Free Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) by Anna Markland

hands on the arms of the chair and push herself out of it, but then she might touch him, and that would be her undoing. “I thought that’s what you wanted to hear.”
    He studied her. “There is something I would like to hear from your lips.”
    “My lord,” she whispered, shrinking back as he leaned closer. The playd slipped to her shoulders.
    His warm lips brushed hers gently, but his kiss rocked her. His mouth lingered, waiting for her reaction. She should protest, object, be outraged, but instead she opened for him. He sucked her bottom lip, then plunged his tongue into her mouth. His growl echoed the groan that rose involuntarily from her throat.
    Dugald’s tongue had made her gag. She sucked on Alex’s tongue like a child on a teat, intoxicated by the taste of the wine he’d drunk. His belly pressed against her knees, his chest was inches from her breasts. Her treacherous nipples strained against the fabric of her chemise. Would his hand wander? She had never longed so desperately for a man’s touch.
    “I want you,” he breathed.
    He feathered kisses on her neck. The confession of her yearning for him teetered on the tip of her tongue, but instinctively she flattened her hands against the solid wall of his chest. Something deep within made her pause. Pride? Fear? Honor? “This cannot be, my lord. I will not be your mistress.”
    He drew back, his eyes filled with confusion, disappointment. She wavered. To keep him at bay, she would have to lie. “I have a husband.”
    It wasn’t an outright lie, but it was enough to shock him. He came to his feet quickly , avoiding her gaze. “I apologize. I believed you were free, that you felt an attraction.”
    “I—I do,” she stammered , fearing she was revealing too much of her emotions. “But—”
    ~~~
    IT WAS THE LAST WORD she spoke that gave Alex pause.
    But what? If she had a husband, why had she been sent with the hostages? No man married to Elayne would let her go. Unless there was something about the children—
    He clasped his hands together behind his back and looked down at her, hoping she couldn’t hear the erratic beating of his heart. He’d a premonition his life was about to change forever. Her kiss had fired his blood more than any other he’d ever shared with a woman. He longed to delve his tongue into her warm mouth again and again. “Tell me about this husband of yours.”
    She glanced up at him sharply, and he knew whatever she said next would be a lie.
    “His name is Dugald.”
    But why was she lying?
    He stared into the waning embers of the fire. A chill stole over him. He’d imagined lying in front of its warmth on the wolfskin rug, wrapped in Elayne’s embrace. “And how long have you been married?”
    “ Too many years,” she whispered.
    The ring of truth in that answer dismayed him. “And why did he allow you to be sent to Normandie?”
    She stared at her clasped hands. “I had no choice.”
    Try as he might, Alex couldn’t conjure the scenario that had led to this woman he desired being here with him now—except one that suddenly made perfect sense. He took hold of her hands, alarmed that they were ice cold. “You are their mother.”
    He held his breath, hoping she would deny it.
    “Yes.”
    His world shattered. If Elayne was the mother of Henry and Claricia, then her husband was the heir apparent to the throne of Scotland. She was no nursemaid, but the future Queen of the Scots. And Marguerite had consigned her to his kitchens.
    He bent the knee before her again, his head bowed. “My lady, I owe you an apology. Forgive my impertinence. I will see to it you are treated in the future as befits your station.”
    Elayne leapt from her chair, almost bowling him over. “No! Not a single person must know I am their mother.”
    She paced, wringing her hands, then fell to her knees and prostrated herself before him like a penitent, her fingertips digging into the rug. “Forgive me, my lord comte ,” she sobbed.
    He knelt