Page 31 of Anice’s Bargain

“Don’t,” she whispered.

His brow furrowed. “Ye’re to be my wife. Ye deserve my respect, especially with ye being of such fine birth. I shouldna have kissed ye.” He winced. “Nor should I have touched ye as I did, especially no’ out in the open.”

“You caused no offense.” She put her hand on his and the heat of his naked skin burned against her palm. “You are to be my husband. The banns have already been called twice.”

His gaze sifted over her in a slow, careful way, as though he were taking all of her in. She was grateful to have worn the dark blue kirtle, the one which dipped lower on her chest, revealing her smooth collarbones and the swell of the tops of her breasts. He licked his lips and she leaned toward him, anticipating a kiss.

It did not come, though he continued to stare down at her.

“I enjoyed your kisses,” Anice confessed. “And your touches. I could not get them from of my mind, not at all last night, nor even still today.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Who was the Lord Clarion?”

Anice flinched away. Timothy. She didn’t want to talk about him. Not when she’d longed for another taste of desire, a tease of pleasure.

She pulled her hand away and settled back in her seat where she’d started, before she’d thought James might kiss her. Such a ridiculous notion now when it had been so plausible an expectation a moment ago. “He was my betrothed.”

James’s eyes tightened thoughtfully. “A man worthy of marrying the daughter of an earl, no doubt.”

“His father was an earl, and he would become one as well,” Anice answered.

“I take it he was chivalrous, aye?”

To a fault.Anice nodded in silence rather than voice the thought.

“Did ye love him?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

Despite it being such a simply stated question, it widened the chasm of hurt in her chest. He might as well have asked her for details on the night her mother had died in childbirth after nine months of emotional torment.

Even now, after years had passed, Anice could still not speak the truth. As though doing so might do some great disservice to the memory of Timothy, who had died so bravely in battle. A man not deserving of the cards life had dealt him: unrequited love and an early grave.

Instead she leaned in close to James once more and gazed up at him in the way she knew men found becoming. “I told you a secret the day we became betrothed, but you have not told me one. I’d like you to do so now.”

He smirked. “I dinna have secrets.”

“I find myself unconvinced.” She leaned closer, further still. “Tell me what you want more than anything in this world.”

At first, she did not think he would answer, but then he drew in a slow breath and regarded her earnestly. “I must confess, I lied to ye.”