“I know how to play speculation,” Annabel said, thinking that they should stay away from talk that led to kisses. “It’s Josie’s favorite game.”

“In that case,” Ewan said with a wicked gleam in his eye, “we’ll play for a forfeit.”

Annabel smiled. “Best of five hands?”

He won the first game; she won the second. He won the third game; she won the fourth. “If I didn’t know better,” Ewan grumbled as he laid down the cards, “I’d swear you were cheating, my girl. I had that game.”

“Shall it be pistols at dawn?” she asked, giggling.

“I shall win this hand,” Ewan said, looking at his cards. “You see”—he looked up at her and there was a wild look about him that made the blood suddenly thunder in her veins—“I want your forfeit.”

Annabel looked down at her cards, but he’d destroyed her composure. When he looked at her with that light in his eyes, it was as if a different Ewan had stepped forth. One that made her think of bedchambers and private things. She put down a card at random.

He reached out and drew a finger down her cheek. She shivered, and put down another card without thinking of the consequences.

“I seem to have lost a forfeit,” she noted, a few minutes later. “What will you ask for?” He smiled slowly, and she felt suddenly scorched by his heavy-lidded gaze. “You’re so different like this,” she said suddenly.

“Different how?”

“Normally, you look at me as if I amused you. In fact, you seem to view the entire world as an amusing spectacle.”

“You don’t amuse me,” he said, a wry smile curling his lips.

She could feel herself turning pink. “Not when…”

“Not when I want you as much as I do now,” he said. Then he added conversationally, “I can hardly think of anything else, you know.”

She turned even pinker.

“There you sit, wearing a dusky blue dress—a color rather unsuitable for traveling, but it looks quite dramatic with your hair—and I can recite every detail of your clothing, from the brocade around the sleeve to that affecting little tassel at the shoulder.”

“Imogen gave the gown to me,” Annabel said, trying to turn the subject. She felt instinctively it was going beyond her control.

But his smile just got deeper, somehow. “All I can think about is taking it off.” There was such a tone of husky conviction in his voice that Annabel gasped.

“It’s time to retire,” she said hastily, standing up.

He stood up too, his eyes on hers. “As you wish.”

“With the bolster between us,” she said, frowning at him. Then she froze. “Are you—are you going to ask for your forfeit tonight?”

He tipped up her chin. “Do you wish me to do so?”

“No,” she breathed, seeing his lips come to hers. “No.” There was a plea in her voice.

And there was a groan in his throat, but he lost it in kissing her. It was a long time before she pulled back. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I’m on the verge of losing control,” he said, and the amusement was back in his voice. “I pride myself on never losing control.”

“You know what they say about a fall,” Annabel observed. “The truth is, there isn’t much in your life that would make you lose control, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“It’s so easy,” she said, watching him gather the cards into a neat pile and replace them in the precise spot from which he’d taken them. “Mac takes care of everything. That’s why you’re always amused.”

“Yes,” he said. “Mac is a treasure.”

“So you never lose your temper because there’s no call to,” she finished.

He smiled at her wryly. “You must be good for me.”

But Annabel was suddenly cross that she’d lost the forfeit. She should have concentrated and kept her mind on the game. Now he’d make her undress in the outdoors or some such scandalous action. “ ’Tis easy to curb one’s temper when there’s nothing to disturb it,” she said sharply.

“Except you,” he said, standing just before her, but not touching her. “You disturb me.”

She had to smile at that.

They had a routine now, like any married couple. Annabel undressed with the help of her maid, and then tucked herself into bed. Some time later, Ewan came in, all sluiced down from washing at the pump, and took off most of his clothes and slid into bed. Then he usually got out of bed and found some sort of pillow and put it between them, because he was still adamant that it would be a disaster if he woke with her in his arms.

“A man,” he had told her one night, “would be happy to make love morning, noon or night. But in the morning he’s primed for the exercise, if you take my meaning.”She had. All those hours spent listening to the women in the village complain about their marriages were truly paying off.

Tonight didn’t feel like the other nights, though. Somehow the stiffness Annabel usually felt after sitting in a coach all day long had melted away, replaced by a racing excitement and trepidation. For one thing, she couldn’t figure out what Ewan meant to ask for his forfeit.

He walked in and Annabel tried to look at him objectively, the way she had back at Lady Feddrington’s ball when she didn’t know him from Adam. He was tall, and powerfully built…but checking off those characteristics didn’t work anymore. Because glancing at his chest made her think about their picnic. And—

“Ewan!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not wearing this shirt to bed,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep on my smalls, to protect us both. But you’ve seen my chest before, lass, and after we’re married, you’ll see it many a time.”

Annabel swallowed. Ewan pulled his shirt over his head, and his shoulders and arms bunched with muscle. Rather than making her embarrassed, it gave her a peculiar melting feeling in her stomach. His chest tapered to narrow hips, to which his white smalls clung as if they were about to fall down…Annabel closed her eyes. Her body felt suddenly all curves and softness, a natural match to his.

That night their bed was a great carved monstrosity that looked to have been built in the Middle Ages. He got in and the mattress listed to that side with a mighty creak.

“It’s a good thing we’re not married yet, because this bed couldn’t survive a bout of shaking sheets,” he muttered, pulling the covers over himself.

There was no bolster in the bed.

“Didn’t you ask me what a coney is, Annabel, my love?” Ewan asked softly.

She bit her lip, looking at him in the hazy light of the candles on the bedstand. His eyes were very, very green.

“A coney’s a rabbit,” he whispered, moving closer to her. “A soft, velvety rabbit.”

Annabel tried to think about rabbits and kisses, but his body was just next to hers, and the only thing between them was her nightgown. She felt as if she could feel the heat of his chest although he wasn’t yet touching her.

Ewan looked at his bride-to-be and told himself for the hundredth time that he would be able to control himself. She was breathing in a shallow way, and earlier he’d seen her looking at him with a stealthy pleasure that suggested she wasn’t thinking of kicking him out of bed. Except—