“Gwendolyn, we possess no shirts ourselves but if you wish, you may use one of Greylen’s,” Lady Madelyn offered.

Gwen couldn’t resist. “That would be great, thank you.”

Anna replaced her towel with a very large shirt. Isabelle laughed the second it was on and continued to do so as she rolled up the sleeves. Gwen didn’t care how big it was. It was made of the softest linen she’d ever touched. And it was Greylen’s.

“Is there somewhere else I should be sleeping?” Gwen asked, wishing at once that she’d kept her big mouth shut. She didn’t want to leave Greylen’s room. But staying meant that she would sleep with him again, like she did last night. And everyone in this room knew it.

Lady Madelyn spoke those words again. The ones she’d always dreamed of hearing. The same Greylen had spoken earlier. “This is where you belong, Gwendolyn. My son would have it no other way.”

Gwen didn’t ask Lady Madelyn to explain, and honestly, she didn’t want her to. She had dinner with Isabelle by the fire while Anna fussed about the room. And later, when Anna pleaded with her to rest in bed, Gwen stood her ground. She was going to sit by the fire until Greylen returned.

Then she would ask him about the things that had bothered her all day.

He was going to hell.

Over a blasted promise.

He’d burn for eternity.

And it’d be worth each infernal second.

Damn but the woman caused trouble. Tempted him to heights so unfathomable, he cared not of the consequence. He cursed himself a fool—a thousand times. Then added another.

Had she any idea? Had she a care?

Nay!

Had she, he’d not be in his current predicament—which at the moment was dire, and entirely Gwendolyn’s fault. He cursed again, aloud this time, a litany in seven languages. His muscles were so taut now, he feared his skin would split. His eyes narrowed as she began to stir. He scowled.

She had the nerve to stretch.

His erection, now painful, throbbed as he watched her. She might as well deliver him to hell’s gates herself.

“Greylen?” Gwendolyn whispered.

“Aye.” It came out as a growl as his hands fisted at his sides.

“Bad day?” she asked.

“Bad day? Bad day, Gwendolyn? Have you any idea what you’re doing to me?” he shouted.

“Me?” she shouted back, sitting up straighter. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“I made a promise,” he yelled again.

“I take it promises make you grumpy?”

“Nay,” he argued, kneeling before her. “Lasses with flawless skin and honey-colored hair, wearing nothing but my shirt, make me grumpy.”

“All of them? Or just me?”

“Just you, Gwen,” he whispered, lowering his head to her knees. “I swear, just you.” He sensed her smile and felt her relax as she placed her hands on his head and tangled her fingers in his hair. ’Twas a reflexive gesture, yet intimate as well. It felt amazing.