Page 13 of The Winter Husband
A husband who loved her.
“Take off your boots,” she repeated. A dry prickling began behind her eyes.
Lucas sighed. “Marie, you’re giving me no choice.”
For a big man, Lucas could move fast. He crossed the room in a blink. She scrabbled for the covers, but he grabbed them first and yanked. Cold air swept over her legs, bare below the hem of her shift. By reflex, she slapped her hand against her thigh. His hand followed, as he engulfed her fingers in rough warmth.
He peeled her hand away to examine what she was hiding and then turned his sharp gaze on her.
“A knife, Marie?”
She shook her head, denying what could no longer be hidden.
“You’re the great-niece of a baron.” He tapped the leather sheath in disbelief. “Armed like a cutpurse.”
“I wouldn’t have used it. Unless I needed to. You weren’t supposed to see it—”
“Your shift rode up when you climbed into bed.”
Her pulse leapt. What else had he noticed when she’d shot half-naked across the room?
“Was this your plan?” He leaned in on a cloud of wood smoke and starched linen. “Widowhood would be easier than waiting for an annulment.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” There was no air between them. “I’m no murderer.”
“Good to know.”
“I keep it todefendmyself.” There was no evading those sharpshooter eyes. “When I have it…I feel safe.”
He jerked away as suddenly as he’d approached. “Pull up those covers.”
Her shift had bunched high, leaving her thighs bare to the light. She scrambled for the linens.
“Remember that I let you keep the dagger.” He lay back down on the pallet. “But it damn well better stay sheathed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucas stood at the foot of the bed, watching his wife sleep. Dark hair cascaded over the pillow. The tip of her nose had gone pink from the morning chill. Her breathing was the only sound in the room, now that the night’s fire had settled into coals. He couldn’t stop listening to those soft exhalations.
He wasn’t sure why.
“Wake up, Marie.”
She stirred at his voice, a frown between her brows, but her lashes didn’t flutter. He shifted his weight, hesitating when he shouldn’t. The canoe was already packed and ready at the riverside outside Philippe’s warehouse. If he didn’t haul her out of these lodgings soon, they’d never make it to his cabin before sunset. They’d be forced to pitch camp on the banks of the St. Lawrence overnight, sleeping a hell of a lot closer to each other than they had last night. So why was he just standing here, reluctant to rouse this woman who’d kept a knife in her garter on their wedding night?
“Marie.” He hooked a thumb in his belt and raised his voice. “Wake up.”
Her eyes flew open. She blinked at the rafters, the walls, the blankets at her chin, and then looked over those blankets to where he stood. In the widening of her eyes, he imagined himself reflected, a goliath in buckskin and fringe.
“Don’t reach for the dagger.” By the saints, a dagger. Strapped to the shapely thigh of a baron’s great-niece. “It’s dawn. Time to leave.”
She glanced toward the window, covered with an oilskin that blocked out most of the light.
“I brought up a tray.” He gestured to a jar of milk, a hunk of bread still warm from the oven, and a bowl of gooseberry jam. “Eat well. Once we’re in the canoe, we’re not stopping to cook a meal.”
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her hair fell across her shoulders, tousled.
His breechclout tightened. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
