Page 58 of Stay with Me

Was he trembling because of the strength of his desire and his efforts to restrain himself?

She reached for the blanket, and as she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, he expelled a noisy breath.

Two days. She’d only known him two days. And even though the chemistry between them rivaled a detonated explosive device, she knew he was right—they would do better to be patient, spend more time together, and get to know each other first.

He held himself rigidly for another moment before he swiped up his doublet off the table where he’d discarded it last night. He made quick work of donning it, snatching up his weapons belt, then striding to the door.

She waited for him to speak again, but he exited without another glance back.

Once he was gone, she fell back into the mattress and let out the tension that had been building.

He was fighting demons she couldn’t see, and if he lost the battle, he’d only despise himself. That meant she had to be on his side and help him win. That also meant for now, they couldn’t share the bed. Not until he’d made peace with his past, whatever that might be.

“No,” she whispered into the now-lonely cottage. “You can’t sleep with Nicholas, not now, and not ever.”

They were already getting close, and she had to put on the brakes to keep things from getting out of hand. Especially because she had no idea whether she’d live another day in the past or wake up in her modern-day life.

He’d been wounded once deeply when he’d lost Jane. And if she allowed a closeness to develop with him, he’d only be deeply hurt again. That was the last thing she wanted to do to him.

She needed to act honorably too. She couldn’t let herself get carried away by these new and exciting feelings that were developing. She had to keep a level head, remain objective, and maintain a distance from him.

Such a plan would be best. For both of them.

~ 22 ~

“Nock. Mark. Draw.”Nicholas whispered the command and then loosed an arrow. The familiar twang of the bow vibrated near his ear even as his fingers fumbled to find another arrow in the quiver he’d strapped onto his belt. But it was empty. He’d fired off every single one.

He lowered his bow. As he did so, one of the youth who stood on the sidelines of the butts ran toward the target to retrieve the arrows.

Nicholas counted those at the center. Even with the early morning sun glistening off the dew and blinding him, he’d hit the yellow central bands with every shot.

At the opening and then closing of the door of the cottage where he’d left Sybil, he tensed. He’d thought a little target practice would help release his pent-up energy, but at the prospect of her watching him, his body began to heat again as it had when he’d kissed her in bed a short while ago.

He was surprised he’d made it as long as he had lying in bed with her. But their conversations had been pointed and real and open, and he’d liked talking with her just as he had every other time.

When she’d dozed off, he’d contemplated giving her a kiss then. But his own eyes had drooped with weariness, and in no time, he’d fallen asleep too. He’d slumbered lightly, his body too aware of her nearness, so that as she’d begun to caress his face, he’d easily awoken.

He’d been waiting and wanting to kiss her again. It was his right to kiss her in their marriage bed whenever he so pleased. But the moment their mouths had fused, he’d known he wouldn’t be able to stop with just one kiss. Her lips moving against his, the way she’d pressed against him, the tug of her hand in his tunic—all of it had been like tossing dry grass on a fire.

If he’d allowed himself one more moment with her, one more kiss, one more touch, he would have combusted. He hadn’t expected so strong a reaction just from kissing her. But the kiss had been more than just a kiss. It had been an experience, one in which she’d been as fully present as he was. And that only made the connection all the more powerful.

He couldn’t kiss her again. At least, not like that.

From the corner of his eye, he could see that she’d started across the distance toward him. His heart picked up its pace, but he didn’t turn, didn’t give himself the pleasure of taking her in. Instead, he focused on the youth as he ran back to him with the arrows.

“Twelve per minute, sire,” the boy said with a grin.

“I shall make it fifteen.” He let the boy help him replenish his quiver, made sure the lad stood well back, then lifted his first arrow. An expert bowman was trained for speed in battle. He could easily shoot fifteen, sometimes more per minute when he wasn’t distracted by thoughts of the beautiful wife he’d left behind in his marriage bed.

She’d stopped a dozen paces away and was studying the way he was using the bow.

He would relish the opportunity to show her his skills. Nock. Mark. Draw. Loose. The commands from battle were etched into his head. He repeated them over and over, focusing on the target, until once again his fingers found nothing in his quiver.

When he lowered his bow this time, he allowed himself a glance her way.

“Impressive.”

Strangely, her one word sent pleasure through him more than the accolades of a dozen men.

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