Chapter 8: The East Tower

Hettie took Jory to bed in the kitchen room herself.

"Go," she said, shoving me toward the door with a flour-dusted hand. "I raised four boys. I can handle one small one."

I went.

Alaric was waiting at the foot of the east tower stair.

He did not say a word.

He took my hand and led me up the tower stairs, every step climbed with my heart hammering.

His room was round and bare and warm, with a fire already lit and a bed the size of Hettie's whole stall.

He shut the door and put his back against it.

"You faced him," he said.

"I did."

"You were magnificent."

"I was terrified."

"I know." His voice had dropped to a rasp. "I've been wanting to put my hands on you since you called me stubborn at your counter."

My mouth went dry.

"Then do it," I said.

He crossed the room in three strides.

He took my face in both hands and kissed me hard, backing me into the bedpost.

I dragged at his collar and pulled it open, and I felt his heartbeat hammering under my palm, strong and even.

He tore his mouth away only to turn me around.

He found the laces down my back and drew them slowly, one by one, with his lips on the nape of my neck.

The wine-red gown loosened, then slid from my shoulders and pooled on the floor.

He went still.

His fingers brushed the mark on my shoulder, the pale crescent Garrick had left there.

"This is his," he said, low.

"It's a scar. It means nothing now."

"I'll make it mean nothing," Alaric said.

He set his mouth on it and kissed it, open and hot, and I gasped and dropped my head back against his chest.

His hands slid around my ribs, over my belly, and up to cup my breasts through my thin shift.

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