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He scavenged a few of the driest logs from the heap, carried them to the chopping block, and gripped the ax handle to pry it free. He braced his feet in the mud and gave it his best one-handed pull. Instead of the blade coming free of the block, the handle broke off in his hand. Sebastian stumbled backward and fell on his arse.
Brilliant. Now he was soaked with rainandcoated with mud. He carried his armful of unsplit wood back into the cottage and stood in the entry, shaking himself like a dog and sending muddy droplets in all directions. He pried off his boots before crouching at the hearth to make a fire.
With a bit of work, he’d built a respectable blaze. Toasty warmth spread through the kitchen. If they left the door to the bedchamber open, the heat ought to be sufficient to warm that room, too.
“The bed is ready,” she said from behind him.
He added a log to the fire, then rose and turned.
Christ.
Mary stood before him wearing a sheer, lacy, snow-white negligee.
He couldn’t speak. The cat had got not only his tongue, but every other part of his body that wasn’t his eyes, heart, blood, or stiffening cock.
Eleven years, four thousand days. And on how many of those four thousand nights had he imagined her naked? More than he’d ever admit. And here she was, standing before him, wearing the silk equivalent of a branch and a fig leaf.
More beautiful than in his wildest imaginings.
She’d unpinned and brushed out her hair, and the glossy auburn locks tumbled about her shoulders in waves. The wine had stained her lips claret red.
And her nipples were a blushing, rosy pink. He’d always dreamed they’d be pink. He’d also always dreamed they would taste like custard tarts, which now struck him as oddly specific.
“What,” he finally scraped out, “isthat?”
“It’s…a nightgown.”
“It’s a cobweb. There are more holes than thread. You’re shivering already.”Not to mention, your rosy nipples are hard as darts.“Don’t you have something more drab and sensible?”
She wrapped her arms about herself. “They’re all like this.”
Of course they were all like that. She’d packed for a honeymoon. A honeymoon with someone else.
He was a monster. She had to be cold, exhausted, and awash with conflicted emotions. Even if her heart wasn’t broken, it must have been bruised. From the looks of that negligee, she might have even been looking forward to her wedding night with Perry. Instead, she was here in an infested, rotting hellhole. With him.
And he was berating her about her choice of sleeping apparel.
Well done, Sebastian. Well done, indeed.
She crossed the room to him. “Come, then. Off with your clothes.” She yanked the hem of his shirt from his trousers.
“Mary.”He took a step in retreat. “I’m not… We’re not… Not tonight.”
She tipped her head to the side and regarded him. “You are soaked to the skin and spattered with mud. I’m not being a brazen hussy, I’m protecting my embroidery. I worked hard on those bed linens, you know. So take off your things and leave them to dry by the fire.”
He shook his head. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t be absurd. I won’t let you sleep on the floor.”
“It’s nothing. I slept in much rougher conditions while on campaign.”
“This isn’t the army, Sebastian. There’s a perfectly good bed.”
“Exactly. Bed, singular. Not beds.”
“Weareman and wife,” she teased. “The priest said so.”
Wife.
