Though his hands never moved, her nipple tightened into a hard bud.

One sheep. Two sheep. Sixteen sheep.

She grabbed a pillow and squeezed it hard. Her body craved him, but she refused to weaken.

Beside her, she heard his breathing grow deep and even. He held her close, her back pressed up against him.

It reminded her of the way he’d held her the first time he’d made love to her on their wedding night. Skin to skin, he’d treated her with such gentleness. Sadness pricked her eyelids, for he hadn’t loved her then.

And she didn’t know what he felt for her now.

Chapter Fifteen

They rode out the following afternoon. Stephen was accustomed to riding, his body naturally adapting to the horse’s gait. Emily, in contrast, hung on to the reins with white knuckles. He suspected she hadn’t ridden a horse in years, and her backside would be sore later. And yet, he knew she’d die before complaining.

The village appeared upon the horizon, a pastoral scene of thatched cottages and wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys. A farmer driving a horse-drawn cart rumbled along the dirt road. When they reached the center of the village, wooden signs hung outside to mark the establishments. Stephen motioned for Emily to ride behind him as the streets grew narrower. They passed a tavern, a blacksmith’s, and a shoemaker’s before Emily called out for Stephen to halt.

He dismounted and put his arms around her waist to help her down. His hands lingered a moment, but she said nothing. Last night he had managed to sleep beside her without making love to her, though the effort had nearly been his undoing.

He was waiting for her to turn to him. He wanted her to desire him, to give their marriage a chance. But it had to be her choice.

She had blossomed here, comfortable as she’d never been in London. Perhaps she was right, and he should let her live at Falkirk.

Tethering their horses outside the shoemaker’s, he walked alongside her until they reached an apothecary shop. The spicy aroma of cinnamon and cardamom filled his nostrils as they entered. The owner, a stout man with long hanging jowls, set down his mortar and pestle at the sight of Emily.

“Why, Lady Whitmore,” he greeted her, “it is a surprise to see you.”

“Hello,” she responded, offering the man a bright smile. “Lord Whitmore, may I introduce you to Mr. Barmouth?”

The apothecary gave a slight bow. “My lord.”

Stephen greeted the man and added, “I hope you may be able to assist me in a small matter. I am looking for a man called Anant Paltu. He used to work in my wife’s household.”