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“You think the widow of the earl of Jagger will want me?” Hugh laughed without humor. “She’ll spit on me when she discovers the truth.”

“Mayhap.” Wharton sounded cheered. “Why, if that is true, ye’ll not convince her t’ wed ye.”

“She doesn’t have to know before the swearing.”

“Ye’ve got t’ give yer name.”

“She knows my name. She doesn’t know my title.” He could almost feel Wharton jump as the idea struck him. “And I would take it ill if she discovered it too soon.”

Wharton mumbled something as his relish faded, and Hugh took a breath. His plan seemed riddled with hazards, but as always he rose to any reasonable challenge. He hadn’t reached his present pinnacle by seeking fights in every cobweb-laden corner, of course. He planned his campaigns with meticulous care, then fought with wild abandon to win.

He was in the planning stages now. He would fight later. And he would have to fight, he was sure. Wharton might dismiss Edlyn’s resentment. Wharton might imagine she would find contentment with his money and his position, but Hugh didn’t think so. Hugh recognized the barriers she had erected and gave them his proper respect.

Nevertheless, he lived to knock down barriers.

“This whole affair smacks of madness,” Wharton said.

Hugh knew what Wharton meant. Hugh liked women, but they’d always been easy to leave. Give him his sword and his destrier, and he would be happy. “Maybe it’s the onset of age,” he suggested. “The compulsion to sow my seed and see it grow before it’s too late.”

“Young virgin,” Wharton said under his breath.

Hugh heard it, of course. “Lady Edlyn can bear my children, and she’s proven her fruitfulness. Ah!” He slashed the air with his hand. “Enough discussion.”

Edlyn showed him no wiles. She was as far from a coquette as any woman could be. It wasn’t the compulsion to breed that drew him to Edlyn, it was Edlyn herself.

He suspected the nuns all wore the same thing Edlyn wore—a shapeless cotte over a well-tied shift. The holy women probably prayed their rough clothing would discourage lustful thoughts from the men in their infirmary, but in Edlyn’s case, at least, it didn’t work.

How could it? She had a body that would make an angel discard his wings. Burned into Hugh’s mind with the fire of fever was the memory of her breasts, the golden skin of the firm mounds, the soft nipples begging to be stroked. Whenever he saw those now-covered breasts, he observed avidly, seeing the way they lifted the material, the way they flowed when she lifted her arms to reach something from the top shelf.

Her breasts alone had healed him.

Her waist and hips had performed their own miracles. She had a way of walking that challenged him. He’d never met a woman with talking hips before, but sometime, somewhere, Edlyn had acquired them. Rise! her hips commanded. Come and capture me.

And of course he did rise, although not to his feet.

He hadn’t seen anything of her legs, but he knew the challenge must originate there, between them. After all, he had been lying on the floor, and from there he could see her ankles at any time. Strong ankles. Slender ankles. Ankles that were connected to the rest of her and to the feet she so often bared for his enjoyment. Aye, Edlyn didn’t seem to think bare feet were arousing, but every time she slipped off her shoes and padded around the dispensary, it made him think she had performed the first step of intimacy with him.

She had a nice face, too.

But those eyes…if he were a superstitious man, he would be stringing garlic and hoping to ward off the curse of those green eyes.

And she did curse him. That he never questioned.

“When ye heard her while she was healing ye—what was she saying?” Wharton asked.

“Something about our childhood together.” Hugh frowned. “Something about…a barn.” He shook his head. “The exact words escape me.”

“Long as it wasn’t some witchy incantation,” Wharton retorted.

“Not that. Never that.” Hugh was firm. “She did say something important, nonetheless. I’ll think of it, don’t worry.”

“Can we go in now, master?” Wharton asked. “I can hear th’ fairies awhispering under that oak.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Ye never hear anything.” Wharton sounded peeved. “Ye’re blessed by th’ fairies, that’s why.”

Actually, Hugh did hear them. Slight voices that could easily be mistaken for the rustle of leaves. But he never admitted that to anyone.