Raising her chin she stared at the mantelshelf. The ormolu clock said midnight. Midnight? Time hadn't just gone, it had been wasted. Squandered, while he splashed about in a bath. A bath she daren't move away from in case he thought he somehow challenged her.
"You think you can get my back?"
"No, I don't. I think we agreed that I will not touch you."
"Then why don't I just lie here? Water's nice and warm. I could stay all night."
Damn him. He would too. Till icicles formed.
Touching him, washing his back, was an intimacy. But the aim of this was to father the heir. So far, although James Flint Blackmoore had been in this bedroom a total of two hours, she was no closer to being pregnant than a day, a week, or a month ago.
Lady Margaret might be in England, but Thomas lay in the cell
