Page 45 of The Scot

Chapter 19

This was a side of Terric Kennaugh she had not seen before.

Granted, she’d only known the man a few days. And in that time she had despised him, gotten drunk with him, kissed him, and shared more of her life than she’d planned. All of those encounters had been quite different from one another, but they shared one common theme—Terric was a man who did not waver. All he did, he did with conviction, with the confidence of a man accustomed to leading.

But as he cradled her hand, looking her in the eye, he seemed less like the man who was a leader in two countries. At this moment, he was simply a man holding her hand. A man who appeared almost nervous, which Roysa had not thought possible.

“A question?” she repeated, attempting to imagine what that question could be. Would he ask her to leave ahead of the battle? After all, she had no real place here. Surely Dromsley was nearly as unsafe for her as Stokesay Castle, if battle was indeed imminent. Well, she’d not do it. Roysa refused to leave while Idalia was still here. So her answer would be a firm no.

“Will you give me permission to court you?”

Shock flooded her. Surely he had not asked . . .

“Last eve,” she managed to get out, “you said—”

“I was wrong.”

Had she really thought Terric like her father? Her father had never, to her knowledge, admitted to being wrong about anything. Nor could Roysa imagine him doing so.

Nay, Terric might be every bit as much a natural leader as her father, but he was a different man. Very different.

And he wants to court me.

“I . . .”

What could she say?

“I am recently widowed.”

“But you are not in mourning.”

Nay, she was not. Indeed, the brother-in-law of the man she’d married could very well be planning to attack Dromsley. None here would condemn her.

“Your mission.”

“Will not be compromised. I’m asking merely that we learn more of each other, properly. I would not dishonor your sister and Lance by dallying with you, but neither am I willing to avoid your company either.”

She was free to make her own decisions now, even if her father or others might not approve of them. Her father had often spoken of the decisions he was called upon to make as a baron. To decide, he’d told her, was to commit oneself to something fully . . . and hadn’t she already done so?

Terric had stolen her every waking, and nonwaking, thought. Kissing him again, taking the pleasure he’d promised . . .

And yet, she had been wrong before. Not that she believed her sister’s husband would befriend one so dishonorable as Walter.

But he asked to court her. Not marry her.

There was but one answer.

“Aye.”

Terric tightened his grip on her hand.

“But you understand what that means . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off.

“I did not ask for permission to undress you. To slide my hand”—he moved so close to her they touched, the warmth of his flesh searing her despite the layers of cloth separating them—“between your legs and make you come apart with my fingers.”

Terric released her hand, reaching up to cup her cheek instead.

“Or to watch your naked body writhe with need beneath me as I give you the very thing I so dearly desire. To be inside you. To love you so thoroughly neither of us is able to stand upright for a full day.”