“The age of consent is twelve. Mum believed if we were old enough to fuck, we were old enough to marry. Not that she used those exact words, but she got her message across.”

“So you’ve never been . . . inside . . . a woman without wearing a sheath?”

Her hair was piled on top of her head. He brushed some stray strands away from her cheek. “Never.”

Turning back around, she settled against him. “I can’t fathom it.”

“I didn’t want to marry a girl just because I got her with babe. Nor do I want any bastards.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach clenched. But if he got her with child, it wouldn’t be labeled a bastard. Surely that would bring him some comfort were he to ever learn of her deception. Deception. She hated the word, the need for it. Unclenching her eyes, she watched the flames on the hearth writhing as she had been a short time ago.

“Open.”

As she obeyed his command, she placed her hand over his, held it in place, taking not only his offering of a bit of cheese between her lips but also his forefinger, suckling, and taking great satisfaction in his low groan and the jump of his penis against her bottom. Removing his finger from her mouth, she chewed the tart cheese and scraped her nail over the scar that ran the length of his forefinger and beyond to the back of his hand. “How did you come to have this?”

“Got into a brawl with a fellow who had a knife.” He began dotting her nape with kisses.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.” His mouth lingered until it seemed he was painting kisses over her.

“You don’t strike me as someone who gets into fights without a reason.”

A low grunt that could have served as agreement.

The marred flesh was a ghastly ugly thing and yet the story of its existence called to her. “Why did you challenge him?”

The kisses were growing ever more slower, ever more purposeful. She had no doubt they would soon be leaving the bath for the bed. “Aiden.”

His mouth was near her ear now. “He called my mum a whore.”

In his voice, she heard the pain from his youth, the embarrassment he might have suffered. “Is that what everyone thought of the woman who gave birth to you?”

“He was referring to Ettie Trewlove.”

Her heart tightened with the realization that for this man, only one woman was his mother—the good soul who had taken him in.

Pressing his finger against her lips, she glided her tongue over the scar. “Did you give the lad a sound thrashing?”

“I did. His nose never did straighten, remained a bit crooked pointing off to the side.”

“You protect what’s yours.”