Bedding the Enemy - By Mary Wine Page 0,43

she longed to see Keir back in the room in spite of her rejection of him.

Her tears had sent him away. She shuddered again because it was so tender, so noble of him. How was she to resist her longing for him when he continued to act so gallant?

Maybe you shouldn’t…

Temptation was cruel. Her flesh now warred with her pride. She was so alone, she ached with it. Her groom? Who exactly was she expected to marry and when? Sitting down on a small lounge, she laid her head down on its silk surface. Resting in the bed was out of the question; her mind rejected it. She could barely tolerate the sight of it, so she allowed her eyelids to close.

As much as her body longed to lie with Keir, her pride refused. She didn’t want to give him her purity because he believed it belonged to him. Ronchford was that sort of man. So was Edmund and a hundred others who had viewed her at court like a mare on display with her bloodlines neatly laid out to increase her value.

She wanted Keir to remain noble—untarnished by the marriage game. She wanted to make love with him, not part her thighs so that her blue blood might be bred into children who would be reared to take their place. She’d always been instructed on what was expected.

Tears eased from her eyes for the fantasy that would dissipate the second she opened her eyes again. But for the moment, she allowed her dreams to take her away from the aches and pains of her flesh. The longings remained, keeping her warm as her lover held her.

“Well ye don’t look very pleased with yer victory.” Farrell glanced around the kitchen. “I, for one, am rather impressed with the new accommodations. If ye’re going to have to pay the inheritance taxes on a title, at least ye got something in return.”

Keir had to agree. The Hurst Barony came with little. Most of the land was bound to his sister Bronwyn, but the king had settled a small estate on him along with the title. There were taxes due on the inheritance of such a title, but it had gained him a town home that he was not ashamed to bring his bride to.

There would no doubt be wages due the staff as well.

He looked around the kitchen. Nothing was rundown. The long table used for preparing food showed use but not more than any in the kitchens of Red Stone castle. He decided that he did not need to know why the house was in such good repair if the title had been without a lord for over thirty years. It was his now and that was what mattered.

“I need the men to take shifts tonight. My bride is nae to leave the house or send any letters.”

He clenched his teeth, grinding his jaw with the tension that held him. Farrell abandoned his lazy position.

“She doesna want to marry with ye?”

She’d wept….

Keir snarled and poured himself a glass of whisky. Farrell watched him for a moment before standing up and leaving to post the guards Keir had ordered. The whisky failed to burn away the bitter taste in his mouth.

She’d wept….

Why?

The whisky burned but his question burned hotter. He needed to know.

The little drops had stabbed into him deeper than any dirk ever did. It did not make any sense. She’d enjoyed his kiss. He knew the difference between a woman who kissed a man back because she desired him and one who merely wanted to stroke his ego. Being the third son of a laird, he’d experienced plenty of girls trying their hand at deceiving him with false affection in the hope of securing a future by his side.

Helena had trembled against him and offered him innocent little kisses that were enough to burn away any sense of control he had. All he wanted to do was go back into that chamber and kiss her until she shivered again.

The candles had burned low in the bedchamber. Keir opened the door slowly, taking care that the hinges wouldn’t squeak. It was a fine chamber, the windows hung with velvet and the bed canopy made of rich brocade. There was a fireplace but it was cold because the staff hadn’t realized that they were getting a new master.

The bed was empty.

Keir swept through the room, stopping when he found the cause of his mental dilemma. Small wet spots marked the silk beneath

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