Lyn Stone - The Viscount

She hurried over to the mare and began the chore of saddling up while he finished his own task with the gelding.

In short order they crossed the Derwent and were once more on the road to Maidstone. Guy reached into his makeshift sack, withdrew a link of sausage and handed it to her. “Here, eat this before you starve to death. No use being wet and hungry.”

“What about your wound? We really should see to it. Is it bleeding still?”

“Not anymore. As I said, it barely broke the skin.” He sighed. “We make pair in our deshabille, eh? But you’re no complainer, are you, Lily?”

“Depends,” she said, the word barely discernable through a mouthful of sausage. “Any bread?”

Guy handed her a portion torn off the loaf and then joined her. How strange it was to feel so easy in the company of a woman, he thought as he chewed. Despite the way she had aroused him with her response and the fact that he had left both of them wanting, Guy somehow knew Lily expected no apology for it.

She was a strong lady, his wife, and canny, too. Guy still could hardly believe how well she had weathered that attack in the street and the way she’d calmly accepted his need to eliminate those two. Smarky had warned him last week that they were dogging his heels and determined to make an end to him. Lily had accepted what had to be done without question. A truly welcome measure of trust.

With her there seemed no need for entertaining banter or observing false niceties. He was good at both when he put his mind to it, but this camaraderie with her was infinitely more comfortable. “I think I’ll like being married,” he commented, apropos of nothing.

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