She paused by the old fruit tree and laid her hand on the rough bark, somehow soothed by its presence. The light was nearly gone, but she peered closer at the low branches, her heart beginning to speed. There were buds on the twigs that lined the branches, she could swear. Maybe—
“Megs.”
His voice was low but carried easily through the garden, steady and commanding.
She turned and saw Godric, standing in the open doorway to Saint House, the light behind him casting a long, black shadow into the garden. For a second she shivered at the image, the dark stranger come to invade her peaceful garden, but then she shook herself. This was Godric, and whatever else he might be, he was no longer a stranger.
He was her husband.
She walked toward him, and as she neared, he held out his hand to her. She took it, lifting her head to peer at him as she’d peered at the fruit tree, looking for signs of life.
“Come,” he said, and pulled her gently into the house.
He led her through the hall and ascended the stairs, her hand still locked in his, and with every step her pulse beat faster until she was nearly panting when he opened the door to his room.
The room within shone with candlelight and Megs blinked and looked at Godric.
He watched her with eyes from which he’d dropped the shutters. The intent that blazed from within was daunting. She nearly took a step back.
He still held her hand.
“I made a promise to you,” he said. “And I will keep it—but not as we did before.”
She suddenly knew he was talking of their lovemaking the previous night.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I was pretending you were Roger. I wasn’t. It’s just that what we did seemed like a betrayal of him. I didn’t want to lose him any more.”
Her lips parted, but nothing more emerged because it had finally dawned on her whom she’d actually been betraying.
“Don’t you think I might’ve felt the same way about Clara?” he asked low. “Don’t you think I had to sacrifice something to give you what you wanted?”
She bowed her head, for she felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Godric.”
He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it so she could see his clear gray eyes. “It no longer matters. What matters is how I—we—intend to go forth. Starting with this.”
He lowered his mouth toward her, slowly, so that she could see what he would do. Her eyes widened before she let them fall, surrendering.
It was the least she could do to make amends.
His kiss wasn’t like the gentle embraces of before. This was a seal, a promise of purpose, a pact of understanding. His thumb pressed against her chin, opening her for him, letting him lick inside, claiming her. Her doubts rushed to the surface, making her stiffen, but he wouldn’t let her pull away. He held her and bit down on her lower lip, waiting until she stilled again.
She opened her eyes and saw that he watched her, assessing her even as he let go of her lip, laving it slowly with his hot tongue. She snapped her eyes shut again. This was too close, too personal.
He’d paused at the corner of her mouth, licking it almost pensively, until she yielded with a shudder, parting her lips wider, inviting him in. He made a low, pleased rumble at the back of his throat, and then he was inside her again and she caught his tongue, suckling in atonement. His hands drifted to splay over her neck, arching her head back so that she was entirely open, entirely vulnerable to him, her mouth a sacrifice.
His hands slid from her neck, down her bodice to her waist, and then he was lifting her, walking with her across the room, his mouth on hers, his tongue between her lips. He set her down by the bed and only then lifted his head. While her chest felt tight—her lungs laboring to draw breath—only the dampness of his mouth, the heaviness of his eyelids gave any indication of what they did.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
Megs’s eyes widened.
He tilted his head down, looking her in the eye. “Now.”
Her lips parted, swollen and oversensitive, and she touched them gently with her tongue, exploring. “Will you help me?”