could have thought possible, and then Tristan took off his own tunic, and removed his boots just as Reggie lifted the final garment above her head. Tossing the shift aside, she stood before him, nude.

It was not the first time he’d seen her so. As Tristan finished disrobing, he admitted, “That time I convinced you that I bathed often at the stream and was convinced it had healing properties”—he reached for her—“I lied.”

When their bodies met, Tristan could not decide where to touch her first. His hands roamed everywhere, down Reggie’s back and across her hips. He kissed another trail to one breast, taking it in his mouth. Suckling, teasing, he caressed her with both his tongue and his fingers, which moved forward from her thigh, finding their mark.

At first she closed her legs, the feeling of his hand between her legs an exceedingly odd one to an innocent, he was sure. Tristan broke away, reluctantly, and stood up, catching her eyes. “Trust me, Reggie.”

She did. So utterly and completely, Tristan nearly buckled under the weight of the gift of trust she gave him. In response, he did slip one finger, and then a second, inside, finding her as wet as he expected.

And then he began to move them. Reggie’s eyes widened.

“I knew I could convince you that day,” he said, speaking once again of the river.

“I snuck down there,” she replied, “and removed every bit of clothing, even knowing your claim seemed impossible.”

He continued to caress her with his fingers. “Healing properties,” he chuckled, making it up to her by using his thumb now too. Her breathing came more quickly as Tristan continued the story. “I hid behind the bushes and watched, to be sure you were safe.”

“Oh,” she said, now moving her hips in rhythm with his own. “Safe, aye?”

“Aye.” It was just a few years prior that he’d done that. A prank, or so he’d told himself. It seemed such a silly thing to do now. But Reggie had stolen his clothes a fortnight earlier when he actually did swim in the river one day. It had seemed a proper response. Which reminded him . . .

“Do you know of those bushes where I hid, sweet Reggie?”

His suspicions that she had been waiting for him among the thicket, watching him while he bathed in the river, was what had given him the idea to turn the tables on her.

Faster and faster he moved now, remembering that day clearly.

“Reggie?” he prompted.