Page 7 of A War Apart

He trailed kisses along my jaw, sending a rush of warmth through me. “‘Such goings-on?’ Well, if Marya Ivanovna wouldn’t approve, we shouldn’t.” He untied my apron and let it fall to the floor, kissing further down my neck.

He knew how to make me melt with a single touch. “That’s not fair.” My voice came out breathy as he tugged at the stringof my skirt. In a moment, the skirt joined my apron. The room was cool, and I wore only my long shirt and kokoshnik, but my skin radiated heat. He guided me to the bed and untied the ribbon that fastened my kokoshnik, setting the headdress on the bedside table. Then he unbraided my hair and combed the tangles out, each touch lingering.

Once my hair fanned over my shoulders in long, black curls, he pressed a kiss to my shoulder, letting his hand trail down to the hem of my shirt. He caressed the swell of my stomach—I said a silent prayer of thanks that the baby was restful for the moment—and moved to my swollen, sensitive breasts. Letting out a whimper of need, I turned and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his.

***

Some time later, we lay together in bed, breathing hard. A trickle of sweat rolled down my stomach, and I pulled away from Han’s sweltering touch, fanning myself with a hand.

“Warm, are you?”

I glared at him. “Well, it’s certainly not my fault if I am.”

He touched a finger to the tiny black freckle at the corner of my eye, then trailed a path down my cheek. “Yes, it is. Your fault for being so beautiful.” I rolled my eyes, and he laughed as he went to the window and opened it. “Better?”

The slight breeze that came through the room was divine. I laid my head back and sighed. “Much.”

“Good.” Han sat down on the bed and ran his fingers through my hair.

The combination of the breeze and his touch was almost enough to lull me to sleep. I closed my eyes. “Was there any interesting news in the field today?”

“Not really.” His voice was tight, though. I opened one eye, looking up at him in question. He sighed. “More problems with the soldiers in Tsebol.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go next week.” After the harvest, he’d travel to the city to sell the wheat. His missing hand marked him as a survivor of the battle at Barbezht, and I wouldn’t put it past any of the soldiers to target him because of it.

“I’ve been going to Tsebol my whole life, Milochka. This isn’t any different.”

“It hasn’t been crawling with soldiers your whole life, though.” All the news about unrest in the city had me on edge. I wished we could do all our business in nearby Selyik, but the harvest wouldn’t sell well in our small hometown.

“It will be fine,” he soothed. “No one’s going to look twice at a farmer in the crowds.”

I caught his hand in mine. “Just be careful,da?”

“I will.” He pressed a kiss to my hand. “I have too much to come home for.”

“And Yakov?”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

“Hm.” I wasn’t sure I believed him. Yakov was more likely to draw Han into trouble than Han was to keep him out of it.

He squeezed my hand. “We’ll be fine,dorogusha.”

“I—oh!” My words were lost as the baby kicked me, hard. I placed Han’s hand where I’d felt the movement.

The scar on his head, a remnant of his first battle, wrinkled as he frowned in concentration. We sat in silence for a moment, until the kick came again.

Han’s eyes widened. “Was that him?”

“That was him.” I smiled. “I think you woke him up.”

He stared at his hand on my stomach, his eyes bright. “My son,” he said, his tone wondering.

Typical.“Ourson.”

“Our son,” he agreed. “Or daughter.”

“No, definitely a son. I’ve got a feeling.” The baby kicked again, slightly lower, and I shifted his hand.

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