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His palm circled hers around him, guiding her in a firm stroke of his flesh.

His other hand grasped her breast tighter, pressing the stiff tip between thumb and forefinger, pulling a sound of lust from her.

She felt him grow impossibly harder as her hand moved with his, rhythmically, the excitement in him building to a frenzy.

His hips lifted – a powerful thrust as an animal groan rose from the back of his throat.

She put her mouth on his to catch it, her hand moving on him as he convulsed beneath her.

When he lay still, panting, she savored his mouth, dimly amazed at herself.

She felt wild and reckless. Ravenous. She only pulled back from him when his hand slipped off her breast and moved to pull the linen over his head.

He wiped it across his belly, cleaning himself, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

She did not have room for shame in her. Not now, when there was still so much desire.

A melting heat had settled between her legs, and all her skin felt alive and aching for him.

She did not know what to do with it if he would not look at her.

The blade was still in her fist – it seemed impossible to let it go when she was so exposed – but with her other hand, she brought his touch back to the ache at her breast and waited.

He turned his face to her then, rising up on his elbow.

When he brought his mouth to her breast over the linen, her whimper made him clutch her tightly.

She shifted to bring her leg over him, rucking up her shift to her hips to straddle him as he sucked at her, fingers twisting in his hair.

Already she could feel his manhood stirring again, a gentle pressure on the inside of her thigh that she could not help but rub against.

She grew frantic as his mouth moved on her breast, her throat, his hands brushing leisurely up and down her sides atop the linen.

Her hips rocked against him and found pleasure there, a discovery that left her breathless.

She slid herself along the length of him, the cleft between her legs gliding across the same path her hand had taken earlier, and felt his moan vibrate through her.

God save, she had not thought it could be like this, that her body could feel such things.

It was what she wanted, what her body pleaded of her, when she pulled back and fitted him inside her, hard and hot.

She almost sobbed with the pleasure of it.

Then his hand came forward to touch her in the place that stole her breath and she bucked against him, uncontrollable waves of sensation that blotted out everything but the feel of him as the pleasure burst inside her.

It went on and on, and she groaned as he had done – as he did again now, his hands gripping hard at her hips as he thrust up into her.

The lamp had died out when she came to herself again. His breath was a harsh panting against her neck, her knees around his hips, the rain still falling.

She felt even more untethered from her life, floating free, holding onto him in the blackness. The strong beat of his heart seemed the center of the world. He was a soft place, one where she might at last rest her head and feel safe.

T he early morning light was flooding the ruined shed when he woke, naked and alone.

His cloak was tucked around him securely, though his last memory was of her body covering his, her cloak spread over them both as he savored the feel of her and thought he could not possibly sleep. Obviously he could.

When he sat up, he saw he was not alone.

Fuss was keeping watch by the door, and gave a single bark before running forward to bid Gryff good morn.

Relief surged through him at the sight. There was no sign of her at all – the lamp, her clothes, her bag were all gone – but if her dog was here, then she could not be far.

Beside him was his flask of water and two oatcakes set atop his folded tunic.

He dressed quickly, though he could not find his linen, and slipped the food into his bag before setting off to find her.

Fuss bounded ahead to where she knelt on the ground not far away.

Her hair caught all the morning light, a flare of gold against the green.

He approached slowly, wary of startling her from behind until he realized this was the dog’s purpose: to watch over him, to alert her to his movements, perhaps even to safeguard him when she was not there.

Her arms and shoulders were working at something, some task on the ground, and she did not pause as he stepped near.

It was his linen. She had it stretched across a broad stone, rubbing soap into it. As he watched, she lifted her flask of water and rinsed it, washing all the foulness away. She folded it into a square and carefully pressed the water out, all her movements practiced and sure.

When she stood and held it out to him, she did not look directly at him. He thought of the food and clothes left beside him, how she had spent her morning attending to his needs as he slept.

“You are not my servant,” he said roughly, as he took it from her. “Nor would I have you act as one.”

“I am accustomed,” she answered with an air of apology. “Some are born to serve.”

So well was he learning her silences that he knew the stiffness in her was not a rejection of him.

It was uncertainty, the strangeness of returning to a life of daylight together when they had shared the night.

She turned to practical things and tried to make the day ordinary, as though the entire world had not changed.

“Nan –”

“There’s little food left and no town near,” she said quickly, a frown of determination between her brows. “We must hunt today.”

But she did not move from where she stood. He lifted a hand to push the loose strands of hair from her cheek and rested his palm there, cradling her face. “Nan,” he said again, soft.

Her hand came up to curve around his wrist. She turned her face and pressed her lips to his palm, holding him there. “Welshman,” she whispered against his skin. Sunlight fell on her face, illuminating the curve of her mouth as she smiled.