Another shrug, and I feel sick. If he goes, I go. Rhys Evans is the only reason I’m staying here at all, but I can’t tell him that. We’d barely spoken until a few days ago. I’ll sound insane.

His voice is a low rumble next to the crackling fire. “I liked it better when you were begging me to fuck you, cariad.”

Oh, lord. I manage to keep from fanning myself, but it’s a close thing. “Should’ve taken me up on it when you had the chance, huh?”

Rhys grins, white teeth flashing in the dim room. “Maybe so. But we won’t do that while you’re upset. Not the first time. I want you clear-headed. I want you sure.”

I couldn’t be more sure if I tried, but there’s no use in arguing. Besides, with the adrenaline seeping away from my muscles, I’m tired. Groggy and swaying on my feet.

“I’ll show you to the bed.”

Oh. Guess the sofa’s not for me, but what did I expect? As I trip after Rhys through his stone corridors, it makes perfect sense. The blacksmith may be rough and reserved, but he’s also a gentleman. More’s the pity.

“You could spoon me,” I mumble, slurring with exhaustion and climbing under his sheets. Rhys watches me from the bedside, arms folded and face unreadable. “We could cuddle all night. Come on, Rhys Evans. Get in and I’ll count all your big muscles.”

There’s a long pause, and for a second there I think he might take me up on it.

But then: “Another time.” A flicker of a smile. “They won’t go anywhere, Gwen.”

I flop back against the pillows with a sigh. “They’d better not.”

A whiskery kiss brushes against my forehead, and I’ve barely realized it’s happened before the bedroom door clicks shut. I’m left in a pool of lamplight with a thudding pulse and hot cheeks.

Holy hell. It happened after all. The blacksmith kissed me.

How am I supposed to sleep after that?

Six

Rhys

Gwen Roberts is a special kind of torment. She’s always been a distraction, even from miles away across the valley. But having her here in my home, sleeping in my bed through the night, then wearing a borrowed plaid shirt that dangles over her bare legs as she makes mugs of tea at the kitchen counter…

It’s a lot. A constant assault on my self control.

“Do you take sugar?” She smiles at me over her shoulder, the baggy collar of my flannel shirt slipping to expose a patch of pale skin. There’s a mole near the base of her neck. Freckles, too. “Rhys?”

“No. Just milk.”

The spoon clinks against china, her bare toes curling against the chilled flagstones, and I can’t stop staring at the backs of her thighs. My eyes are going dry.

She’s so bright. Soft and warm and funny and sweet. Gwen Roberts is the walking version of a cuddle in the sunshine. And meanwhile here I am, surly and giant and twice her age. Rough and grumpy and wrecked by her every move.