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He cut her off with a rough kiss on her lips. “Is this what you want?” he whispered between kisses. One arm propped against the door, the other snaked around her waist, tightening the fabric of her gown, bunching it in his fist. “Is this the kind of respect you are looking for, mo tíogar?”

Emily knew he was trying to intimidate her again. To push her away.

Why was he trying so hard to keep her at a distance?

Her mind refused to dissect the possible reasons; it refused to work altogether. Because despite his attempts to frighten her, Emily was drawn to him instead.

What madness was this?

The heat of his body beckoned her to him, the pressure of his lips invited her to pull him closer, to learn his taste.

Emily arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest, savoring the feel of his hard body against hers. Her hands glided up his arms, one hand curled around the nape of his neck, her fingers delving into his thick locks, drawing him closer.

Tyrone growled, taking a step closer, pinning her against the door as he hoisted her higher, until her feet dangled in the air, his pelvis rubbing against her center.

Emily gasped, and he took advantage, slipping his tongue inside and sweeping it proprietarily over her mouth.

Emily held him tighter, one of her legs hiking up to hook her knee over his thigh, trying to hold on to this man like he was a lifeline. Sensations were firing inside her one after another, not knowing which touch or which sound aroused the heat within her. She touched her tongue to his, craving to know his taste, and he groaned into her mouth.

That animalistic sound told her that he was as lost in passion as she was.

He thrust his pelvis, and she could feel his cock, hot and hard pressing against her center even through the skirts of her gown and his breeches.

Suddenly she wished there was no fabric separating their bodies. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, feel his hardness against her soft curves. Feel him… inside her.

He tore his mouth away and pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing labored. “Is this what you deserve? Is this how you deserve to be treated?” he whispered, then disengaged her hands from his neck and took a step back. “Like a trollop.”

Emily’s feet hit the floor, roughly and unceremoniously dropping her back into the unpleasant reality. The heat of her husband’s body left her, and she was alone again, cold, and confused.

“And if you think I shall bed you for the sake of having heirs, then think again,” he growled as he turned away. “I refuse to have a hand at continuing the Tyrone line. I’ll die first. Now get out.”

Standing with his back to her, against the light of the raging fire, his hair mussed, his body tensed, now, he truly looked like a beast.

With a shaking hand, Emily found the door handle, turned it, and fled into the sanctuary of her own room, pressing her back against the wall.

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, and her stomach churned. She pressed her hand against her belly, as it was rising and falling with her shallow breaths.

Is this how you deserve to be treated?

And for the first time in a long time, Emily believed that perhaps she did.

Like a trollop.

Because she had indeed acted like one. No, not today. Earlier. Way earlier, before she had even met Tyrone.

She pushed off the wall, slowly glided to her dressing room, and walked inside.

She picked up the little metal container from the corner where she’d hidden it a few days ago.

I refuse to have a hand in continuing the Tyrone line. I’ll die first.

There was a chance he would not have a choice in the matter. Because if her fears proved to be true—

She opened the lid of the container and stared at the little green shoots.

The barley seeds had sprouted.

Which meant only one thing. Her fears were indeed justified.