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“You did not offend me.”

He was glad for it. “If there is no such thing as nobility, inheritance—”

“Some women, and men, are virgins when they marry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression of my time. It’s just that many are not.”

“That was not my question.”

“I am not.”

The jolt of lust hit him, strangled him, refused to let go. This meant nothing. Certainly it did not mean—

Hannah wanted to ask him something. Her face was always so expressive. If she could hide her emotions, she certainly did not try.

“I know you are not shy, Hannah. Ask.”

He was not usually so impertinent. Not with strange women, at least.

“Did the women in the stewhouse . . . that is . . .”

She stopped.

“They taught me everything I know,” Tristan said sincerely. “And not only in the arts of love. When I was old enough, big enough, to protect them, my mother no longer needed to spend coin on a guard. By then I’d been training under Kenton, growing stronger every day.” He smiled. “Some of the women noticed.”

He hadn’t talked about the past for years. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but it did not serve him well to remind others of who he’d been.

“I see.”

She didn’t. Not really. He’d love nothing more than to show her, and the look on her face told him she’d love it too. Normally, he would welcome such a look in a woman he desired. But not tonight. Not with her. She was neither common nor a widow, and she was leaving on the morrow.

He moved to stand—to retreat from the fire, from her—but she stood at the same time. She took one step toward him, two. Three.

He could have reached for her she stood so close. Kissed her despite the risk. But he wouldn’t.

“So this is also something very different about our times,” she said, her voice slightly louder than a whisper.

“What is that?” he asked, despite himself.

Hannah smiled. A slow, sensual, beautiful smile.

“In my time, by now, you would have kissed me.”