But all those faceless, nameless women hadn’t had the power to move him like the small, slender woman lying beneath him, staring up at him with a mixture of anger and desire. He threaded his long fingers through her silken hair, molding her skull beneath his hands. So fragile, so deceptively meek. He’d been a fool to marry—he simply should have taken Dunstan Woods for taxes. Sir Hugh of Gaveland wouldn’t have dared to defy him, and the woman who’d already begun to twist and turn into the fabric of his life would still be safely in her convent. He could send her back. Keep her immured there, away from the sight and touch of men. It was almost an acceptable alternative. As long as no other man touched her, he could forget about her. But priests were men, despite their vows of celibacy. And he’d seen his own cousin’s reaction to her. He had two choices. He could bed her, take her body until he tired of it. He could get sons from her, wear her out, and then send her back to her convent, or stash her in one of his own smaller houses, away from temptation.
What do You think about The High Sheriff Of Huntingdon?
