Lady Rowena's Ruin. Carol Townend

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      He cleared his throat and squeezed her fingers. ‘If we decide to marry all shall be as you wish, my lady, though I give you fair warning the idea of a marriage being in name only holds no appeal. A marriage is not considered valid until it is consummated.’

      She bit her lip. ‘I do not feel ready for consummation, sir.’

      ‘I shall do my utmost to ensure you change your mind about that, and quickly. I want heirs.’

      Cheeks burning, she nodded. ‘Eventually, of course. I understand the duties of a wife.’

      ‘We need to retreat,’ he murmured. Backing her into the shadows away from the guardrail, he grasped her other hand.

      Rowena’s breath left her. She poised herself for flight as broad shoulders blocked her view of the hall. Eric’s scent—a heady mix of leather and horse, woodsmoke and man—filled her nostrils.

      ‘Relax, Rowena,’ he said softly. ‘If I may call you that?’

      ‘Please do.’ Managing to free one of her hands, Rowena had placed it against his gambeson with the vague intention of warding him off before she realised she wasn’t afraid. Her throat worked. ‘Wh...what are you doing?’

      ‘I am going to seal our betrothal agreement, I am going to kiss you.’

      Her gaze flew to his mouth. It was smiling. It was extraordinarily attractive. How strange, she wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t dreading his kiss. ‘We are not actually betrothed, Eric,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘We are merely considering becoming betrothed. We have to see if we think we will make a good match.’

      His smile grew and his eyes danced. ‘As you say.’

      He lowered his head, still smiling, and Rowena’s fingers curled into the leather of his gambeson.

      Lightly, he kissed her forehead. Her stomach swooped. He kissed her temples equally lightly, and the muscles in her belly tightened. His musky male scent seemed familiar and something about it was sending messages to her brain, messages that spoke of safety. Of warmth. Of a haven in a world she had never understood.

      And then his lips found hers and Rowena could no longer think. Here was warmth and gentleness. She heard flurried breathing, hers. There wasn’t enough air. Her heart was racing and her fingers were itching to slide into his hair.

      Taking her by the waist, he pulled her flush against him. When she heard a very male murmur of satisfaction, she realised that she had gone up on her toes the better to reach him. Something about this man—his kiss, the careful way he was holding her—made her feel as though she wanted to climb into him. Gripped by shyness, she hid her face against his leather gambeson. What was wrong with her? She had been lost in that kiss. Lost. Not once had she thought of taking her vows. Not once had she thought of Mathieu.

      ‘Rowena.’ The humour in his voice eased both shyness and shame, and she opened her eyes to see him shaking his head at her. ‘Our marriage will be consummated quite soon, I believe.’

      Frowning, she drew back. ‘Sir, just because we have shared a kiss does not mean I will marry you. We have not yet decided, we might discover we loathe each other.’

      A dark brow lifted. He tucked a wayward curl back under her veil and crooked his arm at her. ‘As you say, my lady. Shall we go back into the hall and see what Helvise has found us in the way of refreshment?’

Chapter Four

      That night, lying in bed in his bedchamber at the other end of the gallery, Eric couldn’t stop thinking about Rowena. Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe was here at Monfort and he had her father’s blessing—in a manner of speaking—to marry her.

      Should he woo her? Since Rowena had confessed that she was prepared to consider him as her husband, he would be mad not to at least try and make her like him. If he courted her, if he gave her more reasons to want him as her husband, well, that could only count in his favour. He had hoped to marry some day. Why not Rowena?

      Rowena wouldn’t necessarily be a biddable wife. Her privileged upbringing guaranteed that, not to mention that she had her father’s pride. Nor was Eric about to delude himself that she loved him, which made making her like him even more crucial. He must ensure that he made it impossible for her to refuse him. Such a chance would never come his way again.

      Marriage to Rowena would give him the elusive sense of belonging he’d ached for ever since he’d stood shivering outside the Jutigny gate. He would have a family, a family he knew and understood. And maybe, just maybe, he’d have someone to stand at his shoulder when insults concerning his humble birth were hurled his way. He’d learned to stand up for himself, of course, and that had strengthened him, but it would be good to know he was no longer alone. Not to mention that he’d have the security of land in Champagne as well as in Sainte-Colombe. What a gift that would be.

      Eric would be the first to admit that the events of the last couple of days had left him reeling. Lord Faramus’s request had been so unexpected. Not only that, Eric had conflicting feelings about Rowena herself. He wanted her in the basest, most earthy of ways. With her delicate body, forget-me-not-coloured eyes and flowing golden hair, she was the personification of all that was feminine. In his mind, Eric conjured her image and smiled into the dark. She was such a fragile-looking creature.

      However, he wasn’t blind to her nature—that apparent fragility masked the most stubborn of wills. Rowena was strong enough to pit herself against her father. Witness her refusal to marry Lord Gawain; witness her using the convent as a refuge. She was also clever enough to know when she needed to back down. The woman had pride, but she was too sensible to allow it to trap her in the convent till the end of her days.

      Dieu merci, thank God, it seemed she was prepared to change her mind about becoming a nun. He couldn’t wait to see her lose some of that aloofness.

      Dieu merci, she was prepared to consider him as her husband. He wanted to be the one to unravel that repressive golden braid, he wanted the right to run his fingers through those silken strands that smelt like a summer meadow.

      Shifting on the bed, Eric put his hands behind his head.

      Dieu merci, she’d grown so pretty. The trouble was that just looking at her had his thoughts in a tangle. He wanted Rowena and he wanted to belong, two desires that were twisted together so tightly there was no separating them. Marriage to Rowena would give him both of those things.

      He let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t love her and she didn’t love him. That didn’t matter, what mattered was that he must make her like him. If he married her and their marriage wasn’t to be blessed with love, so be it, few marriages were. He would, however, do his best to ensure that it would be harmonious. It would be a success.

      He had passed the first hurdle, she had agreed to consider him as a husband. He was pretty certain that she liked him, he would build on that. It would be worth his while to set everything aside for the next few days and court her. Properly.

      Remembering her skittishness concerning consummation, he frowned into the gloom and prayed her reluctance didn’t go deep. Surely she had learned that from the nuns? He must show her she had nothing to fear. He would enjoy exploring the carnal aspects of marriage with Rowena de Sainte-Colombe. If that kiss had been anything to go by, she was more than ready to begin.

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