The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

He brought her the tea.

      She moved to take it from him.

      He moved it out of her reach. “Not while your hands are shaking.”

      He lifted it to her lips, talking her through a series of hot, cautious sips. A sweet warmth traveled down her throat and swirled its way through her chest.

      “There we are. That’s better, is it?”

      She nodded. “Yes.”

      After setting the tea aside, he extended a hand to Emma and drew her to her feet. Hands on her waist, he steered her through a half turn and reached to undo the buttons down the back of her gown.

      “We have to get you out of all this,” he said. “If not, you’ll only soak the cloak through and we’ll never warm you up.”

      Her quivering lips curved into a smile. “I’m beginning to suspect you planned this entire situation.”

      “If I had, I would have found a finer inn and ordered a gown with larger buttons.” He ceased tugging. “To the devil with this. The cursed thing is ruined anyway.” He gripped the edges of the bodice and, with a fierce yank, ripped the buttons from their holes.

       Mercy.

      Emma reeled on her toes, dizzy again. Her vision grayed at the edges.

      “I don’t know what’s happened to me,” she said, rubbing her temple. “I never swoon. Perhaps Mary laced the corset too tightly.”

      “I’ll tell you what happened. What happened is that I stupidly let you stand in a freezing downpour, wearing nothing more than a few scraps of silk. You’re chilled to the marrow.”

      She supposed that was true. But for a kiss like that, she would have gladly stood there all night long.

      He worked quickly and with no hint of seduction, but the care he took in peeling away her layers of drenched clothing—silk gown, sodden petticoats, laced corset—stirred her heart with its tenderness. When his fingertips brushed the wet locks from her bared, chilled neck, she had goose bumps on top of goose bumps.

      Once he had her down to her shift, he didn’t pause in kneeling down and gathering it from the hem, bunching the fabric as he lifted it upward.

      “Arms up.” The command scorched the nape of her neck.

      She obeyed, stretching her arms overhead. As he lifted the soaked linen further, the fabric brushed over her breasts. Her nipples had puckered to cold, resentful knots in the rain, but now they tightened with more pleasant sensations. At last, he drew the garment over her head and arms, casting it aside. Leaving her bare, save for her stockings.

      He turned her to him, rubbing his hands up and down her arms and sweeping his gaze over her body. Then he unknotted his cravat with jerky movements and used the fabric as a makeshift towel, rubbing the moisture from her skin and hair.

      As the fire threw weak light and smoldering heat into the room, she found a blush warming her neck and face. Her teeth had ceased chattering, and the gooseflesh covering her arms had begun to fade.

      When she was cold, he warmed her. This alone was more care than she’d ever known from any man. It didn’t matter that it came wrapped in scowls and sardonic quips.

      She loved him for it.

      Loved him, loved him, loved him, loved him.

      The words pulsed through her brain with every heartbeat. Surely it was the swoon affecting her, but she found it difficult to breathe. She clung to his shirt, as if he could be her salvation—but he was the danger. She was lost. Lost to him, and a stranger to herself.

      When he’d done his best with the discarded cravat, he whisked her off her feet once more, moving her to the bed. As he laid her on his cape, the silk lining slid beneath her body. She burrowed under his coat while he pulled off his boots and shucked his damp trousers.

      He settled behind her on the bed, spooning around her curled body, drawing her spine against his chest. He was hot as a brick straight from the kiln. His delicious warmth radiated through her, thawing and relaxing her limbs. Her shivering eased.

      “You’re not cold anymore?”

      “No.”

      “Good.” The flat of his palm slid up and down her arm. “Then sleep.”

      Her eyelids grew heavy. “Ash . . .”

      “Sleep.” His arm flexed, gathering her tight. “I’ll keep you warm and safe. I’ll keep you always.”

      For the second time in her marriage, Emma experienced the pleasure of waking in her husband’s arms. And the joy of finding her hair matted in a nest. And the bliss of a receding headache.

      But yes, the arms. Waking in his arms was lovely.

      She rolled onto her other side, facing him.

      His gaze was tender, and his touch even more so. He skimmed a caress down her cheek, then down over her shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind her matted hair. Then his arm went around her, and he gave her a kiss that was every bit as sweet and gentle as the previous night’s was fierce and demanding.

      When they parted, he sighed her name. “Emma.”

      She touched his cheek. “Good morning, my sunshine.”

      He sat up in bed with a start. “Look at us. How did this happen? I thought we agreed that there would be no affection.”

      “We did.”

      “We had rules.”

      “There were precautions.”

      The left side of his mouth pulled into a smile. “Not enough of them, apparently.”

      Emma sat up in bed. “I want to apologize for the things I said last night. I should have had more faith in you. And I suppose I should be more charitable toward Miss Worthing. If you hadn’t cared enough for her feelings to let her go, I wouldn’t have you at all.”

      “I have to admit, releasing her wasn’t merely generosity. Perhaps not even mostly generosity. Pride was involved, as well. She was still willing to marry me, but only if I agreed to certain stipulations. I wasn’t willing to accept her terms.”

      “Did she want a larger settlement?”

      “No, nothing like that.”

      “Then I can’t imagine what she could ask for. I spent time with her. She cared little for anything besides money and appear—”

      “Appearances? Yes. Precisely.”

      Emma cringed, regretting the word. Would she never learn?

      “On reflection, I don’t suppose it’s accurate to call them stipulations,” he said. “If we married, she demanded that I agree to certain rules.”

      “Rules?”

      He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Spoke of pain and anger and a wound that went deeper than any of his scars.

       Rules.

      Oh, no.

      She reached for her shift. “Surely you don’t mean—”

      “Husband and wife by night only. No lights. No kissing. Once she bore me an heir, we would never share a bed again.”

      At last, it was clear. It had never made sense to her that he would create such rules. He had all the power over her. Once they married, she was at his mercy. Why would he care about protecting her sensibilities? If indeed her sensibilities needed protecting, which they didn’t. They never had.

      But he hadn’t been guarding her sensibilities, had he? He’d been protecting himself.

      Emma found it difficult to speak for some moments. When she did find words, they were