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The first drops of rain began to fall.

HIS FACE WAS open now and his eyes clear blue and free of trouble—for the moment, at least. “Where is there a bed? I need to be naked with ye.”
I was entirely in sympathy with this proposition, but the question took me momentarily aback. Of course we couldn’t go to John’s house—or at least not in order to go to bed together. Even if John himself was in no position to object, the thought of what Mrs. Figg would say if I walked into the house with a large Scotsman and immediately ascended the stairs to my bedroom with him … and then there was Je
“An i
“Is there one where folk wouldna ken ye? A decent one, I mean?”
I knit my brows, trying to think of one. Not the King’s Arms, definitely not that. Otherwise … I was familiar only with the two or three ordinaries where Marsali bought ale or bread—and people most assuredly knew me there—as Lady John Grey.
It wasn’t that Jamie by himself needed to avoid notice anymore—but his supposed death and my marriage to John had been the subject of a tremendous amount of public interest, by reason of its tragedy. For it to become widely known that the presumably deceased Colonel Fraser had suddenly reappeared from the dead to reclaim his wife would be a subject of conversation that would dwarf the withdrawal of the British army from the city. I had a quick flash of memory—our wedding night, witnessed at close quarters by a crowd of raucously drunk Highland clansmen—and imagined a reprise of this experience, with interested commentary by the ordinary’s patrons.
I glanced at the river, wondering whether, after all, a nice, sheltering bush—but it was late in the afternoon, cloudy, and the gnats and mosquitoes were hanging in small carnivorous clouds of their own beneath the trees. Jamie stooped suddenly and swept me up in his arms.
“I’ll find a place.”

THERE WAS A wooden thump as he kicked open the door of the new potting shed, and suddenly we were in a light-streaked darkness smelling of sun-warmed boards, earth, water, damp clay, and plants.
“What, here?”
It was abundantly clear that he wasn’t seeking privacy for the purpose of further inquiry, discussion, or reproach. For that matter, my own question was largely rhetorical.
He stood me on my feet, turned me about, and began undoing my laces. I could feel his breath on the bare skin of my neck, and the tiny hairs there shivered.
“Are you—” I began, only to be interrupted by a terse “Hush.” I hushed. I could hear then what he’d heard: the Bartrams, in conversation with each other. They were some distance away, though—on the back porch of the house, I thought, screened from the river path by a thick hedge of English yew.
“I don’t think they can hear us,” I said, though I lowered my voice.
“I’ve done wi’ talking,” he whispered, and, leaning forward, closed his teeth gently on the nape of my exposed neck.
“Hush,” he said again, though mildly. I hadn’t actually said anything, and the sound I’d made was too high-pitched to draw the attention of anything save a passing bat. I exhaled strongly through my nose and heard him chuckle deep in his throat.
My stays came loose, and cool air flooded through the damp muslin of my shift. He paused, one hand on the tapes of my petticoats, to reach round with the other and gently lift one breast, heavy and free, thumb rubbing the nipple, hard and round as a cherry stone. I made another sound, this one lower-pitched.
I thought vaguely how fortunate it was that he was left-handed, as that was the hand nimbly engaged in undoing the tapes of my skirts. These fell in a swishing heap round my feet, and I had a sudden vision—as his hand left my breast and the shift whiffed up round my ears—of Young Mr. Bartram suddenly realizing a dire need to pot up a batch of rosemary seedlings. The shock probably wouldn’t kill him, but …
“May as well be hung for sheep as lambs,” Jamie said, having evidently divined my thought from the fact that I’d turned round and was shielding my more private bits in the ma
He gri
He straightened and I put a hand on his chest. It was damp and warm, and the ruddy hairs prickled into gooseflesh at my touch. I could smell the hot, eager scent of him, even over the agricultural fug of the shed and the lingering smell of cabbage.
“Not so fast,” I whispered.
He made a Scottish sound of interrogation, reaching for me, and I dug my fingers into the muscle of his breast.
“I want a kiss first.”
He put his mouth against my ear and both hands firmly on my bottom.
“Are ye in a position to make demands, d’ye think?” he whispered, tightening his grasp. I caught the faint barb in that.
“Yes, I bloody am,” I said, and adjusted my own grip somewhat lower. He wouldn’t be attracting any bats, I thought.
We were eyeball-to-eyeball, clasped and breathing each other’s breath, close enough to see the smallest nuance of expression, even in the dimness. I saw the seriousness that underlay the laughter—and the doubt beneath the bravado.
“I am your wife,” I whispered, my lips brushing his.
“I ken that,” he said, very softly, and kissed me. Softly. Then closed his eyes and brushed his lips across my face, not so much kissing as feeling the contours of cheekbone and brow, of jaw and the tender skin below the ear, seeking to know me again past skin and breath, to know me to the blood and bone, to the heart that beat beneath.
I made a small sound and tried to find his mouth with my own, pressing against him, bare bodies cool and damp, hair rasping sweetly, and the lovely firmness of him rolling between us. He wouldn’t let me kiss him, though. His hand gripped the tail of my hair at the base of my neck, cupping my head, the other hand pursuing the same game of blind man’s buff.
There was a rattling thump; I had backed into a potting bench, setting a tray of tiny seedling pots to vibrating, the spicy leaves of sweet basil trembling in agitation. Jamie pushed the tray aside with one hand, then grasped me by the elbows and lifted me onto the bench.
“Now,” he said, half breathless. “I must have ye now.”
He did, and I ceased caring whether there were splinters in the bench or not.
I wrapped my legs round him and he laid me flat and leaned over me, hands braced on the bench, with a sound halfway between bliss and pain. He moved slowly in me and I gasped.
The rain had grown from a patter to a ringing din on the tin roof of the shed, covering any sounds I might make, and a good thing, too, I thought dimly. The air had cooled but was full of moisture; our skins were slick, and heat sprang up where flesh touched flesh. He was slow, deliberate, and I arched my back, urging him. In response, he took me by the shoulders, bent lower, and kissed me lightly, barely moving.
“I willna do it,” he whispered, and held tight when I struggled against him, trying vainly to goad him into the violent response I wished—I needed.
“Won’t do what?” I was gasping.
“I willna punish ye for it,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him, close as he was. “I’ll not do that, d’ye hear?”
“I don’t frigging want you to punish me, you bastard.” I grunted with effort, my shoulder joints creaking as I tried to break free of his grasp. “I want you to … God, you know what I want!”