Darcy Branwyn

Her head swam and she reached out for a bedpost. So much for desire… When Peter came closer she put up a hand to stop him.

“Chamber pot, quickly.”

He found one in short order and she knelt on the floor, Peter pulling her hair out of the way just in time.

She looked up at him after a couple of minutes. She could feel the perspiration breaking out on her brow. “It looks like I’m going to have a baby,” she said, her throat burning.

His chin jerked up, and then he nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

“Me either.”

He took the pot away. She was poured a goblet of wine. He helped her to sit on the bed, and then he sat next to her.

“I think we’ll just have to make the best of things,” she said, taking a sip.

“John said something to that extent after he punched me in the face.”

“Is that what it took to get you to marry me?”

He was quiet and she began to fear the answer. “No, of course not.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at him.

“I’m sure.”

He turned to face her, then reached up and removed the circlet from her head. He removed the wilting flowers and the ribbons, Zipporah sitting there clutching at her goblet.

“Come here,” he said gently, urging her to her feet. He took the cup from her and set it aside. When he returned she felt herself warming to him. Why him? Why did he have to do this to her?

She let him turn her around without protest, and he loosened the laces at her back. He slipped the kyrtle down and she stepped out of it. Bending, he took her shoes off and her green woolen hose, rolling then down from her thighs. By the time he’d straightened she was breathing heavily and there was an ache between her legs that she could not deny. Yes, he was going to have her—and like it or not, she was going to come for him.