offered her another bite of hen. Garlic sauce dripped off the end of the knife and ran down her chin. Before she would wipe it away, he removed it with a swipe of his finger.
As he lifted it to his mouth, time seemed to come to a standstill again and Marguerite knew, by the faraway look in his eyes, that he, too, was remembering another time, another shared meal. She wondered if his stomach knotted while a sudden warmth heated blood, or his pulse quickened the same way hers had.
Darius cleared his throat, then handed her the knife. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.
Once they’d finished eating, Darius asked, “Where were we?”
“I do not remember.”
“Ah, yes, what am I going to do with you?” He frowned, mimicking intense concentration. “Since hanging you is out of the question and truly any form of physical punishment would also be unthinkable, I can only think of one thing.”
She dreaded his answer, but asked all the same, “And that is?”
He flashed her a smile. The same one that used to set her blood racing and reduce her limbs to little more than jelly.
“I will remain at your side at all times.”
That would not do. Not at all. It would be impossible to carry out her duties and responsibilities with him underfoot. How would she see to the weekly shipments? Worse, how would she spend what precious time she had left with Marcus?
Marguerite shook her head. “I do not think that is wise.”
“No?”
He was enjoying this far too much. “No.”
“And why is that?”
“It will make it difficult to meet my love each day if you are always about.” Now that was not exactly a lie.
“My, my. Two husbands and a lover.” He paced the chamber before her. “What a busy woman you are.”
“I do not have two husbands.” Nor had she said lover, but let him think what he wanted on that score.
“I stand corrected. One of your husbands is dead.”
“My only husband is dead.”
Darius walked behind her. Before she could turn around, or move out of his way, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Marguerite knew the taste of fear. A cold dread snaked its way down her spine, all the way to her toes. The hairs on her neck rose.
But it was not Faucon she feared. It was herself.
It was fear of the memories that had surfaced when he’d held her hand earlier and again when he’d fed her. Fear of the bubbling passion his obscene caresses of her palm had created. Fear of the way her memories had returned with such ease. Fear of wanting his steady warm touch to continue.
He kneaded her shoulders, stroked his thumbs along the back of her neck. More than six years disappeared…and they were once again in the hunting lodge.
Marguerite tipped her head forward, letting him work the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. Not having the strength or the will to fight him, she sighed.
Darius’s breath was hot against her neck. His kiss on the sensitive flesh beneath her ear brought a soft moan to her throat. Unable to stop herself, she let it escape.
He answered the sound with a low, gentle laugh before pulling her to her feet. “I am your husband, Marguerite.” He kicked the stool out of the way, slid his arms around her and held her back against his chest.
She pressed into his embrace, grasping his forearms for support. “Those vows were not binding.”
He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head before returning his lips to her ear. “They were as binding as the actions in our marriage bed.”
He slid a hand up her stomach, scorching her skin through the layers of her clothes. He cupped one breast, thumbing the nipple to a hard peak, drawing a breathless gasp from her lips.
“Darius, do not do this.”
He turned her around in his arms. As he lowered his head to hers, he asked, “Do what?” before running his tongue along the line between her lips and easily parting them to delve inside.
His kiss stole the slim remainder of her will. She curled her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. She had remembered correctly, his hair was still as soft as a rabbit’s fur.
And his kiss still had the power to make her hungry for more.
Darius lifted his head. “Will one husband and one lover be enough, do you think?”
His question was like a punch to her stomach. She lowered her arms and pushed him away. What had she been thinking? Was she little more than a whore willing to put her entire future in danger for a kiss?
He retrieved his goblet and downed the contents before turning back to face her. “Tell me something, Marguerite, was it easy to forget our marriage? Did you go as willingly to Thornson’s bed as you did to mine?”
“Do not be crude. What choice did I have?” She crossed the chamber, putting as much distance between them as possible.
“You could have said no. We’d exchanged vows.”
From the moment she’d recognized him from high atop the wall, she’d expected this, but the deadly tone of his voice made her gasp. “I spoke but a promise. Not all promises can be kept.”
Shards of gold sparkled in his angry eyes. There had been a time when she’d been content to lose herself in his gaze. A time when no secrets lay between them. A time so long ago.
“I remember that vow, Marguerite. It was much more than a simple promise.” He stepped toward her. “It was a vow made to me, before God, before witnesses.”
He stood before her, close enough that his warm breath caressed her cheek. “A vow to ever be my faithful wife.”
“No.” She pushed him an arm’s length away. “Do not do this, Darius.”
“Do what? Do not remind you of vows made and broken?”
She closed her eyes. She did not need to see his face to recognize the anger in the tightly controlled tone. Even though she’d come to love Henry Thornson, the years that had separated her from Darius had never dimmed the memories she’d carried in her mind, in her heart.
But she could not allow fleeting whims of childhood to mar her recent past, or destroy her future. No matter the cost to her soul, Faucon had to be led to believe how little those vows meant to her.
Marguerite silently prayed for the strength to lie to him yet again this day. Certain her riotous heart would withstand the self-inflicted pain, she stared up at him and hardened her voice. “We were children, Darius. Impetuous children who acted rashly on a whim. It was more childish folly than binding oath. Nobody, not the king nor the Church, would hold us to those vows.”
“Children?
