His lips curved. “As I said, I’ve touched you before and will again. And you aren’t half so indifferent to me as you’d like to pretend, eldi-kona.” He shifted from a kneel to a half crouch. The muscles in his thighs and belly rippled with fluid, powerful grace as he moved behind her.

His brief humor faded, replaced by a sudden, icy chill. The bathwater dropped several noticeable degrees.

“Stop,” she complained. “You’re freezing my bath.”

“You should have told me what he’d done to you.” She heard the scowl in his voice. “On our wedding night, you should have told me.” His hands touched her back. She felt the slight tremble in his fingers as he traced the path of her father’s cane. “You made a brute of me, when I would not have been one if I’d known.”

She turned her head and glanced over her shoulder at him. “You would not have consummated the marriage.”

“No.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.” She turned back around. “You would have found out I wasn’t Autumn, and you would have annulled the marriage. You wanted a Season for a wife, not me.”

He didn’t say anything. He merely began scrubbing her back in silence.

What had she expected? For him to claim that, no, he was happy with the wife he’d gotten? Her jaw firmed. Her chin lifted. “Besides,” she declared, “why would you care if you hurt me or not? From what I heard, you’ve vowed to turn me out into the mountains unless I bear you an heir in a year’s time. That’s not exactly the claim of a caring man.”

“Did your father tell you that?”

“What does it matter who told me? Is it true?”

He tossed the soapy cloth aside, snatched up the small wooden pail, and filled it with warm bathwater. “Close your eyes,” he warned the barest instant before he upended the pail over her head. He doused her again two more times.

“Is it true?” she asked again.

He reached for the flagon of gelled hair soap, poured a thick stream of the fragrant, viscous liquid into his palm and worked it into her curls. “I need an heir. I cannot afford unnecessary delay in getting one. Too much is at stake.”

She knew ensuring a clear succession to the throne was no small matter. The stability of entire countries depended on it. History books were filled with tales of kingdoms torn apart by civil wars sparked by kings who died without leaving an undisputed heir.

She twisted around to see his face. “And if I don’t provide one within the year, you will turn me out into the mountains to die?” she prodded.

He didn’t say yes straight out. All he said was, “If you don’t provide me an heir, I must take another wife,” but she knew what he meant.

She turned away so swiftly, the bathwater sloshed over the rim of the copper tub. She stared, unseeing, at the miniature tempest of waves crashing against her kneecaps.

It was true then. She dragged in a shallow breath and let it out. She had wedded and bedded an enemy king. And if for some reason she did not or could not bear him a child within the next twelve months, he would slay her.

“Well,” she said. Thoughts spun in a dizzying whirl, all of them moving too quickly to grasp except for one: If you don’t provide me an heir, I must take another wife. Her mind supplied the unspoken meaning: If you don’t provide me an heir, you must die so I can take another wife.

She slid down beneath the surface of the water, submerging herself completely. The lather in her hair streamed out in frothy currents. She ran her fingers through the tangle of floating curls to rinse out the hair soap, then grabbed hold of the tub rim and stood. Water sluiced down in sheets, splashing into the tub in a dozen noisy streams. She scarcely noticed it.

“Well,” she said again, turning to him and tipping back her head to meet his gaze. “As the begetting of an heir holds such dire import, I suggest we get to it.”

His eyes narrowed, surprise warring with suspicion.

She lifted her arms and made her meaning more clear. “Help me from the bath.” The motion lifted her br**sts as well, and that caught his eye. His nostrils flared, quivering slightly as he drew in her scent, then his gaze rose back to her.

“Grown bold?”

“Bold, I’ve ever been,” she corrected. “It’s practical I sometimes lack.”

His hands reached out to clasp her waist, and he lifted her high as he’d done before, over his head. Beads of water dripped from her hair and br**sts onto his face like a light rain.

“Put me down. I’m getting you wet.”

He grinned with unexpected humor. “Aye, you are, and you’ll get me wetter still before we’re done, Summerlass.” The grin turned slow and lazy and full of simmering heat that made her heart skip. He opened his mouth to catch a falling drop of water, then he tilted his chin up and licked the moisture directly from her br**sts.

The sensation was indescribable. The chill of the air, the hot rasp of his tongue, followed by a deeper, more erotic chill as he blew cold across her mouth-warmed flesh, making her ni**les pucker tight. Then heat again as he closed his mouth over her skin and drew the tight bud deep into his mouth. Tongue and teeth and heat and cold worked sensual magic on her skin until her entire body drew as tight and aching as the breast he held claim in his mouth.

“Wrap your legs ’round my waist,” he growled against her damp skin, as his tongue drew a burning line from one breast to the other.