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He kissed her, a swift, possessive kiss, showing her he recalled all the things she’d taught him about what she liked, then he released her, setting her down on wobbly feet, her face flaming. “Good morning.”
“And good morning to you, sir,” she said breathlessly, straightening the veil he’d pushed askew.
He snatched a skin of water off the ground and drank deeply before he poured a good portion over his sweaty face and neck, and wiped it off with his tunic.
“Did you like my gift?” he asked, without looking at her.
So, he was unsure of himself. Or perhaps of her.
She was very, very sure. “You mean the betrothal papers?”
“Aye.” He slammed the cork back into the skin opening.
“The one torn into pieces?”
He dropped the skin on the ground. “Aye.”
“Oh yes, Aodh,” she assured him softly. “Very, very much.”
His gaze swept to hers, then he kissed her again. She took the kiss until, her eyes opened dazedly and she saw the crowded bailey had ground to an almost complete halt. People stopped and stared as Katarina, who’d been trapped in a tower, stood with their new lord, getting properly kissed.
She pushed him away and tried to catch her breath. “But why?” she asked, ducking her head, keeping her voice low. “Why did you tear it up?”
He shrugged. “I was wrong. I’ll have you willing or not at all. Nothing else will do.”
This was the sort of thing that could make a woman not care who was watching. She pushed up on her toes and touched her lips to his. “That, sir, is almost enough to make a lady consider being reckless.”
His hands closed around her before she could step away. “This pleases you? This tearing up of things?”
She nodded. “Greatly.”
“Then I shall begin tearing up things immediately. Papers, trenchers of bread.” His hands interlaced at the small of her back, not letting her retreat. Which was quite his way. “I’ll rip the tapestries to shreds.”
Katarina laughed and rested her head on his chest for a moment, not caring who was watching or what they thought. Her skin was awash in chills comprised of laughter and passion and…yes, happiness. When had she last been happy?
She could not count the years. Life was not made for such things. Happiness was nonessential, but oh, how it pleased.
Again—and again, and again—how Aodh pleased.
“And I believe, sir,” she said, looking up at him, “that as you going to tear things up on my behalf, I will…stand down my men on yours.”
“Ah,” he said slowly, then bent his head and kissed her again.
They walked to the keep together after they’d released the garrison. He slung his arm over her shoulder and they strode through the bailey. She walked close at his side, discussing what she wanted to speak to Cook about for the evening meal.
He barely listened. It was enough she was here, chattering happily, her slim body curving up to his. The hum was back, the emptiness filled.
Miniature reunions erupted all across the bailey as her household drew close to speak to Katarina, to hug her, to ask questions or advice on various small matters. Clearly they did not need her opinion on whether to boil the chicken or purchase additional lye for the laundry, they just wanted to be near her, to touch her hand, to bring her sprigs of spring wildflowers—Dickon shoved them into her hands and rushed off before she could catch him—so it was almost an hour before they were back inside the keep.
He took her directly to their chambers. He had no specific plans, but a great many general ones.
They spent the rest of the day there
. They left only for the evening meal, when the household finally pounded on the door for Aodh. And for Katarina.
*
“WEAR THIS.”
