Page 61 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“I am struggling to care about that,” she whispered, conscious of the cold wetness only as a trivial peripheral detail. His skin was so warm, her own pulse a fire that burned despite the rain.
“I know. But I must care, for your own sake,”
Tristan bent and lifted her again.
“We will find that oak.”
We argue. He despises my family and probably wishes harm on my brother, but he wants to protect me.
“You were born in the wrong age,” she whispered.
“Stone age?” he asked.
“The age of knights errant,” she countered.
Tristan laughed. “Have you been spying on me? Another pursuit of pleasure is spending time in my library with stories of Arthurian legend. I always wanted to be a knight, as a boy.”
Christine smiled, feeling the crisis slipping away from them. The mutual trauma both had suffered seemed to help.
“I can tell without the need for spying. Your every action has proclaimed it.”
They reached a grove of oaks, and the rain lessened. Gnarled, twisted boughs reached over their heads. Decades or even centuries of growth created a thick canopy that permitted only the heaviest collections of raindrops to occasionally burst through. The ground was almost dry. Tristan laid Christine tothe ground, where roots curled around her and moss became her pillow.
He looked around and came up with a couple of stones from the earth. Christine watched as he gathered twigs that had not been exposed to the rain and formed a fire. A few minutes of striking the stones made sparks and then…
“As good as a caveman,” Tristan said.
Christine shivered as the warmth built, finally becoming vulnerable to her sodden clothes.
“I will turn my back while you remove the dress. It can dry next to the fire, somewhat at least.”
“Is that your idea of seduction?” Christine laughed.
“It is pragmatism,” Tristan responded, “wet clothes could lead to a cold or a fever.”
At that moment, Christine succumbed to a bout of shivering and teeth-chattering.
“Very well. But where I lead, you will follow. I do not want you developing a fever either.”
“I am unlikely to…”
“To agree that you are vulnerable?” Christine cut across him, “I have observed that about you, too. Remember, water breaks stone or wears it down. And if it is iron that you are made of, we all know what water does to that, don’t we?”
She knelt before the fire, looking up at Tristan. He smiled and nodded.
“Will we turn our backs on the count of three?” he grinned.
He turned, shedding his coat and unbuttoning his waistcoat. Christine turned, hands going to her back. But the buttons were too awkward, her fingers becoming too cold for proper dexterity. She was very aware of the sound of fabric falling behind her.
His waistcoat? His shirt? He would not remove his breeches, surely! That would be a step too far.
“I am not sure I am up to this task without a maid to help me,” Christine said, “but do not turn around!”
She remembered the blindfold, which she had been carrying since she removed it from Tristan.
“Here,” she said, “blind yourself and you may help me.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Tristan responded, taking the blindfold from her.
