The monks had turned the small shed at the back of the rose garden into a bridal bower. Thin, gauzy curtains of linen hung across the front opening, wafting in the gentle drafts. The interior had been cleared of everything but a soft, down mattress set upon the tiled floor, piled high with plump pillows and fitted with sheets of brilliant sun-bleached linens. A single table stood beside this, set with a pitcher, two goblets, and a platter heaped with wrinkled brown pears brought up from the cellar.
The last rays of the late afternoon sun turned the glass roof overhead into a prism, spangling the greenery around them with myriad colored lights. The scent of living things, green and rich and loamy, mingled with the fragrance of clove, cinnamon, and other exotic spices mulling the warm wine in the silver pitcher.
“No bride has ever been so well fêted,” Kate murmured happily. Her sisters had been led to the guests’ apartments on the other side of the abbey and she was alone with her husband. Finally alone. After nearly a month. She felt a little thrill of apprehension—but it was not unpleasant.
“I could fete you in more elaborate surroundings,” Kit said. “We could afford a castle if you wanted.”
The star map had proved authentic. As soon as Kit had mended well enough to ride, they had followed the map miles up the coast to a place where a monolithic rock stood sentry some distance out in the churning surf. There, in a hollowed out watery grotto, they had found the French treasure. Even after turning it over to the marquis—who acted as magistrate for the area—the finder’s portion had been a fortune. They were rich.
But then, Kate thought, she had been rich before they’d found the treasure. Behind her, she felt Kit move closer. His hand looped around her waist, and he drew her back against his muscular chest. Aye, she was a veritable queen if riches were counted by the fortunes of the heart.
“I thought this last week would kill me for want of being with you,” Kit whispered in her ear. His breath was warm, his voice like honey. “Of wanting you.”
Her heart tripped into a faster beat as he nibbled her earlobe. “Not for want of loving me?” she asked, knowing the answer full-well but wanting to hear the words.
With exquisite care he curled his broad hand around her neck, and tipped her chin up with his thumb, tilting her head back against his shoulder. He looking deeply down into her eyes. The look in his own silvery green eyes took her breath away. She could hardly concentrate; his gaze was so avid, his feelings for her so naked.
“Do you want words? Or will you let me show you?” he whispered urgently, pulling her slowly around, his lips seeking hers.
“Both,” she answered breathlessly.
“As you wish, ma’am.” And he obliged.
And obliged.
End