"I am not decently clad, though," she said, "and what will you wear?"
"The doublet, breeks, and jacket will suffice. You can wear my netherstocks to keep your legs warm, and the cloak. No one will see that I am barelegged under my boots and breeks. Tip sent enough clothing for a midwinter's night."
"I told him you would be cold," she said as she sat on a boulder to draw the knitted hose over her legs. When she had tied them, he draped his cloak over her shoulders. Though knee-length on him, it hung respectably to her ankles. "I've got no shoes," she said. "If you'd just be so kind as to fetch my boots and dagger-"
"You won't need them," he said, fastening his breeks.
"I can't walk back in your netherstocks. They don't provide enough protection for my feet. Moreover, I'll snag them on things."
"You'd better not. That pair cost me five shillings!"
"Well, but-" The protest ended in a shriek when he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. "Quinton! Put me down!"
"I cannot have you snagging my hose, sweetheart. Be quiet now. You're making my ears ring."
"I won't be quiet! Put me down, sir!"
In response, he smacked her backside.
Gasping, she fell silent at once.
"That's better," he said amiably. "You'd have had the garrison out with that screeching of yours. Now, see if you can behave yourself until we get back inside. I want to get warm again."
Comforting herself with the knowledge that her predicament could be much worse, Janet held her tongue, but she vowed that one way or another she would get even with him.
She shut her eyes when they entered the bailey through the postern gate, ignoring the shouts and laughter that greeted them. Quinton carried her inside and up the twisting stairs. When they reached the master's hall landing, she opened her eyes when a servant said, "Master, Cook says ye can ha' your supper straightaway."
"Tell Cook to keep it warm," Quinton said without pausing. "I've business with my lass before I eat."
Janet shut her eyes again tightly, fearing that if she did not she would see the lad's look of astonishment or-worse-his amusement at seeing his mistress carried in buttocks foremost like a prize of war.
Up more stairs they went until they reached Quinton's bedchamber. Opening the door, he stepped inside, still holding her. "Go away, Tip," he said.
Wishing she were the wildcat he had more than once called her, so that she could growl and scratch, Janet scarcely breathed as she felt Tip pass them.
"Welcome home, master," he said politely. "Good evening, mistress."
The sound that issued from Janet's throat in reply sounded more like a growl than any human comment.
Quinton set her down. "I believe those are my clothes, sweetheart," he said. "Let's see now. Shall I watch you take them off, or shall I do it for you?"
Chapter 25
"Come, hold me fast, and fear me not,
The man that you love best."
JANET'S KNEES FELT WEAK, and she watched Quinton warily. "I do not know which you would prefer," she said, striving to sound calm and scarcely able to hear herself over the thunder of her heartbeat.
His eyebrows shot up. "So my preferences are important to you, are they?"
"Quinton, I-"
"Answer me, lass. Tell me how important my will is to you."
She could not follow his moods. Just before they left the river, he had seemed cheerful, but now she was not certain what he seemed. Swallowing, she reminded herself that he had been in prison for weeks. Not only that, but he had fought Hugh, had ridden from Carlisle to Hermitage and then to Broadhaugh, and he had taken a chilly swim before carrying her back to the castle. He could not have much strength left. Even if he were to punish her as he had threatened earlier, she would likely survive the ordeal with only minor bruising. And the plain fact was that he no longer seemed to be thinking about punishment.
Drawing a deep breath, she said, "You are important to me, sir, more than you can know."
She saw his lips twitch, and she could definitely discern a gleam in his eyes, but he shook his head. "I do not hear you saying, however, that my preferences are important to you."
Reassured by the twitch and the gleam, she took a chance. Meeting his gaze, she reached for the clasp that fastened his cloak at her throat, released it, and shrugged the garment off, letting it fall to a pool of dark wool at her feet. Then, holding his gaze, she lifted the hem of the shirt enough to reach the lace points for the baggy netherstocks, which she had simply tied round her thighs. A push sent first one then the other to join the cloak. Stepping out of the pool of clothing, she fingered the shirt lacing, then paused.
The hunger in his eyes was clear. He waited.
She did not move.
"Take it off, lass," he murmured.
"Perhaps." Still watching his eyes, she licked her lips invitingly and moved her hand from the lacing to touch her breast. Brushing one finger against a fold of the material there, she let her hand turn, so the backs of her fingertips brushed the nipple. She heard him inhale. The only other sounds were the movement of a curtain stirred by a breeze through the open window and the distant murmur of the river.
"Come here," Quinton said, his voice sounding lower-pitched than usual, as if it nearly had not made it out of his throat.
"Perhaps," she said again, her fingertips still moving gently as she reached with her other hand to untie the lacing. The opening of the shirt gaped. It was wide enough, she knew, to slip off her shoulders. Idly, she trailed her fingertips up toward her neck, playing with the narrow lace edging. With her other hand, one aglet at a time, she pulled the lacing free, letting the opening gape wider and wider.
Quinton watched, transfixed. She saw the tip of his tongue slip out to dampen his lips, and she saw, too, that he was becoming as aroused as he had been at the river. No longer was he looking into her eyes. He was watching her hands.
Slowly, slowly, she eased the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, letting it slip down her arms till the soft upper portion of her breasts showed above the lacy edge of the opening. Then, without another word, she lowered her arms and let the shirt slide down them and drop to the floor.
Quinton was practically panting. Already he was reaching for the buttons on his doublet. She smiled and stepped forward, naked. "Let me," she said.
His eyes widened, but he did not speak, taking his hands away and letting them relax at his sides. She unbuttoned the first button, taking her time, knowing that the longer she took the more aroused he would become.
He did not wait for her to finish. When she reached for the third button, he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight and claiming her lips with his. He moaned deep in his throat when she responded, and a moment later, he picked her up and carried her to the bed.
She lay there and watched while he cast off doublet, breeks, and boots. His hunger for her was so plain that she wondered if he would fling himself on her and take her swiftly. Right up to the moment when he stood naked, looking down at her, she thought-even hoped-that he would, and her own desire ignited accordingly.
He climbed onto the bed, but then, with a wry little smile, he hesitated. "You should take care, lassie," he said, "lest you get yourself hanged for witchcraft."
"Art going to talk or make love, sir?"
Chuckling, he licked a finger and touched it to the tip of one breast.
She gasped and reached for him, but he leaned back. "It is my turn," he said.
Grinning, she said, "Do your worst, then. I'll survive it."
His hand left her breast and moved lower to her belly and below. She closed her eyes, letting the sensations flow through her until his lips and then his tongue replaced his fingers, and she could no longer remain still. Following his lead, she began to try things she had never even imagined doing before, and when he claimed her at last, she felt as if they had tempted the flames of hellfire, but she did not seem to care. All she cared about was Quinton and what he could make her feel.
He took her twice before they were sated, and when they lay back against the pillows at last, she felt as if every ounce of energy had drained from her body.
"I'll never move again," she murmured sleepily.
He did not answer for so long that she thought he might have fallen asleep. Then he said lazily, "Don't count on that."
"Again, sir? So soon?"
"Nay, but I've acquired a taste for your favors, lass, and I have missed you sorely. I'll want to savor them again very soon."
"Good." She did not have enough energy to say more, but when rhythmic scratching at the bedchamber door interrupted the silence, she started to sit up.
"Stay where you are," Quinton said. "I'll let him in. I've missed him, too."
He let Jemmy in, then got back into bed and, pulling her closer, drew the covers over them. A soft thump at the foot of the bed and a purr announced that Jemmy had joined them, but Janet barely acknowledged him. Her head had settled into the hollow of Quinton's shoulder, and a moment later she slept.
Janet awoke to a tickling tingle that radiated through her right breast. A teasing finger caressed its nipple, and the tingling flowed through her like a river in spate. As she stirred in response, warm lips touched hers, and she opened her eyes to see her husband's face against the gray light of dawn illuminating the room.