Christ. Pleasure tugged low and hot, fierce in its intensity. But it was nothing compared to the feeling of sheer happiness that zipped through him when he felt the tentative stroke of her tongue against his.

It made him dizzy.

He groaned again, sliding his hands through the warm silk of her hair to grip the back of her head to hold on to as he kissed her deeper and harder. As their tongues circled and pulled them closer and closer. As he started to spin into a whirlpool of pleasure so intense that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself out.

Joan wanted to be angry. She wanted to push him away or bite down on the tongue that slid so deftly into her mouth. She wanted him to taste like herring.

She wanted to hate his kiss.

She wanted to hate him.

Alex Seton had done it again, jumping to conclusions about her presence in the tower—whether he may have had cause for those conclusions or not—and judged her guilty.

She was furious at herself for even trying to explain. She had been on an errand for her cousin, blast him.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been sent to check on Sir Henry and make sure he was where he was supposed to be. He was, but the fool’s errand—in this case a message for Sir Henry about a change in his wife’s plans for the morrow—had enabled her to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be an important missive from the king. The wax Great Seal of the knight on horseback that dangled from the parchment from silk threads woven through slits in the parchment was easy to identify even from across the room.

The fact that the missive had been on the table before Despenser hadn’t escaped her notice either. It changed everything. That she might not be able to rid herself of Sir Hugh as quickly as she wanted to was weighing on her, which was probably why she hadn’t noticed the man walking toward her until too late.

She wouldn’t have ducked into the shadows, would she? She’d been doing nothing wrong; she had nothing to feel guilty about. No matter what he thought.

She’d been so furious—and yes, hurt—by Alex’s accusations that she hadn’t been able to resist taunting him. She might have even known what he would do. She might have even wanted it. If he’d ravished and devoured her with lust the way he was supposed to, she was certain she would have been able to push him away and revile him the way she should. He would be just like all the others.

But he wasn’t like all the others. He was different. And his kiss was very different. It was gentle and tender—almost reverent.