Margaret hated the little smile that curved his wicked, well-formed lips. He patted the bed as though encouraging a pup to jump up beside him.

Margaret was no dog to jump to his bidding — no matter how handsome her master might be. She still felt a little breathless at how well the man had cleaned up. His bushy beard had hidden a broad, square jaw with a cleft at the center of his chin. But he was still a ruffian, and she was very nearly his wife, unless she could find a way to deflect his intent in the next few moments.

Unfortunately, the way his gaze raked over her body told her he wouldn’t be easily dissuaded. She had to try. She couldn’t surrender her freedom or her will so easily to this oaf. “But I’m ill, milord. I’d not want to give you what I have.”

“Ill?”

She nodded quickly. “Fevered.”

“As am I,” he said, his smile stretching wider. “See how well we suit?”

She very nearly stomped her foot, but suspected her jiggling flesh would only increase his mirth. “Truly, milord. My skin is hot, my breasts ache and my belly feels as though I’ve swallowed green apples. I think I’m dying.”

A guffaw gusted from him, shaking his shoulders. “And I’ve the remedy,” he said, laughing so hard he doubled over with it.

“You mock me!” she hissed.

“No, no,” he said, gasping. “Your innocence pleases me, Margaret.”

She stomped her foot. “You are pleased I’m ill?” she asked, her voice rising.

“You aren’t sickening, love. You’re experiencing desire.”

“I most certainly am not!”

As she had feared, her anger only increased his merriment. He chuckled and leaned back on the mattress, resting on his elbows—which gave her an alarming view of his broad, hairy chest and the oak branch rising from his groin. The thought fluttered across her mind that the man had muscle on his muscles, so ropey and defined were the ridges that crossed his belly and striped his thighs. Her nipples prickled.

Her husband’s dark gaze swept over her nude body. “Your breasts dimple because they reach for my touch.”

Margaret’s mouth gaped for a moment. Then she snapped her jaw shut. “They most certainly do n—”

“Your skin flushes as your blood rushes to ready the places where our flesh will join.” He ignored her sputtered denials. “And your belly tightens, anticipating our joining.”

She shook her head, her eyes widening. “I’m a good girl. I do not lust for you, milord.”

“Lust is God’s way of giving us reward for what we are duty bound to fulfill.”

“You’re talking about…the begetting,” she said, feeling her lips twist with disgust.

“Yes, it’s time to beget.” He did it again —patted the bed beside him! “Come sit beside me. I promise not to pounce.”

But his expression didn’t reassure her. His dark eyes glittered, spots of color sat high on his cheekbones and his jaw flexed, the jerking muscle belying his relaxed pose.

She lifted her chin. “Will you touch?”

“Without a doubt.” He raised one eyebrow. “But so may you.”