“There is no need to be afraid. I won’t touch you unless you want me to.” His voice captivated her, seducing her with a dizzying need.

His fingers slid up her arm, and she shivered. “The children,” she reminded him. He acceded to her wishes, drawing back.

Emily’s breathing was unsteady, and she pinched herself without letting him see. She needed to distance herself. But more than anything, she wanted him.

She forced her gaze away, staring outside at the blackness of the night. The coach continued onward, and as time passed, she grew more anxious.

Why was she even considering sharing his bed? Too much had changed. He’d left her and had all but disappeared from her life.

She couldn’t let him hurt her that way again. And yet, she could not deny that he tempted her. Could she let him be her husband in body, as well as in name?

The longings rose up inside of her, so deeply. As she watched Stephen lift the sleeping children from the carriage, she was very much afraid of loving him again.

He arranged two rooms for them at the inn: one for Anna and the children; the other for Emily and himself. The innkeeper’s wife fed them a delicious stew of chicken seasoned with thyme and garlic. The crusty bread tasted like heaven when Emily dipped it in the stew. While she chatted with the woman about spices and seasonings, Stephen went upstairs to prepare the rooms.

Once Royce and Victoria were asleep, Emily returned to the room she would share with Stephen. She stared at the small bed, suddenly wary of sleeping in the same room with her husband. Anna helped her undress, and when she was clothed in a cotton nightgown, she slipped beneath the covers to await the earl.

It was like her wedding night, all over again. If she let him make love to her, she risked losing her heart again. And she didn’t want the emptiness of a one-sided marriage.

The door opened, and Stephen entered, fastening the bolt behind him. He removed his frockcoat and waistcoat, lifting his shirt away. Emily buried her face in the sheets, though not before she caught a glimpse of a lean muscular chest and the black tattoo edging his neck.

“Emily?” he whispered, sliding in beside her. His warm body nestled against hers, and she realized in a panic that he wore nothing. His mouth rested against her ear. He reached around to cup her breast through the cotton, his thumb idly stroking the tip.

“You shouldn’t,” she managed, her whisper breaking. A storm of sensations ignited her body’s hunger. His thighs brushed against hers, his rigid length against her spine.

“Shhh—” His hand slid beneath the fabric, caressing the heavy fullness of her breast. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” she lied. Not afraid of his touch, only of her crumbling willpower.