Page 10 of The Rose of Blacksword

9

They ate the remnants of the cooked rabbit and a salad of dandelion greens, yarrow, and plantain leaves that Rosalynde was able to find. For the first time Cleve displayed a good appetite, and she was much heartened by his improvement. But with his returning health there came an almost tangible increase in his hostility toward their mysterious protector.

“We’ve no need for him any longer,” Cleve hissed when Blacksword volunteered to fetch water from the brook. “And I can full well go down to the water myself!”

“I know you think you’re well, but head wounds are very serious,” she whispered back. “Besides, I’ll not renege on my promise to the man,” she added. It occurred to her that she was breaking one promise to him already, one vow. Yet she was not exactly breaking it, she told herself. She would stay his wife for a year and a day, albeit secretly. But she had not entered into the vow with any intentions of keeping it. Despite all her rationalization and reasoning, that one fact bothered her sorely. Marriage was a holy sacrament. Even though their vow had not been made before a priest or within the hallowed confines of the Church, it had nonetheless been made before God. Until he had brought up the possibility of a proper marriage in the Church, she had eased her conscience about the moral repercussions of her handfast marriage. After all, if he didn’t want to remain wed she could hardly force him to. But now he wanted to honor the vow and she was the one who balked.

Cleve was oblivious to her inner turmoil, and when the object of his ire suddenly reappeared with the water he glowered at him openly.

“How far is it to Stanwood?” he demanded angrily.

The taller man squatted down on his heels next to Rosalynde and handed her the water. Then he turned an expressionless face toward Cleve. “Two more nights’ travel.”

Cleve grumbled something under his breath, then looked at Rosalynde stubbornly. “I can walk from now on.”

She started to object but it was Blacksword who answered the boy. “Then it will take at least three nights.”

It was just the provocation Cleve needed to release his pent-up hostility. He lurched to his feet and faced the larger man fiercely. “I’ll walk and it may take three days, but we’ll be well rid of you!”

“Cleve!” Rosalynde leapt between the two, for she fully expected Blacksword to react violently to the youth’s reckless taunt. To her surprise, however, it was Cleve she had to restrain. He was tensed and poised to attack, while the other man only eased himself back to a sitting position and then pulled something from his open tunic.

“Come here so I may measure your feet.” He gave her a steady look, pointedly disregarding the lad’s angry outburst.

Rosalynde was so relieved that he was not going to hurt Cleve that she did not hesitate. With only a meaningful glare at Cleve, she crossed quickly to Blacksword’s side and sat down meekly beside him. When it was obvious the man was not going to rise to his bait and that Rosalynde would not back him up, Cleve’s anger began to dissipate into bewilderment.

“ ’Tis my duty to protect you,” he said plaintively. “Not his.”

“If you wish to do your duty, Cleve, then please, please just abide by what I say,” she replied most earnestly.

For a long tense moment he stood there in the slowly building light. She could see the struggle in his face, his need to protect his mistress from a man he perceived to be dangerous, when it was clear he could not possibly win. Cleve was nothing if not loyal, and his stubbornness about protecting her from harm warmed her heart.

Yet Rosalynde knew that it was not overt physical harm she faced from the man who now sat so placidly beside her. He would not gain anything by hurting her. The harm this man could do was of a different nature entirely, especially if he chose to pursue his claim to her hand through that pagan handfasting ritual. As her father’s only remaining heir, she was the conduit through which Stanwood Castle would pass to her husband. But only to her rightful husband—not an immoral ruffian such as this Blacksword. Now that he realized all he might gain, she would no doubt have the devil of a time convincing him that such a union between them was impossible. Still, if she soothed him with enough gold he would eventually come around.

Much reassured, she gave Cleve a smile, all the while profoundly aware of Blacksword’s overwhelming nearness. “Please rest, Cleve. We have so far to go.”

When the boy finally sat down it was with great reluctance, but she nonetheless felt tremendously relieved. Unfortunately, she was immediately faced with a new and far more unsettling dilemma. To her enormous confusion, Blacksword bent forward, then grasped her ankles and unceremoniously pivoted her around so that her lower legs rested on his lap, and one of his hands cupped her left foot.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, too flustered by his possessive touch to be angry.

“You need shoes,” he replied matter-of-factly. Then he pressed the fur of one of the skins against her much-abused sole and her objections disappeared at once. Shoes. Something soft against her feet.

At that tacit approval, Blacksword wrapped the ends of the rabbit skin over the top of her foot and held them with one hand wrapped around her ankle, so that her entire foot was encased in the smooth fur. It was a most impersonal action, or at least it should have been. Certainly if it had been the tanner at Millwort Castle who’d measured her foot so she would not have given it a second thought. But this man was not the grizzled old tanner, and they were not at Millwort. Every instinct for self-preservation told her to snatch her foot from his grasp and get as far away from him as possible. It was far better to suffer the sharp stones and branches of the cart track than to endure his unnerving touch.

But Cleve was scowling at them from across the small clearing, and more than anything she did not want to give him further cause for animosity. So she suffered Blacksword’s sure touch as best she could, sitting stiff with tension as he moved the skin back and forth until he found the best position for it.

“How does that feel?” He looked up at her then and their gazes collided with breathless impact. All thoughts of Cleve and Millwort and the graybeard tanner fled as she stared into his granite gray eyes. She vaguely heard him say something about cutting away the excess and she was aware that he pulled out Cleve’s dagger and was cutting several slits into the skin. When he put that skin aside and then picked up the other she continued to stare at him, suddenly confused by her conflicting feelings. She watched as he took her other foot then fit the rabbit skin to it. His hand was so warm. His fingers were strong and callused, and yet also gentle. He cut the fur with quick, deft strokes, then he met her gaze once more.

“I scraped the skins well, and I’ll coat them with a paste of water and ash while we camp. But they will not be as supple as properly prepared leather.”

Rosalynde nodded her head although little of what he said registered. She was too caught up in her own muddled thoughts to care about a pair of shoes. Just as she’d been struck by his noble bearing even when he was bound and forced to mount the gallows, so was she now aware of an odd dignity, a rare quality under normal circumstances, but in a convicted murderer …

“… bindings from your hem,” he was saying when she finally came alert.

“Bindings?” She stared at him in momentary confusion before she understood what he was saying. “Oh, you want a strip of the fabric.”

“It would help,” he answered with a warm yet still searching glance.

She took the knife he offered then quickly removed an adequate strip from her ruined gown. But as she automatically started to hand the short dagger back to him, Cleve interrupted.

“That’s my knife.”

Once more Rosalynde found herself caught between the two of them, but this time she was not so alarmed. Despite all logic she felt certain Blacksword meant to protect them, especially since he wished to wed her once they reached Stanwood. Even though that demand of his was completely outrageous, it still made sense that he retain possession of the sole weapon at their disposal. Cleve might not be able to understand that, but she did. She still had no idea whatsoever about how she was going to deal with the man’s ridiculous demand for his “reward,” but she did know that Cleve could not be allowed to disrupt things, no matter how aggravated he might be. With a warning look at the page she handed the knife back to Blacksword.

There was a muffled expletive from the boy, and he shot her a most aggrieved stare. Then he drew his cloak tight around him and stormed off into the bushes. Rosalynde heard the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves. Then he obviously found himself a resting spot, and after a few moments it was quiet once more.

Yet if Cleve’s departure quelled one sort of tension, finding herself alone with her strange protector created another tension entirely. To make matters worse, her right foot still lay in his lap; her calf rested quite intimately upon his muscular thigh. In sudden mortification she started to pull away. However, he was too fast. Before she could get away, he caught her ankle in his grasp.

“We’re not through yet,” he said quietly as his eyes locked with hers.

At that all her aplomb fled. “I-I don’t need the shoes. Truly,” she added as a hint of amusement lifted a corner of his mouth.

But his hand only slid a little up her calf and his other hand cupped the sole of her foot. “You’ve bruises here.” He caressed the heel of her foot. “And scrapes and cuts.” He stroked along the side of her little toe.

A shiver coursed up her spine, followed by a ripple of warmth. To her chagrin he seemed quite aware of her reaction to him, and he gave her a disarming grin.

“Why don’t we agree to work together on this one task? It won’t take long. Then once your shoes are finished, you can go back to disliking me if you want.”

It was said as if she were a petulant child and he the tolerant adult. As a result, she found it most difficult to take umbrage with his statement, for she would only look more the fool. Although her jaw was clenched in clear annoyance, she managed a curt nod. He rewarded her with a touch of his knuckle to her chin. Then he set to work.

As he fitted the rabbit skin to her foot, she tried to appear as dignified as she could. But with his warm hands on her foot and his unexpected touch to her chin, she found her nerves completely unsettled. As dawn spread its sparkling light over the little clearing, she could hardly control her skittering emotions.

Whatever had possessed her to side with him against Cleve? she wondered hopelessly. Even if it was a logical choice in this case, this Blacksword still was not someone to trust. And now she had put herself practically in his lap! To make matters worse, her emotions were running completely awry. Every time he touched her, no matter how impersonal it might seem, something turned over deep inside her. She must get hold of herself!

“I can do that one,” she blurted out when he reached for the other fur. “I saw where you put the holes and how you strung the cord through.” She bit her lower lip as he stared deeply into her eyes. “Thanks … thank you for doing this one.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply. Then he handed her the skin and the knife, and leaned back on his elbows to watch her.

Rosalynde was so relieved that he’d not argued that she set to the task with pleasure. She made a series of holes along the two long top edges, then three more along each of the short sides that would circle her ankle. She worked swiftly and with sure hands, for she was no stranger to the sewing room. As she was beginning to feed the narrow strip of cord through the holes, however, she suddenly sat up very straight.

To her complete shock and total bewilderment, Blacksword was running one hand slowly down the length of her hair, from the bend of her neck, down her back to where her hair pooled on the ground behind her. Then he gathered a handful and gently twirled it around his wrist and hand.

“You have beautiful hair,” he murmured as she turned in astonishment to face him. His gaze moved up to her stunned expression. “And captivating eyes.” He moved his hand up to her face and lightly caressed her chin once more. “If I didn’t already know that you were flesh and blood—warm,” he added softly, “I’d think you were some wood nymph sent to bewitch me.”

“Don’t,” she warned, albeit breathlessly. “You have no right.” She grabbed his wrist to push it away, but he would not budge.

“I have every right,” he countered, staring deeply into her eyes. “Every right.”

Rosalynde was so undone by his startling words and the compelling force of his gentle touch that any retort died unsaid. When he sat up, the hand at her chin came around to circle her neck. Her heart raced ferociously and every fiber of her being seemed intensely alert.

“You are mine. My wife,” she heard him murmur. Then his lips met hers and she became oblivious to everything else.

His kiss was neither harsh nor demanding. Indeed, his lips were astoundingly soft as they moved over hers. Yet she did not mistake the possessiveness with which they claimed hers. Perhaps it was the way they teased her own lips apart with soft nibbles and subtle pressure. Perhaps it was only the heated stroke of his tongue on her lips. She was far too dizzy to be sure. She only knew that she went from numb to light-headed to wildly intoxicated in the space of a few seconds. Bending to the seductive pressure of his hand, she was drawn down onto his chest, and then somehow rolled over until he lay above her, kissing her more and more insistently. His tongue slid silkily along the seam of her lips and, without being aware of it, she opened to him.

At once he deepened the kiss, using both lips and tongue in the most erotic manner imaginable. Heat flared in her belly and raced like wildfire through her. He moved and she was suddenly conscious of his weight against her breasts and stomach and legs. One of his knees slipped between her thighs, and the fire flamed even higher as every part of her responded to him. Then his tongue found hers and her reaction was acute. Like a stroke of lightning, it stunned her and she stiffened at the intimate caress.

But even as her body was flooded with the most sultry of sensations, the very power of it helped her shake off the lethargy that had overwhelmed her.

“No,” she pleaded as she twisted her face away from his searching mouth. “No!” she repeated as she finally began to push him away.

“You are my wife,” he murmured low against her ear. “Don’t deny me. Don’t deny yourself this pleasure.”

In her ear his voice was warm and seductive, and she felt a forbidden thrill run through her. But he spoke of a wife, and that was a point she would not relent on.

“Let me up!” she insisted as panic overcame this unfamiliar passion. “Get off!”

This time her words got his attention, but he did not move from his dominant position over her. Instead he only lifted his head and stared down into her huge, darkened eyes.

“You opened your mouth this time,” he said with a slight mocking grin. “I told you you would like it better.”

“I didn’t!” she muttered, shoving ineffectively at his wide chest.

“What a little liar you are,” he said with a low chuckle. He caught her mouth once more in a lusty, demanding kiss, clearly proving his point. Then, while she lay there, dazed anew by how easily he commanded her emotions, he rolled off her to lay on his back in the grass.

For a moment Rosalynde could not move. She had no power over her ragged breathing nor her limp muscles. But when he reached one hand out to slide a stray tendril from her neck, she reacted as if she had been burned. Up she leapt, scurrying away from him as if her life depended on it. Only when she saw that he still lay where he was did she slow her flight at all.

“You … you …” she sputtered. But she was too flustered to think straight, and too undone to compose her thoughts. “You are a wicked man!” she finally hissed as unseemly tears started in her eyes. He was wicked and without morals or even a shred of human decency. Yet in spite of that, it was not the reassuring heat of anger that filled her. Instead, she was bewildered by a myriad of confusing emotions and strange, lingering sensations.

“Why did you do that?” The words came unbidden to her lips even as she dashed her tears away with the back of one hand.

He rolled to his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “It’s only normal for a man to kiss his wife,” he answered, but his eyes grew watchful and his expression turned serious.

“I’m not your wife,” Rosalynde insisted, thoroughly unsettled by his too-perceptive stare.

“You made the vow willingly,” he countered. “You sought me out.”

“You know why I did that!” she cried. Then she glanced fearfully to where Cleve had gone to sleep, and lowered her voice. “You benefited as much as I.”

“And now I will benefit even more.” So saying, he sat up, propping his forearms on his bent knees. “You may deny me now, but eventually you’ll admit to the truth.”

“If you tell my father I’ll say you lie,” she warned, although the very thought of her father knowing any of this terrified her. “He’ll never believe you.”

One of his brows arched in arrogant amusement. “It’s an easy enough fact to verify. Dunmow is little more than a good day’s ride from Stanwood.”

Rosalynde could not stay to hear any more. His words were too true, too horribly true. With a cry of anguish she turned and stumbled blindly into the copsewood. Branches caught at her gown and tugged at her wildly streaming hair, but she didn’t care. She had to get away from him. It didn’t matter where as long as it was far, far away.

When Rosalynde finally stopped her headlong flight, she was gasping for breath and holding her throbbing side. She sagged against an ancient oak tree, then slowly, hopelessly slid down along its trunk to sit in a desolate heap amidst its spreading roots.

Why had he kissed her like that? Why? she agonized as tears quickened once more in her haunted eyes. And why, why had she let him?

But Rosalynde knew she had done far more than just let him kiss her. She closed her eyes with a groan and sagged back against the uncompromising bulk of the old tree. No matter how she wished to blame him for everything, she knew she had gone along with the kiss of her own free will. He might have lulled her into complacency with his deceptively mild behavior. He most certainly had manipulated her into siding with him against Cleve. And he had used that episode with the rabbit-skin shoes to get near enough to stroke her and practice his powers of seduction on her. But from the first moment his lips met hers she could have rejected him. Instead of accepting his indecent attentions, she should have reacted with revulsion and disgust.

Only that had not been what she’d felt.

A shudder of complete humiliation shook her and fresh tears streaked down her cheeks. She’d accepted his kiss, opening freely to the vivid sensations he’d raised in her. And, oh, how incredibly vivid they had been! How shamefully wicked! But no amount of self-abasement could erase the truth. She had been stupid, reckless, and sinful in the extreme, yet her entire being buzzed still with the remembered pleasure of his tongue moving sensuously along hers. She swallowed a sob and shook her head hard against the undeniable fact. He was a practiced seducer, but she had been his more-than-willing accomplice. If he was insistent before about this farce of a marriage he aspired to, how much more relentless would he now be?

Rosalynde rubbed her damp eyes with the edge of her sleeves, then tried to dry her cheeks as well. What would she do? she agonized, curling into a tight ball in a hollow between the roots. How could she face him again? Now it would truly be impossible to keep him silent about their handfast vow. She buried her head in her arms as another sob shook her exhausted body. Why had she given him this new power over her?

But she was so physically drained and so thoroughly traumatized by the long night’s events that she could not properly fashion any answers to her desperate questions. As she huddled in the hard security of the oak tree, trying to block out the harsh light of another day, she was beyond all rational thought. Her mind closed against the terrible reality of her situation and sleep brought the only promise of relief.

But even in her dreams she was tormented by clear gray eyes and the seductive power of a beckoning smile.

When Aric found her he was taken aback by the scene that met his eyes. She had fled in tears, angry and frightened and horrified as well. She had kissed a murdering outlaw, a common criminal, and he was certain that her sheltered upbringing had not prepared her for such a thing. The fact that she had enjoyed it no doubt troubled her sorely.

He had enjoyed it as well, he recalled with vivid clarity as he looked down on the sleeping woman before him. He’d not wanted to let her go at the time, but he’d thought it best not to scare her off completely. So he had let her escape and just waited. There was nowhere for her to go, and perhaps a little time alone would help her to think things out a bit. It had given him time as well, and as he had lain there in the little clearing, staring up through the branches of the beech trees, he’d decided to force her to listen to the truth. Maybe if she could see him in a better light, if she knew he was of noble upbringing, the idea of marriage to him might not seem so abhorrent. He was already certain she would not long object to the duties of the marriage bed.

Now as he took in her slender figure curved within the dark embrace of the ancient oak root, he vowed to convince her, no matter what it took. Once more the image of a wood nymph came to mind. A fairy rose. There was an air of sweetness about her, of fragility. Yet he knew she was far tougher than she appeared. She had survived that attack, then fearlessly gone for help. In a moment of desperation she’d been brazen enough to claim a man who, by all appearances, was capable of the direst crimes, and she’d done so solely with the hope that he might be coerced into helping her for sufficient reward.

He shook his head in bemusement and his eyes followed the gleaming curve of her mahogany colored hair as it fell along her neck and draped over her arms. One of her hands showed beyond the heavy, dark tangle. Small and pale, the palm was slightly open; the fingers were curled loosely in repose. Her hand was small and pale, her feet were soft and pale. No doubt beneath that shapeless gown she wore she was small and pale all over. Yet he recalled the press of her breasts against his chest, and he knew her woman’s curves were soft and ample. She was no young girl, but a woman, old enough—and ready enough—for marriage.

At that thought he felt a returning rush of warmth to his loins. By rights she was already wedded—to him. And he was more than ready to consummate their vow. With a muttered oath at his own burning impatience, he bent down on one knee to gather her up. He’d allowed her this temper tantrum, but he could not let her stay so far from the safety of his protection any longer.

When Rosalynde came slowly awake she had the oddest sensation of floating, of lifting from her cold, uncomfortable bed to float in warm security somewhere above the ground. Her bed at Millwort had been warm and secure. Yet she knew somehow that she was not in her old familiar bed. Then she was shifted slightly against something hot and solid, and she reluctantly opened her eyes.

At first she thought she was still asleep. She’d dreamed of those eyes. And of that smile. But then she felt his arms tighten beneath her and she knew that this was real. He had her in his arms and was boldly walking off with her as if she were some prize he had just stolen.

“Let me down,” she gasped as she came fully, abruptly awake.

“Soon,” he answered, giving her a faint smile.

“No, now!” she insisted, struggling aginst the firm hold he had on her. She kicked her legs and shoved hard at his chest and shoulder. But his only response was to hold her tighter, although his face did grow more stern.

“You have no right to do this! Get your hands off me, you vile cad! You disgusting … disgusting—”

When he suddenly released her she let out a shriek and automatically grabbed at his neck to prevent herself from tumbling to the ground. But he caught at her too and then, with a deft shifting of his arms, turned her upright.

In the space of a second Rosalynde found herself face to face with him. Her arms were still twined around his neck, holding on tightly, and her entire body was pressed close to him. His arms circled her waist, keeping her near and holding her up just enough so that her feet did not touch the ground. It was a far worse position than before, she realized at once, and she found it far more unnerving. For a long moment their eyes met in conflict, hers darkened to green in anger and outrage, his hard as granite, determined not to give an inch. But then his eyes changed, glowing from within as if a fire smoldered there. Slowly he let her slide down his hard-muscled length as he still held her eyes captive.

“I have every right.” The words came low and husky, and she knew what was to come. She knew he was going to kiss her, but in the space of that one shattering moment she lost the will to protest. Logic deserted her as did any remnants of rational thought. His face seemed to descend in slow motion. His mouth lowered to hers with torturous delay. Yet when their lips finally met and clung, everything else sped up to a dizzying speed. The world was spinning too fast; her heart pounded furiously; and her blood seemed to roar in her veins. In desperation she clung to him as the only sturdy thing in an out-of-kilter world. But that just made it worse, for the pressure of his body against hers only added fuel to the fire. In a rush all the confusing emotions she’d tried to stifle earlier came back, but with far more urgency.

His lips moved on hers with a sureness that stole her breath away. When his tongue came out to trace a possessive path along her lower lip, her mouth opened of its own volition to give him entrance. As if the torrid kiss they’d shared before was only a harbinger of things to come, he teased her with the power of his seductive mouth. Promising, demanding, and then rewarding her with new and higher thrills of pleasure, he erased every objection from her mind.

One of his hands cupped her derriere and she let out a low moan. But that only fired his ardor higher. More and more demandingly he laid his claim, stroking deep within her mouth, tantalizing her until her tongue joined with his. It was new and frightening to her, and yet there was a part of her that responded instinctively to his virile dominance. It was an ancient dance they performed. The moves came innately to her, from some wellspring of her feminine being.

When he tilted her back and moved his kiss down to her throat, she clung to him helplessly. When his lips moved urgently across the rough wool of her gown to press heatedly against the valley between her breasts, she shuddered with longing. Only when he pressed her hard against his thickening loins did her eyes come open and any semblance of reason return to her.

“You mustn’t,” she whispered, although every fiber in her demanded that he continue.

“I must,” he murmured hoarsely, stirring her anew with his breath in her ear. “There’s no other way it can be between us.”

There’s no other way … The words echoed in her mind as he lowered her to the grass-lined earth, pressing new and more feverish kisses on her. There was no way to stop him. And no way to stop herself. For a moment she fought the all-consuming lethargy that overwhelmed her. This was sinful. Despite the pagan ritual binding them, they were not truly married.

Yet her body betrayed her logical mind. This exquisite pleasure, this heaven on earth could not be wrong. It could not be a sin. Then his hand found her breast and even that weak debate was quashed. As his mouth delighted hers with sweet desire and fiercely flaming passion, so did his hands begin to work an incredible magic on her body. They strayed to where no one had ever touched her, to where she hardly dared to touch herself. But it was no accidental straying and he was not hesitant. One of his hands cupped her breast; the thumb stroked rhythmically back and forth against the already stiffened nipple. With his other arm he rolled her over to lay upon him and he boldly stroked her derriere once more, sliding his palm back and forth across her bottom in the most provocative manner.

A feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced washed over Rosalynde. It was hot and yet she shivered. It felt natural and, oh, so right, and yet there was something in her that said it was wicked and forbidden. She knew she should fight the all-encompassing lure of it, and yet she could not. She could not.

When his hand found the bare skin of her thigh, she shuddered with ever-increasing delight. Then, when he rolled her over and pressed his full weight against her, she gasped at the dizzying rapture. His hands pulled at her gown, tearing her girdle away and loosening the ties at her waist. But all the while he kissed her, deeper and deeper, striking a chord somewhere inside her, awakening feelings in her that she’d never dreamed could exist. She was lost in the physical splendor of their mutual passion. It was only when he tugged her gown free and slid her kirtle from her shoulders that he pulled a little away from her.

As she gazed up at him, her eyes dazed by the maelstrom of emotions he roused, he removed his tunic and chainse in one swift motion. His boots and hose were hastily followed by his braies, and only when her eyes swept over his magnificently naked body did the enormity of what they were doing strike her.

“No—”

Her cry was stifled before it properly escaped. As if he anticipated her sudden reversal, Blacksword covered her near-naked body with his own. His skin was firm and warm and heavy with possession. His lips were adamant, almost fierce as he plundered her mouth.

With only the feeblest of protests her words died unsaid. Her hands fluttered a moment at his hard chest, then slid up to circle his neck. Her kirtle was only a crushed bit of linen between them, pulled down to her waist, lifted up beyond her hips. Beneath his heavy form she melted against his hardness. Everything that was feminine in her responded to that which was masculine in him. Even the heated press of his rigid male flesh was met by the soft concave of her belly.

Then he nudged her legs apart and she complied.

“Be my wife,” she heard him whisper hoarsely against her lips. “Be mine,” he murmured as one of his hands slid down to her secret triangle of curls, then slipped even further to stroke the very center of her being.

At once she felt a quickening, like lightning striking a dry tree, sending it immediately into flames. Hot and slick, his fingers played against her with devastating results. She could hardly catch her breath, and though she squirmed away from the fiery delight, she wanted it so badly. Then his hand was replaced by another probing heat and she arched up to him in a mindless plea.

“Blacksword …” she entreated, tossing her head back and forth, then reaching up once more for his mind-drugging kiss. “Blacksword.”

“Aric,” he whispered against her lips. “My name is Aric.”

“Aric.” She panted as he pressed a little farther into her, beginning to fill her with fire and fury and a primitive sort of power.

“You are wife to Aric of Wycliffe.” His teeth pulled at her lower lip, refusing her the deep kiss she was pleading for. “Say it,” he insisted breathlessly, as he rocked his hips back and forth against her, torturing her with a deliberateness that was driving her mad. “You are wife to Aric …”

“I am your wife,” she whispered in a voice that shook with passion. “I am …”

With a groan he finally let his weight come down upon her. His mouth met hers with an explosion of passion; his chest and hard-ridged belly crushed her into the soft green earth; and the full length and strength of his male flesh slid with unerring accuracy into her.

She wanted to cry out, to pull away in fear and pain at the sudden tearing she felt. As he found her virgin’s barrier, then pushed beyond it, passion fled and an abrupt and horrible reality startled her.

But he would not let her go and he would not end their kiss. Though she struggled, he held her firmly beneath him. When she sobbed he seemed to absorb all her fear and pain into himself, and only deepened the kiss. Though no less fiery and demanding, his lips nonetheless moved to please her. His tongue stroked her inner lips; they forced her to respond. And when her own tongue moved out to meet his, she was rewarded by a renewed leap of the same passionate fire. He still filled her with a heat and pressure completely foreign to her, but the pain was gone. And when he shifted his hips slightly, she let out a gasp of unexpected pleasure.

It seemed the signal he waited for. As he raised his face from hers, he began a slow and rhythmic motion, pressing his hips to hers then rocking back, pushing deeper then lifting away, sliding his full length into her, then pulling almost completely out. Exquisite waves of undiluted pleasure rippled through her as he steadily increased his tempo, filling her then pulling back. Rosalynde’s eyes widened with wonder as she stared up into his passion-filled eyes. She arched up in unthinking response, accepting him fully into the feminine warmth of her body, urging him on as she innocently responded to his expert caress. Their movements increased and the fire flamed higher. A rush that was wet and hot and filled with light swept over her, and in a moment of near panic she clung desperately to him. Then she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of passion and she cried out at the very ferocity of their lovemaking. Wave after wave shook her. Like a storm she was battered by its very violence. She heard his cry buried deep against her neck. It seemed to have been wrenched from deep inside him, and it filled her with awe. Yet the one emotion she did not feel was fear. She was not afraid.

He shuddered over her as if he too shared in the same cataclysm of emotions. Then his weight came fully, heavily against her and she released a huge sigh.

Her breath was short, matched by his own ragged breathing. With hearts pounding in unison, their bodies melded together, still intimately joined, their breathing almost a shared effort, Rosalynde felt absurdly as if they were no longer separate beings but part of the same whole. He lay above her, absorbing her into himself, it seemed, and though she felt nearly crushed by his massive weight, she did not care.

Then he moved a little to the side, sliding from her sweat-slicked body. She let out a faint groan of dismay, but he quickly stilled it with a stirring kiss as he gathered her close to him. Legs tangled, arms still wrapped about one another, they lay in the dappled shade. Rosalynde’s exhaustion was complete: Her mind, body, and emotions had been taxed beyond previous comprehension. She could not think about the wondrous things that had just happened to her. She could not be logical or dwell on what was to come. She only relaxed in his heated embrace and listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart beneath her ear. Steady and reliable, the sound gave her a sense of security she could not quite understand. In the past days she’d had enough of death and sorrow and fear to last her a lifetime. But this—this was the sound of life and of hope.

With a faint smile she sighed again and moved a little nearer to his comforting bulk. She was safe. She knew that without a doubt. Then she gave herself over to sleep and the watchful observance of the man who still held her.