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The first stitch caused her breath to hitch in her throat. The second made her stomach roil. The last one cost her every ounce of determination she had left. By the time she cut the thread, she was barely able to stand. Ever mindful of her well-being, James drew her to him, keeping her upright with an arm around the waist.

“Don’t go falling now,” he chided, his voice gentle. “If you cracked your skull, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“If I cracked my skull, I’m not sure there would be anything to do.”

Carys gave a shaky laugh, relieved it was all over. Why had she been so affected by a measly three stitches? She had once stitched a cut on her own knee without flinching, despite the pain. So why did she feel on the verge of a swoon for piercing someone else’s skin? She hadn’t been the one suffering.

Because the skin you’ve pierced was James’ her mind screamed at her, and you feel more for him than you have felt for anyone since Dewi.

“Thank you, Carys,” James said with his mouth against her arm. She suspected he was fighting the urge to place his lips on her breast, which was exactly at the right height to allow him to do that, and she closed her eyes. How she longed to feel his mouth on this part of her! Giving herself pleasure was one thing, and she could stroke the little sensitive bud hidden in her folds as efficiently as anyone. But nothing she could do replaced the feel of a man suckling at her, of his tongue lapping at her nipple, drawing it deep into his hot mouth, making it hard and then soothing the burn with long, delicious pulls.

Go drapia , this had to stop! Oh well, at least she hadn’t spoken out loud this time. She hoped.

Shaking, she took a step back and almost tripped on the hem of her skirt.

“Don’t thank me. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

It was a ridiculous thing to say. No one could guarantee they would never be hurt, and he had not asked to be attacked. Nevertheless, James didn’t point it out. Instead he said, “I can at least promise I will not let Margaret hurt you ever again.”

Never had he sounded more determined. And this determination was on her behalf. Carys swallowed back a sob.

“It is my turn to thank you. That strike was intended for m-me,” she stammered, as the truth slammed in. Had he not stepped in front of her so decisively, the knife would have cut her , perhaps on the side of the neck, perhaps in the eye. She might not have survived the attack.

“Yes, that strike was meant for you, and it was supposed to do much more than slash your cheek,” James snapped, shooting back to his feet. “How can you even suppose I could have let such a thing happen? Margaret only wanted to punish you for helping me but you did nothing wrong and shouldn’t have to pay for giving me my life back. How could I have lived with myself if anything had happened to you?”

“Nothing happened,” she replied, taken aback by his vehemence. “It’s all right.”

And then it hit her. If she could have been killed, then so could he. This could have been much worse than a cut to the cheek. This time she did stumble.

James let out a muffled curse. Thank God it was all over. Even with Carys’ soft touch, the stitching of his wound had been excruciating. He should make Margaret pay not for the pain she had inflicted on him, but for the ordeal it had been for Carys to see to the cut. Even now, though it was over, her hands were shaking so much she almost dropped the cup of ale he had poured her.

“You could have died,” he heard her say to herself. Thank God for her habit of talking to herself. He’d thought she was still recovering from having had to stitch him up, when in fact she was fretting over what could have happened to him. He hated it, hated the idea of her being unsettled in any way, especially through his fault.

“Nonsense,” he said roundly. “Get that silly idea out of your head.” The bluntness seemed to have the desired effect. Thank God she was no impressionable little miss but a woman of sense. Instead of wasting time being offended she nodded, as if his words had restored her to her senses.

“No, you’re right. You didn’t die. I should stop being so silly,” she muttered, before applying herself to the task of emptying the cup he’d given her. He took a long sip from his own drink while he waited for her to resume the conversation. It wasn’t long before she did. “So, what will happen to Margaret now? Will you tell Matthew and Branwen what she did? And why she came?”

“No.” It wouldn’t serve any purpose. The fewer people knew about what had happened in that cottage, the better. “I will take her back to her son Henry and wash my hands of her. He is the only family she has left. He will have to take care of her. I will not lift a finger to help her.”

“No. No one can expect it of you after what she did.”

She meant what she had done to him , raping him then forcing him to face his worst nightmare. But, as bad as that was, he resented Margaret more for having wanted to kill Carys than for playing the awful deception on him.

The rest of his drink was emptied in one gulp and he walked over to the window when the truth hit him. She could have died today. Dear God, forget him, she could have died. How would he have survived it?

“Get that silly nonsense out of your head.” Carys’ voice, unusually stern, came from behind him. Was she trying to imitate his earlier tone? It sounded like it. “I didn’t die.”

No, she had not, thank heaven.

He turned to face her, panic receding. It was over, and fretting about what might have happened would accomplish nothing.

Carys smiled and brushed a light hand along his wound.

“Dewi had a scar in the exact same place, you know.” For a moment she appeared lost in remembrance and there was a glazed look in her eyes he had never seen before. She always was so focused on what she was doing, so busy enjoying herself to the full that it disconcerted him.

“And here I was, thinking I was the only man ever to come to your aid,” James said, hoping to distract her from thoughts of her late husband. Not that he was jealous, exactly, but he would rather have her thinking of him while she was touching him, a normal reaction, he was sure everyone would agree.

“You are the only man to have ever stepped between me and an attacker,” she assured him with a smile. “Dewi got his scar cantering through the forest. Too busy worrying about how I was coping with the speed, he didn’t pay attention to where he was going and a branch hit him. Much less chivalrous than stopping someone from stabbing me, admittedly. But I kept telling him it gave him a dangerous air.”

There was such tenderness in her eyes that his throat constricted. How good it was to be loved thus, to have someone to make you feel special every day. He missed it almost as much as he missed Joanne herself. It was the best feeling in the world.

“I’m sure he would have defended you as I did, given the opportunity.” Suddenly he wasn’t jealous, he just wanted Carys to remember how cherished being married to Dewi had made her feel. And the man sounded like a good man, worried more about how his wife was faring than his own safety. He would have known she was a nervous rider and thought to look after her. “Unfortunately for him, Wales seems to lack deranged women ready to stab people who have done nothing to deserve it.”

“Yes. I’m sure he would have defended me.” She gave him a grateful smile for saying so. “And we could certainly find such women in Wales. Our two countries are not so different, you know.”

“No, I already suspected as much.”

But even if it had been different, how could he blame anyone for their origins when he had suffered from prejudice himself?

“I need to wipe your cheek, the stitching made you bleed again,” Carys said softly.

Without waiting for his agreement, she went to retrieve the piece of cloth from the table. At her nod, he sat back down on the stool. It amused him to think he was too tall for her to be able to tend to his cheek comfortably if he remained standing.

“Don’t move.”

Oh, he had no intention of going anywhere. The cold cloth against his skin was soothing and Carys’ proximity did wonderful things to his insides. Now that the ordeal was over, James found himself wondering why he had he not thought of injuring himself before. Nothing too drastic, of course, a small cut to the chin, or a slash on the wrist. Because having her look after him was a pleasure like no other.

Then he remembered that he had only been cut because he’d taken a blow destined to kill Carys, and his mood darkened again. What on earth had possessed Margaret to do such a thing as murder another woman? Was her supposed love for him enough to justify the desperate act? Of course not. Was she truly deranged then, as he’d started to suspect? Perhaps. But for all the lies and deception, he could not ignore that she had seemed to know what she was talking about where he was concerned.

“There is something I don’t understand,” he said while Carys dipped the bloodied cloth in the bowl of water to rinse it.

During their conversation, in her bid to convince him of her sincerity, Margaret had revealed details about his anatomy, details only someone who had been intimate with him could know. She had looked after him for days, had had plenty of opportunity to see him naked and had even, to his everlasting horror, taken possession of his body, so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised she knew what he looked like without clothes on. But she had also known how he behaved when he had a woman in his arms, the sounds he made, the kind of encouragements he gave. How could she know that if she’d only taken advantage of his unconscious state? Was he missing something? Had he made love to her willingly before falling ill, only to have the memory of it wiped out by the fever?

It had to be the case because what she had described could only have happened if he was fully conscious—and eager.

“I know I said I did not make love to her willingly while I was racked with fever, and I stand by it, but there were things Margaret couldn’t have known unless we had actually … ”

The words trailed off when Carys stilled and averted her gaze. His insides went liquid. She knew something.

Something he would hate to hear.

“Carys?” He had to know, whatever it was.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“No. But now you are,” he said, taking hold of her wrist and forcing her to look at him. The cleaning of his wound could wait. This could not. He needed to know what had happened between him and his sister-in-law or he would drive himself mad trying to remember. “Tell me now. Please.”

Carys must have seen the desperation in his eyes because she nodded slowly.

“During our conversation she confirmed that she was not with child, but she also revealed very disturbing details about your past life.”

Past life ? He frowned.

“You mean she didn’t take advantage of my illness?” Had he got it wrong?

“No, I’m sorry, she made it quite clear she did. You did not want her in your arms, or even know what was happening, she admitted as much. Then she bemoaned the fact that she could not bring you to … well, you know … ”

He cut her fumbled explanation short. “I see. She got my body aroused, enough to use it for her pleasure, but she could not get me to release my seed and make her with child,” he clarified in his usual, blunt manner. He had not imagined the heat of her mouth around him, then. Jesus.

“Yes.” Another pause. His whole body tensed. What Carys was about to reveal would be bad, he could feel it. “She also told me you had slept together once before, years ago, without your knowledge.”

Without his knowledge? He had never suffered from a fever such as the one that had floored him in the winter, and he never drank to excess. How on earth could he have made love to his sister-in-law and not known it? “I … Are you certain?”

Had she misunderstood? How could two conscious people sleep together without both of them knowing what was happening?

Carys bit her bottom lip. “Yes. I’m sorry, this is difficult for me.”

It would be, but he had to know and she was the only one who could help. There was no way he could ask Margaret. “I understand. But please tell me. All of it. Don’t try to spare me. I need to know.”

A nod. “She and Joanne looked quite similar from what I understand.”

Well, yes, broadly speaking, they had. Many people had commented on the resemblance over the years but to him, there had always been a crucial difference between the two sisters, one that made it impossible for him to see them in the same light. Joanne’s petite features had added to her charm, whereas Margaret’s bitterness had made her already small face appear pinched. Though the two animals could have been described in a very similar manner, no one would ever think of comparing a squirrel to a rat, would they? In his mind, the two women had been as different as night from day.

Now was not the time to point it out, however. They were discussing what Margaret had done.

“Yes, they did,” he said.

When he lifted his chin, Carys carried on. “She confided she had tricked you into sleeping with her, or rather that she had not rectified your mistake when you mistook her for Joanne one night.”

“Mistake her?” How in the name of all that was holy would he mistake his beloved wife for another woman and not know the difference? He waited while Carys gathered the courage to speak because he could not think of a single explanation.

“She said something about her cousin’s wedding.”

His insides, which had somehow recovered from realizing Carys had revelations to make, dissolved again, this time completely.

Oh, God.

The wedding. The tryst by the pond later in the evening … That had been Margaret?

He remembered the encounter well enough, even if he’d drunk more than usual. After a whole day of revelry he had gone to relieve himself behind a hedge by the village pond and ended up making love to Joanne on the mossy ground.

Except … except now he was told it had not been her at all.

Feeling unsettled by the whole episode, he had never dared mention it to Joanne afterward and she had never alluded to it either. Now he understood why. Because she had not been the woman kneeling at his feet in the darkness and begging to be taken there and then. That bold behavior had been out of character for his wife, there was no denying it. He’d put it all down to the heat of the moment, and the quantity of mead she had consumed, but it had not stopped him from feeling guilty. That night he had been unusually vigorous. And the woman on all fours in front of him unusually wild.

Now he knew why.

How had he not suspected something was not right? He should have guessed … But how could he have imagined anyone other than his wife would have come to him, demanding to be taken? It had been a moonless night and, in the darkness, nothing he’d seen had been enough to raise his suspicion. The hair he’d fisted while she’d pleasured him had been the exact same shade of brown he expected it to be, the hips he had grabbed as he’d pumped into her had been just as slender as the ones he was used to.

Fury, shame, disgust, slammed into him. What had Margaret done? What had she made him do that night? Thank God he had not said anything about the encounter to Joanne because questions would have been raised. It would not have taken them long to find out what had really happened but it was better his wife had gone to her grave never knowing her sister had betrayed her so.

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you much more, as I didn’t ask for any details,” Carys said, mistaking his reaction for confusion. She thought he had no idea what night Margaret was talking about. He didn’t tell her that, unfortunately, he knew all too well. It was humiliating enough as it was. “As soon as I’d heard what I needed to reassure you, I left. I found the whole conversation distasteful in the extreme.”

Yes. As anyone would. Would there be no end to his sister-in-law’s depravity? He’d thought her mind had been addled by the shock of her children’s death but if she had already done such an outrageous thing as to let him take her when he was convinced he was making love to his wife, then he could seriously doubt her sanity. That encounter had taken place more than twenty years ago. Had she been mad all this time?

Dear God. He hated her for making him feel he had betrayed Joanne.

“Let me finish cleaning the blood now,” Carys said gently.

Yes. If only she could also clean the guilt and shame away.