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Feeling sick, Sian placed the sweet she’d been about to bring to her mouth back in the basket.

For the second time in as many weeks, Christopher could have died.

Dear God, that was not something she had imagined would happen before long.

But of course, he was only a man and therefore not immune to accidents and diseases.

What if he died before they could get married?

Before she could spend a night in his arms? It did not bear thinking about.

“You could have died,” she said in a horrified whisper.

“Yes. Easily.” Though he was agreeing with her, he seemed completely undisturbed by the notion. “I will have a word with my squire about the state of my saddle when I get back home. You would have thought he’d take better care of me.”

“Yes. You would have thought so.” Had the man appeared in front of her, she might have struck him.

“Anyway, these tartlets are delicious,” Christopher observed. After devouring his second slice of pie, he had moved on to the sweets, selecting the biggest without hesitation.

“Yes,” Sian answered, deciding it was better to discuss the food than his brush with death. “Avice has always been the best of cooks. Whenever we visited from Wales when I was younger, I would look forward to what I would find here at Sheridan Manor.”

Avice’s tarts had been only the second-best thing about their visits to England, of course, but she would not admit to that, least of all to Christopher, even if the words were straining to get out.

Worry spiked through her. How long would it be before her secret leaked out of her?

Or rather, exploded? After having held on to it for so long, it was bound to erupt when she least expected it, when neither was prepared or able to deal with the revelation.

Perhaps she should tell him what she felt at the first suitable opportunity.

Would it be such a bad thing? Even if he rejected her, at least she would know where she stood.

It was time anyway.

They were both of marriageable age, and she feared it wouldn’t be long before Christopher found someone he wanted to marry.

That someone had better be her because she would go mad otherwise.

She could not afford to wait at the risk of seeing him captured by one of his numerous lovers.

Though she hated the fact that he’d had more women than she could count, she reasoned that it was better he went from one meaningless conquest to another than become enamored with a sweetheart with whom she could not compete.

As far as she could tell, women came and went.

But she was a constant in his life, had been for years even if he’d not realized it.

Hadn’t he just said he was glad to see her?

Granted, it might have been because she happened to have food with her, but if eating was all he’d been concerned with, he would have taken a few tarts with him and gone on to Throckmorton Castle.

Instead, he had sat down and started to talk to her.

Even more pointedly, he seemed happy to share a moment with her.

This was good, but there was still a big obstacle to her plan.

After what had happened with Elsie, she dreaded having to announce to her family who she had chosen as a groom.

Uncle Matthew had said only the day before that he did not want to see Christopher ever again, her father had called him a debauched seducer of women, and, of course, Jane might never be able to offer her wholehearted support.

“You seem lost in thought. What’s on your mind, Little Lamb?”

Unwilling to be honest, she seized upon the first thing she could think of.

“You see that tree over there?” She pointed to a young oak behind him with branches covered in vibrant green leaves. “I planted it myself.”

Christopher’s face softened. “You never disappoint, do you? You always come up with the most surprising statements, and this in the blink of an eye, when other people, me included, would be at pains to think of a single intriguing thing to say when pressed. Tell me more about this tree of yours.”

She blinked, both disconcerted and delighted by the order. What was it with him wanting—nay, liking —to be surprised? As to his wanting to know more about the tree, it was not the first time he’d asked her to expand on something other people would have found tedious.

“I was nine when I planted an acorn in the meadow, hoping it would grow into a mighty tree,” she started. “I thought … I had come for a visit, and I wanted to remember that day.”

The day she had found her future husband. She had wanted to be able to sit in the shade of that tree once they were married, and maybe later, Christopher would bring the children he had given her to play in a tree house he’d made for them. The fanciful, na?ve dreams of a child.

Growing up, Sian had liked to visit the tree every time she’d come and see that it was going strong, just like her feelings for him were.

“Why an oak?” he asked, taking her by surprise for once.

She stared, not sure what to answer. She had never thought about it. “I suppose because I knew they grew from acorns, whereas I had no idea what to plant to get, say, a birch or a willow.”

“And why did you decide to plant a tree that day in particular?”

There was no choice but to lie. Sian was not about to admit to the truth while Christopher was waiting and looking her in the eye.

Fortunately, she’d always had a quick mind.

“That day, I had met our cousin, Iorwerth. He was my first-ever cousin, and I was elated to meet him. I think I imagined I would plant a tree for each of the others.”

“And did you?”

“No.” Of course not. There would only ever be one tree, like there was only one Christopher.

He helped himself to another tart. Lord, but the man had the appetite of an ogre … How did he not have a paunch like so many rich noblemen she knew? But he was just perfect, all lean limbs and taut muscles. With such a physique, he would feel?—

“How many do you have?”

“How m-many w-what?”

“Cousins?”

Oh. She had been so lost in contemplation she’d had no idea what he was talking about, and she was relieved to see that he had not realized it. “Three, so far.”

“So far?” He arched a brow.

“I suspect my aunt Branwen might be with child again.”

Her heart leaped at the thought of welcoming another cousin to the family, of having another chubby little baby to cherish soon.

Since that day more than ten years ago when she had fallen in love with Iorwerth, her craving for children had only grown—as had her impatience.

When would she have her own? Heat crept up her cheeks because, of course, she imagined the man next to her as the father, and, no longer a nine-year-old girl, she had a good idea of what the act of getting with child involved.

She couldn’t wait.

“Look at you blushing.” Christopher beamed.

Fortunately, he had no idea she was blushing because she was imagining him naked and poised over her, doing what was required to make her with child.

“I would have thought that a woman as knowledgeable as you seem to be would not be coy about the notion of a couple?—”

“I’m not!”

“Clearly not.” Chuckling, he wiped his hands on the piece of cloth nearest to him.

Sian glanced nervously toward the river, not sure whether she wanted her sisters to come back or not.

On the one hand, it would put an end to the embarrassing moment, but on the other, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be seen alone with Christopher.

What Jane would think if she saw them together, the despised Lord Ashton smirking and her with her cheeks flaming red, didn’t bear thinking about.

His appetite finally sated, Christopher settled himself on one elbow. “You know, you never told me what you named my eyes.”

She knew she had not. And, in all honesty, she had hoped he’d forgotten about it because she had regretted admitting to something so embarrassing. But it was clear he would not be distracted this time, so she decided to answer. He would only insist if she did not.

“The blue one is Ellyll and the brown one Blaidd.”

“I see.” A corner of his mouth quivered. “That doesn’t help me much.”

“You asked what I named them, not what the names mean.”

“True, as I thought it went without saying. So. What will I have to do to get that information out of you?” He leaned over to her. “Fair warning, my lady, I can be very, very persuasive.”

Oh. Lord.

This she didn’t doubt for a moment. And surely, he knew he had reduced her insides to a puddle with his husky voice?

“There will be no need for any extreme measures,” she started, tripping over her own tongue.

She had to tell him what the words meant before he decided she had to be persuaded.

“Ellyll is a sort of mischievous elf, and ‘blaidd’ means ‘wolf.’” She shrugged.

“I could have done better, I think, but I was only nine when I named them.”

“Nine?” Christopher sounded shocked, as well he might. She had just inadvertently revealed she had been obsessed with him from a very young age.

“Or ten—or eleven—I don’t remember. And I did tell you we had met a few times before you started remembering me. Or have you forgotten that as well?”

“I was once a fool, but believe me, I will not forget that, according to you, one of my eyes is a wolf.” The purr he gave was worthy of the animal itself, and she knew then that she could not have chosen a better name for Blaidd.

“Do you know what wolves do to little lambs such as you? They devour them whole.”

He’d thought to shock her, possibly even frighten her, but it took all Sian’s inner strength not to throw herself at him and beg him to do just that.

She was old enough and more than ready to be devoured at last. Should she tell him as much?

No. Such an admission required some planning.

Instead, she reached out for a tart. If her mouth was occupied, then she would be unable to blurt out anything she would regret later.

“I think you enjoyed that,” Christopher said once she had swallowed the last mouthful.

The mischievous blue Ellyll winked at her.

“At least as much as wolves like to eat little lambs. But look, now your fingers are dripping in honey.” Before she could do anything, he took her hand in his.

It was so big it almost engulfed hers. She did not protest, did not even look at it.

If she saw their fingers entwined, she would be lost. “Let me.”

Could she do anything other than agree? No.

She nodded. Slowly, keeping his eyes on her, Christopher licked first her index finger, then her middle finger.

The ring finger, the one where he would place a wedding band soon if she had her say, was next.

Finally, he sucked her little finger straight into his mouth.

So hot, so wet, so delicious. A moan built in her throat, a shiver rippled down her spine, and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by sensations.

What was happening?

When he’d said he would deal with the honey, she’d thought he would use the cloth he’d just discarded to wipe her hand clean, not … not make love to her fingers and reduce her to a puddle of need.

“Delicious. Give Mistress Avice my compliments when you get back to Sheridan Manor. I’ve never eaten anything like that.”

With those words, he released her hand and stood back up.

Sian’s eyes were still closed. If she opened them and saw him towering over her, his lips shiny from sucking her fingers, she would either swoon or launch herself at him.

Neither option would be wise. She had decided only moments earlier that she had to think carefully about the way she would reveal her feelings and her plans regarding him.

She opened her eyes only when she heard his footsteps in the distance.

After one last scorching glance in her direction, Christopher led Warrior away.

It was only when silence fell back in the clearing that Sian remembered that the tarts Avice had given her were walnut and fig—not honey.