At least they weren’t yet wed. She would’ve kicked him out of their bed for sure. As he lay on his blanket, the woman’s words pounded in his brain. Pig farmer? Her venomous declaration stung and it was too late to take back now, not that she’d be willing to retract anything she’d said. He gathered his bedding at first light, before the blazing sun rose on the horizon. He glanced at Grace, who was sleeping peacefully. Instantly irritated, he shot her a cold look of disdain. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to hear her, and he sure as hell didn’t want to talk to her. She’d said all there was to say last night—or should he say, only a few short hours ago. At least Princess Grace was able to rest with a clear conscience and hadn’t tossed and turned all night as he had. While his men cleared the camp, Fagan found himself once again in a foul mood because of a Walsingham woman. Memories of Grace’s soft kisses didn’t even calm him because all he could think about was her sharp tongue.
