A Hint of Wicked

Book 1: James Family

by Jennifer Haymore

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

CAUGHT BETWEEN DUTY AND DESIRE . . . Sophie, the Duchess of Calton, has finally moved on. After seven years mourning the loss of her husband, Garrett, at Waterloo, she has married his cousin and heir, Tristan. Sophie gives herself to him body and soul. . . until the day Garrett returns from the Continent, demanding his title, his lands-and his wife. TORN BETWEEN TWO HUSBANDS . . . Now Sophie must choose between her first love and her new love, knowing that no matter what, her choice will destroy one of the men she adores. Will it be Garrett, her childhood sweetheart, whose loss nearly destroyed her once already? Or will it be Tristan, beloved friend turned lover, who supported her through the last, dark years and introduced her to a passion she had never known? As her two husbands battle for her heart, Sophie finds herself immersed in a dangerous game-where the stakes are not only love . . . but life and death. A HINT OF WICKED

Release date: May 7, 2009

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 415

Sample

London, June 1815

Sophie perched on the edge of the sofa cushion, her head tilted in concentration, her embroidery forgotten in her lap. Outside the drawing room’s window, propped open by a servant to allow fresh air to waft into the otherwise stuffy room, the clomping of a horse’s hooves came to an abrupt halt on the paving stones.

She glanced at Tristan, her dearest friend, who sat beside her on the silk palm-print sofa, his posture relaxed and his black hair extending in soft curls down his nape. He and his wife, Nancy, called on Sophie daily to rescue her from the incessant loneliness that had plagued her since her husband left for war. Nancy had recently gone to visit her ailing mother in Somerset, so this week Tristan had come alone.

Sensing Sophie’s inability to speak, Tristan smiled at her, showing his dimple—a deep impression at the edge of his lips. He curled his fingers over hers and squeezed gently. “Should I see who it is, Soph?”

Sophie looked back at the window. The curtains fluttered in the breeze, the satiny material shimmering like a sunlit forest, as if welcoming someone to part them and peer into the gathering dusk. She nodded stiffly and blinked hard against the sting in her eyes.

It had been like this for days, ever since they’d heard the battle of Waterloo was over. Each time a carriage rolled down the drive or she heard horseshoes clattering over the paving stones, a tumultuous mixture of excitement and fear boiled through her. Was it Garrett coming home to her? News of his whereabouts? News of his death on the field of battle?

Tristan released her hand and unfolded his tall, graceful body from the sofa. As always, he was dressed smartly, in an expertly tailored black tailcoat with a striped waistcoat and matching buff trousers. As Tristan strode over to the window, Sophie’s heart constricted, for she knew he feared for Garrett as much as she did. Tristan was Garrett’s closest companion, his heir and cousin. Since Garrett had left them, Tristan had been the one to offer her support and strength, but subtle signs of strain had appeared in him during the past month: the lines around his expressive brown eyes, the tightening of his features, and seriousness replacing his usual debonair approach to life.

Parting the curtains, he stood with his back to her, his body framed by the green fabric as he bent his dark head and surveyed the activity on the drive below. Sophie watched him mutely, her hand resting atop the rounded curve of her belly.

It must be something to do with Garrett, otherwise Tristan would have comforted her the instant he glanced outside.

She prayed Tristan had seen Garrett dismounting and entering the house at a near run, eager to see her. Perhaps her husband was on his way upstairs right now. Sophie closed her eyes, picturing him throwing open the door with a grin spread over his rugged, handsome face. Her frozen limbs would melt, and she’d cry out with joy and leap into his arms.

Finally, Tristan spoke. “It’s Sir Thomas,” he said raggedly. “Alone.”

Sophie pried her eyes open, but she couldn’t look at Tristan. Sir Thomas was Garrett’s aide. To see him anywhere but at Garrett’s side was simply… wrong. She stared across at the dying embers of the fire, at the flickering golden light glancing through the room’s shadows. Suddenly her London drawing room felt oppressive. She wanted to be outside, but not in the city. At Calton House in the north, where she and Garrett and Tristan had played together as children, young and carefree, all of them believing they could live forever.

The baby fluttered against her ribs, and she soothed her fingers over the soft blue muslin of her dress. Likely the poor babe sensed her anxiety. She took deep breaths and willed herself to be calm. She’d do anything to keep this miracle child from harm.

She felt Tristan’s gaze resting on her. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the wood floor as he came to stand beside the sofa.

The wait seemed an eternity, but in fact it was just a few moments before a soft knock sounded at the door. When she didn’t answer, Tristan said, “Come in,” his voice gruff.

Connor opened the door, and Sophie’s eyes riveted to him. “Lieutenant Sir Thomas Johnson is here to see you, Your Grace.” The butler took a deep breath, but managed to keep his expression professionally blank. “He says it is a matter of some urgency.”

Still Sophie couldn’t find her voice. Beside her, Tristan nodded at Connor, who left, returning a few moments later in the company of the red-haired officer. She had met Sir Thomas before, and she had known him to be a jovial sort of man. Today his lips were drawn tight and curved down at their edges, and deep grooves furrowed his forehead.

Tristan’s palm rested on her shoulder blade, gentle, lending her strength. She pushed the embroidery off her lap and rose to her feet on wobbly legs.

Connor closed the door behind the lieutenant, leaving the three of them alone. Sir Thomas bowed stiffly. Her gaze roamed over him, taking in his stiff posture and dress, the letter clutched in his left hand, his curly red hair combed sternly back from his face, his heavy auburn side whiskers. His somber expression and sorrowful eyes. The pungent smell of perfumed soap wafted from his body, making her lightheaded.

“No,” she whispered. Tristan’s arm tightened round her waist, the only thing keeping her upright.

Sir Thomas’s Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. He blinked several times, then seemed to find the power of speech. “Your Grace, I’ve come with news of your husband.”

He paused.

“Out with it,” Tristan growled.

“The colonel, ah… the duke…”

“No,” Sophie murmured again, shaking her head violently.

Sir Thomas licked his lips. When he spoke, the words came in rapid fire, each as painful as a dart stabbing into her chest. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But the Duke of Calton fell at the battle of Waterloo. He was injured, but we do not yet know if he perished, as we have not been able to locate his body. However, we retain little hope that he survived.”

“No, no, no…” Hot tears streaming down her face, Sophie turned to Tristan. He wrapped his arms around her and consoled her while she wept, stroking her back and muttering soothing words into her ear. Sir Thomas stood silently, awkwardly, to the side, his gaze fastened on a potted palm in the corner of the room.

When her sobs had abated and only the tears remained, rolling down her face like drops of rain against a windowpane, Sir Thomas spoke again. “I’ve a letter from His Grace the Duke of Wellington, madam. He told me personally that it commends your husband’s valiant and honorable deeds on the battlefield. Also, be assured that the British Army is determined to find the colonel, and that we will bring his… him home.”

She clung to Tristan. Was her life over? How could she go on without Garrett? How could she possibly survive this?

“He might still be alive,” Tristan said into her hair, his voice low and echoing her own grief. “Until we find him, we must believe that he lives.”

“No,” she whispered between her sobs. “No, no. Don’t you see?” If Garrett lived, he’d have already come home to her. He’d promised her it would be so. Colonel Garrett James, Third Duke of Calton, never broke a promise.

“We will find him, Sophie. We will go to the Continent and we will find him.”

But they never did.

London, April 1823—Eight Years Later

Sophie slowed her chestnut mare to a walk. Beside her, tall and handsome in the saddle of his dapple gray, Tristan mimicked her command, and their horses fell in step side by side. Holding the reins in one hand, Sophie flattened her gloved palm against her mount’s warm neck and took a deep, refreshing breath of the crisp morning air. The tree-lined track was quiet and serene this morning, likely due to the impending foul weather. The atmosphere was cool and heavy with the promise of rain, so she and Tristan had left home early hoping for a brisk outing before the heavens opened. A heavy frost glistened on the branches. Drops coalesced beneath the budding leaves and slipped to the ground, shimmering like tiny diamonds.

She slid a glance at Tristan, smiling at the way the dampness made his satiny black hair curl beneath the rim of his hat. “Are you ready for tonight?”

It was to be their first dinner party in London since they’d arrived in February for the opening of Parliament. Their first dinner party as husband and wife. They’d wed last July, but they’d spent the short nine months of their married life in the relative quiet of Calton House in Yorkshire. Tonight was to be the first of many parties to come—in a few weeks’ time, Garrett’s young sister would be joining them for her first London Season.

Tristan gave Sophie a cocky, boyish grin that reached all the way to his sparkling chocolate-colored eyes. “I’m more than ready for tonight. What about you?”

She urged her horse into a gallop, and before he could respond, she threw a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I am,” she called back.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed, and he flicked the reins. Giddy with the prospect of a little competition, Sophie turned forward, tightened her knee around the pommel, and leaned close to the horse’s sleek neck, whispering encouragement for more speed.

Hooves churned the earth, splattering wet clumps of dirt in their wake. Cold wind whipped through Sophie’s hair as she crouched low, the rhythm of the gallop singing through her body. The skirts of her riding habit whipped against the mare’s flanks, and she squealed in glee. They were winning.

She saw the patch of ice a moment too late. The horse slid on the white surface, her legs thrashing with the effort to stay upright. Sophie struggled to stay balanced. She hauled backward on the reins to keep the mare’s head up, but the poor animal’s body flailed beneath her. They were going down. The horse was going to fall on her.

Sophie wrenched her right leg from the sidesaddle pommel and kicked her left foot free of the stirrup. She launched herself from the horse just as the animal’s legs buckled.

Sophie slammed to the ground in a puddle of icy water. The jolt speared pain from her hip through her body. With a thud that seemed to shake the earth, the horse hit the ground, her girth missing Sophie’s legs by mere inches.

Sweet relief coursed through her, only to be replaced by renewed panic as the struggling mare scrambled for footing and jerked Sophie through soft mud toward her kicking legs.

Oh, no. Oh, Lord. The train of her riding habit had caught on one of the pommels.

As the mare heaved her body upright, Sophie grabbed handfuls of dark wool and yanked on her skirts with all her might.

The fabric came free with a screeching tear just as the horse found her feet, a flailing hoof pummeling Sophie on the thigh.

She lay there in the frigid puddle, stunned, straining for air, her skirts tangled around her legs and heavy with mud. Her leg throbbed. Her lungs had closed. She couldn’t breathe.

Tristan came to a sliding stop on his knees in the mud beside her. He gathered her into his arms, combing the hair out of her face with his fingers. She dimly registered that she must’ve lost her hat.

“Sophie! Are you all right? Are you all right, love?”

Her lungs opened slightly and she gasped in a deep breath. “Yes. I—I think so.”

Tristan’s dark eyes glimmered. His body was like steel, strong all around her, but the slightest tremble in his movements betrayed his fear.

Clutching her husband’s arms and taking great gulps of air, Sophie assessed herself. Her thigh throbbed, but she could move her leg, so it was probably only badly bruised. She was wet, bogged down with water and muck. It was quite embarrassing, really. “I—I’m all right, Tristan.”

He gripped her closer and pressed his lips to her hair. She held on to him for several minutes, sitting on his lap with his large body curled around her smaller one. Buried within the cocoon of his warmth and comfort, she began to breathe normally again.

The sound of scuffing dirt made her pull her face away from Tristan. She raised her head to see a man had taken hold of her horse’s reins and was leading her back to them. The animal walked normally and seemed fine. Thank goodness she hadn’t been hurt.

Conscious of her disheveled appearance, Sophie tensed. Tristan tucked the skirt of her riding habit down so it covered her calves, and adjusting her to a comfortable position against him, he rose, easily lifting her.

“Oh goodness, Tristan. I can walk. I can ride, too.”

He looked down at her, his brow creased. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

Gently, he eased her to her feet. Pain radiated down her leg, and she tightened her hand over his arm. He held on to her, his strength keeping her steady. “All right?”

Sophie grimaced. The fall itself was humiliating, and she had no wish to make a dramatic production of it. She’d been kicked in the leg, but that was a minor injury, and she didn’t need coddling. She smiled reassuringly at him. “Absolutely all right.”

He released his hold and gave her a quick, jerky nod before striding over to thank the man who’d returned with her horse. She saw that he was just as disheveled as she—maybe even more so. Tristan was usually fastidious in the extreme, but he didn’t pay any attention to the mud drenching him from the waist down.

After exchanging a few polite words with the Good Samaritan, Tristan took his leave and led the mare over to her.

“How is she?” Sophie tried not to limp as she stepped toward them. She stroked the horse’s silky brown muzzle, murmuring apologies. Her pocket had remained miraculously dry, and scooping out a crushed lump of sugar, she offered it to the mare.

“Uninjured and surprisingly calm.” Tristan’s big, warm hand curled over her upper arm and squeezed. “Can you ride, love?”

“Of course.” She smiled up at him. “It is my own fault—a foolish mistake. I should have paid more attention.”

Tristan nodded grimly, but he didn’t argue with her. “We’re going straight home.” Without asking her if she needed help—he knew she did—he lifted her and set her upon the saddle. He held on to her longer than necessary as she slid her muddy foot into the stirrup and adjusted the torn and muddy skirts modestly around her. When he did let her go, it was with hesitation. “Straight home,” he repeated firmly, meeting her eyes with an expression that brooked no argument.

She watched his lithe, muscular body move with grace as he mounted his horse and rode beside her. His dark gaze bore into her. “Ready?”

His eyes glimmered with worry. His shoulders were tight with frustration, and she knew he had wanted to hold her longer, to comfort her, to carry her home rather than let her risk riding. But he’d respected her wishes and let her show her independence and save her pride.

She could hardly tear her eyes from him. Even half drenched in mud, he was so magnificent, it made her blood heat and her pulse quicken just to look at him.

With a secret inner smile, she turned her horse toward Mayfair. “Yes, I’m ready, Tristan. Let’s go home.”

The patterned red silk of Sophie’s dressing robe whispered over her skin, light and cool after the warm, heavy brocade she had worn to the party. She’d gone to check on the children, and finding them fast asleep, had kissed them goodnight, returned to her dressing room, and called her maid to undress her. Now she sat, finally alone at her table, drawing the pins from her coiffure one by one, watching in the oval gilded mirror as the tendrils of honey-brown hair fell away from her tight chignon.

She paused in midaction as a sudden memory assailed her. Garrett standing behind her, removing her hairpins in the same methodical order, using his fingers to fan her hair over her shoulders. He watched her in the mirror with that stormy look in his blue eyes. The look that reminded her of crashing ocean waves in a storm. The look that said he wanted her.

Sophie curled her toes into the lush ivory strands of the carpet. Dropping the final hairpin on the glossy surface of the mahogany table, she clutched its edge and stared into the mirror, taking deep breaths to regain her composure.

The unbidden memories came less frequently now. She supposed that was natural after so many years.

She didn’t want to forget Garrett. At times, she welcomed the memories, coveted them. But not tonight. Tonight she wished to think only of Tristan, of his long, lean body, his disarming smile, his caresses. The way he’d slid into the mud today to hold her body against his, tight and comforting. The sheer desperation in his expression before he’d realized she was all right.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the door separating her dressing room from their bedchamber swung open. Swiping the back of her hand over her damp eyes, Sophie reached for her hairbrush. She watched in the mirror as Tristan closed the distance between them, sharp as ever in his snug gray trousers and embroidered waistcoat, the gold thread matching the color of his cravat. He’d untied the cravat, and it hung loose about his neck.

“That didn’t take long,” she murmured, smiling at him.

“I came as quickly as I could, love.” He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth and the single dimple that always had the ability to melt her heart. “Got rid of Billingsly. Even tales of his Egyptian travels can’t entice me when I know you’re in our bedchamber…” a hint of wickedness quirked his lips and sparkled in his eyes in an expression he reserved for her alone, “. . . waiting.”

As she dragged the brush through her hair, Tristan rested his hands on her shoulders. Long-fingered and elegant, with blunt, clean fingernails, his hands weren’t the only part of him that hinted at his position in society. His face was aristocratic, with clean lines, sharp angles, and shrewd, dark eyes. But his refined mannerisms and famed control proved he was of the higher orders. Though he may not have coveted Garrett’s legacy, he suited his new role as the Duke of Calton.

“How’s your leg?”

She forced a smile. A nasty bruise had bloomed on her thigh, but she was thankful. It could have been so much worse. “It’s all right. I scarcely feel it anymore.”

His smile faded as they locked gazes in the mirror. “Ah, Soph…” His voice trailed off, and he must have seen the residual grief in her expression, because the pain in his eyes suddenly reflected her own.

He squeezed her shoulders. “I miss him, too, love. Every day.”

Tilting her head to glance up at him, she smiled sadly. Tristan was the one person in the world who understood her loss. He, too, had lost a spouse. Nancy had died giving birth to their son two years after Waterloo. Though Sophie knew he’d loved her, Tristan rarely spoke of Nancy.

Yet the loss of Garrett was different. Garrett had been gone longer, but he remained a solid presence in their lives—perhaps because they had retained hope for so long.

Tristan was patient with her melancholy. Most men would have despised her for continuing to love a dead man. Most men would have been jealous of her unwillingness to let go of her affection for Garrett. But not Tristan. He knew how much she had loved Garrett, and he never tried to take that away from her.

“It’s just—nights like tonight—” Struggling to order her thoughts, she shrugged helplessly.

She never intended to make Tristan feel inferior, because he wasn’t. He was simply different. When she fell in love with Tristan, it seemed her heart swelled to twice its previous capacity to make room for him.

Still, more than anything, she feared hurting Tristan by clinging so desperately to her feelings for Garrett. If she lost him as she had lost Garrett… The thought was intolerable. If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to endure it.

“I know,” he murmured, as if reading her mind. His lips brushed against her hair. “I understand. I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

He rose to his full height. “Don’t be sorry, Soph.”

She set the brush on the table and stood, twining her arms around his neck. The linen of his cravat brushed against her skin as she pressed her cheek to his solid chest. He smelled like exotic spice, like the Eastern countries he was so fond of. “I adore you,” she said. “You mean everything to me.”

His fingers sifted through her hair as he tilted her head to face him. He laughed, but the sound was ragged. “I can’t force you to forget him, Sophie. Hell, I can’t forget him. You know how strongly I cared for him. He was more than a brother to me.”

“Yes.” She tightened her arms around him. “Thank you.”

He nuzzled his face in her hair, his breath hot against her scalp. “We’ve come far, wouldn’t you say?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes.”

They’d come much farther than she ever would have imagined. Their wedding night had been difficult. She’d been shy and awkward, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was betraying Garrett’s memory. It was the first time for her since the day Garrett left with his regiment to fight at Waterloo.

But Garrett was gone. Tristan was her husband now, and in the past months, he’d earned her complete trust. In his arms, she’d exposed everything to him, from her life’s desires to her deepest and darkest fantasies. They shared a level of openness and communication she’d never thought to have with anyone.

“There was no need to rush up,” she said in order to change the subject, her voice muffled against his chest. “I would not have begrudged your talking with Mr. Billingsly. I know how you crave news of Egypt.”

“Not as much as I used to. I find myself perfectly content wherever you and the children are. Egypt seems more of a youthful fancy these days.”

His admission stole the breath from her lungs. Tristan was an adventurer, a traveler. His wanderlust had always been a mystery to her. She felt most comfortable at home, either here in Mayfair or at Calton House in the north. While she’d waited patiently for Garrett’s infrequent trips home, Tristan had explored half the globe. China, India, Madagascar. Jamaica, Ireland, Italy, and America. When he married Nancy, he didn’t stop. Nancy always said good-naturedly that it was a miracle he’d managed to get her with child, he was gone so often.

He’d never visited Egypt, though. When they were children, an Egyptian adventure had been his dream.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and sighed. “Perhaps I have domesticated you after all.”

A soft murmur of contentment was his only response. His body pressed against her in all the right places, hinting at the pleasure he could give. She slipped her hands from his neck to his shoulders. Muscles rippled beneath her fingertips, and keeping her fingers light, she skimmed lower, down his back to curve over his behind.

He stroked the slippery fabric of her robe and pulled her tight against him so his erection prodded her belly. When he spoke, his voice was husky in her ear. “Billingsly’s travels couldn’t hold my attention tonight. I kept thinking of you alone up here. Everything pales beside the promise of having you, love. Seeing you, touching you… taking you…”

The way he spoke to her, the way he felt against her… there was nothing like it in the world. The blood ran heavy and slow through Sophie’s veins, warming her, making her muscles languid. Her breaths came in shallow little pants. As hard as pebbles, her nipples pushed against the silk of her dressing gown. She sensed the change inside her body as it heated and opened, eager for his invasion.

Sophie reached between them and untied the belt of her robe. The silk slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor, leaving her bare. Cool air brushed over her sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh on her legs and arms.

She ran her lips along his jaw, speaking softly. “Make love to me, Tristan.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he brought his lips down over hers. “You taste so good, Sophie,” he murmured against her mouth. “I can’t get enough of you.”

He knelt lower, his lips drifting over her shoulder. “I thought I might lose you this morning.” His hands dropped to her waist and tugged her even closer, pressing her against him from top to bottom, and a deep shudder resonated through his body.

Sophie reached up to caress the masculine planes of his face. “I was scared, too,” she admitted. She slid the cravat from his neck and kissed him. She loved his lips. So soft and firm at the same time. Delicious.

The wool of his trousers was in the way, and she fumbled at the buttons of his falls, but he stopped her by capturing her wrists in his hand.

She pulled away from their kiss. “No?”

“No, love. Not yet.”

Soft material slid over her skin and she glanced downward to see he’d caught his cravat and looped it around her wrists.

Her heart pounding, she looked up at him, running her tongue nervously over her bottom lip. His expression was serious when he met her gaze. But she knew him well enough to see the glint of anticipation lurking in the depths of his eyes.

“I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

Her lips parted as she stared at him. It was a secret desire of hers to be bound while he ravished her. She had told him of it once, late in the night when they had shared their most intimate fantasies, but he had remained silent. Later, she dismissed it, thinking her easygoing husband would never desire such a thing. Then again, in the past months she had learned that his nighttime personality differed from his daytime façade. With the shift between his public and private existence, Tristan transformed from respectable and personable to dark and mysterious.

Her throat was so dry, she could scarcely speak. “Why?”

He held her wrists loosely in his hand, unmoving, studying her with eyes that bored into her soul. “It will please me.”

She released a shallow breath.

“I want you tied down. Helplessly bound.” His voice grew rough. “I want you focused on me alone.”

Sophie closed her eyes. In her daily life, she was a mother, a leader, a duchess. An upright model of society. She made important decisions quickly and with aplomb. She avoided showing weakness.

At night, though, Tristan relished exposing the secret fragile part of her. For whatever the reason, she gloried in it. When he exercised his power over her, it made her feel feminine and beautiful, cherished and protected. It was the ultimate release.

Nonetheless, if she told him no, he would stop. Instantly.

With her heart pounding against her breastbone, she looked up at him and made a small movement of her head. A nod.

The corners of his lips quirked upward, then he tugged her hands. “Hold them out for me.”

Biting her lower lip, she did as he instructed. She felt so vulnerable like this, with him still fully clothed and her naked and standing before him, offering herself to him to do with as he pleased. Yet it felt right.

She shivered from heat rather than cold as he wrapped the neckcloth around her wrists, twisted and looped, deftly creating an intricate knot.

“It’s a French bowline. Should keep you nicely bound,” he murmured with one final tug. “Now go lie on the bed and wait for me there.”

She walked through the door into their bedchamber and to their high, ornately carved antique bed, feeling his gaze on her bottom as she mounted the step and crawled between the rust damask bed curtains. The gold tassel brushed against her hip as she climbed onto the mattress. A chambermaid had turned down the heavy counterpane earlier, and the bed linens cooled Sophie’s heated skin as she settled over them. Her cheeks burned, whether with embarrassment or arousal, she wasn’t certain. Probably both.

On her knees with her hands clasped together in front of her, she paused to look over her shoulder. Tristan stood at the threshold between the rooms, watching.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” Turning away, he vanished into her dressing room.

She wondered why he had left her, but she knew he wouldn’t keep her alone for long. Relishing each scrape of the sheets on her sensitive skin, she settled onto her back. A puff of warm air washed over her as the fire hissed and crackled. By the time she’d situated herself, Tristan had reentered the bedroom with a pair of her silk stockings dangling from his fingertips.

“For your ankles.” He arched a questioning brow at her.

Pressing her lips together, her heart beating wild with anticipation, she nodded again. She would do anything he asked—anything for him to touch her, satisfy her. Focused solely on the man she loved, she had nearly forgotten her melancholy. How had Tristan known how much she wanted this—needed it—tonight?

Silently and with exquisite slowness, he bound her hands to a bedpost, then followed suit with her ankles, using a stocking to tie each one to an opposing post. He paused to brush soothing fingers near the lurid bruise on her thigh, his face darkening at the memory of her fall.

Finally he stepped back to survey his handiwork. The ties dug into the flesh of her wrists and ankles enough to make her very aware of them but not enough to cut off the flow of blood. She lay with her arms overhead and her hands clasped, her legs spread and her center pulsing hot. Her breasts were heavy and tender, her nipples flushed dark. From her toes to her fingertips, her skin prick