Page 22 of The Rose of Blacksword

21

It was morning before Rosalynde was able to pull Cleve aside. He was in the midst of preparing to ride out with the hunt, a singular honor as evidenced by his eager manner and excited expression. He flashed her a broad grin as he led two horses from the stable out into the watery sunlight of early morn. But a restless night’s sleep and her gnawing fear would not allow Rosalynde to return the smile, and under her serious stare his grin faded.

“What has happened?” she began without preamble. Then, when he only shot her an aggrieved look and continued on with the horses, she fell in beside him. “I know you’ve done something, now tell me what it is.”

“I took care of things,” he snapped. “You couldn’t—or wouldn’t—so I did. He’ll not bother you again.”

Rosalynde’s heart began to pound, and without thinking, she grabbed the lead rein of the horse nearest her, forcing Cleve to a halt. “And how did you do that? Did you tell my father? Or Sir Gilbert?”

Cleve drew himself up angrily, and she vaguely noted that he had finally surpassed her in height. Then he spoke and she recognized too the new manly ring to his voice. “There was no need to threaten him with your father’s wrath. As for Sir Gilbert, I’ve no concern with him at all. ’Tis only your safety—and good name—that I have a care for. Even though you clearly do not.”

“But … but what did you do? Why will he not—”

“He and I have agreed,” the boy interrupted her. With a yank he snatched the reins from her hands and started forward angrily. “He will stay through the tourney—I allowed him that much. But after that he will leave here, never to return again.”

Rosalynde heard his words as he strode away. She understood what he said and yet it made no sense at all. How had Cleve convinced Aric to leave? And then, given that, why had the boy agreed to let him linger another fortnight at Stanwood? There was no logic in it whatsoever, and yet as she watched his stiff departure across the muddy bailey, she knew she would get no clearer answers from him.

Baffled, she made her way slowly back to the kitchens. She must see a cart stocked with provisions for the hunt, for her father would entertain Sir Gilbert in the forests today. Yet as she instructed that a butt of wine be loaded into the conveyance along with linen-wrapped breads and cheeses and a basket of dried fruits, her mind would not let go of this latest turn of events.

Aric was not a man to back down from any threat. And yet Cleve, a green boy, had somehow managed it. There was no sense in it whatsoever. With a frown marring her brow she ordered pewter mugs and wooden cups added to the cart as well as several woven rugs. Then, when the clarion call came for the hunters to assemble, she wiped her hands on the linen cloth she’d tucked into her girdle and laid the rag aside. She smoothed her hair back, tucking one damp and curling tendril behind her ear. Then, as most of the other castlefolk were doing, she made her way toward the assembly of men and horses near the gatehouse.

Rosalynde had dressed with especial care this day. Her father had been displeased with her behavior last night, although he’d not said as much in words. Still, her reticence with Sir Gilbert had been all too obvious, and it was her wish to appease her father now. She did not want to anger him. After all, he had said she would be allowed some voice in the selection among the men he would present to her. During the long, worrisome hours of the night she had recognized the foolishness of her earlier behavior. Now she vowed to be pleasant and accommodating. She would be polite and gracious to all whom her father recommended to her. She would do whatever she must to keep her father content, but she would reserve the choice of a husband for herself. The summer, the fall, the winter, and most of another spring must pass before the handfast vow she’d taken could be set aside. Only then could her choice be made.

But even then she would not be able to choose the one man she would truly want as husband.

With a sigh and a silent vow to put that thought from her mind, she held her skirts carefully above the muddy yard. Her new gown was a lovely piece of work, indeed, and she would not see it ruined. She had remade it from another of her mother’s older gowns, fitting it well to her body, then letting the skirts flare wide about her ankles. The fine Raynes linen was light, woven of the finest threads and cut on the bias so that it moved in the most graceful manner when she walked. The color had been one unknown to her, somewhere between the rich purple of royal garments and the brilliant blue of the sky, only softer—somewhat like ripened plums, wet from the rain. She felt quite lovely in it despite the fact that it was simply adorned. The neckline lay just beneath her collarbones, showing only the faintest hint of her kirtle beneath it. A plain silver woven braid decorated the neckline as well as the snugly laced wrists. Besides that, only her long silver-worked girdle broke the simplicity of the gown.

To make up for the unornamented style, she had labored long over her hair. The dark waves lay loose and shining about her back and shoulders. A length of silver chain lay across her brow, then caught the hair from her crown and wove down her back in a loose braid, a style seen often among unmarried maidens.

She felt a certain guilt to wear her hair in such a virginal style, although she knew no one else would note it, save for Aric. And Cleve. But even that guilty thought was banished by her recollection of Aric’s hand stroking down her back, along the freed length of her hair. “You have beautiful hair,” he’d whispered. “Beautiful hair.” Against all logic she wondered if he would think so today.

“By the blood of the saints!” she muttered under her breath. Why must he always creep into her thoughts? She did not care if he liked her hair or not.

Or at least, she should not care.

But the sad fact was, she did care. She cared about what he thought, where he was, and what he did to an inordinate degree. It was shameful, and terribly unwise, but it was nonetheless true.

With a sigh she stepped up onto a square stone block that had once served as a mounting block for her when she’d been but a child. Now it served nicely as a dry spot from whence to watch the men’s departure for the hunt. Her father was easily recognizable in his tunic of green and gold. He was without a hood, and his graying head showed well among the younger men. His chestnut gelding was a tall steed, and Rosalynde felt a glimmer of fond pride to see him so handsomely mounted. Then her eyes focused on Sir Gilbert and her smile faded. He too rode a fine horse and was outfitted most handsomely, as was appropriate to his station. She had no doubt that under differing circumstances, she would have been quite flattered by his suit for her hand and perhaps, after but a brief hesitation, would have accepted his proposal and thought herself the most fortunate of maidens. He was young, handsome, and courtly. What more was there to ask?

Yet when compared to another taller form, one strongly muscled and forged as if of steel, Sir Gilbert of Duxton came off a distant second. As she shaded her eyes against the strengthening sun, she sternly reminded herself that at least Sir Gilbert was suitable. He was a nobleman, and he did not shirk his responsibilities if his determined pursuit of the outlaws was any indication. Perhaps when her year was done she might find him acceptable.

But Rosalynde knew deep in her heart that she could never find Sir Gilbert acceptable. There was something about him that made her skin crawl. And above all else, she knew he would not hesitate to have Aric slain if he were to identify him. That made him her foe too.

Upon spying her, Sir Gilbert cantered over, then leaned down with one elbow on his knee to address her.

“ ’Twould be a pleasure, indeed, if you were to accompany us to the hunt, my Lady Rosalynde.”

“My thanks, Sir Gilbert. But I’ve much to oversee this day. No doubt the hunt will bring us much game to be prepared. I must be certain the fires and the pits are made ready.”

His watchful eyes swept over her, then briefly down to her breasts before raising once more to her eyes. He gave her a smooth smile. “Perhaps it is all to the good, for your fair face and form already dazzle these eyes of mine. I’d be sorely distracted from the hunt should you accompany us.”

They were pretty words, a compliment that should have brought a blush to her cheeks and a stammer to her words. But Rosalynde was unaffected by his remark save perhaps for a delicate shiver of distaste. However, she hid that unwarranted emotion behind a determinedly pleasant smile. To her relief, she was saved the necessity of response by her father’s approach.

“Your captain begs a word with you, Gilbert,” he said. Then as Gilbert cantered away, he turned with a smile to his daughter. His eyes sparkled with good humor, and his face was animated. “So, Rosalynde, you still decline to join us. I had hoped you might become better acquainted with Sir Gilbert—under my watchful eye, of course.”

As much as she knew that such an “acquaintance” was impossible, Rosalynde nevertheless could not help but smile at the thought of her father playing the part of chaperon. A mother, yes. A trusted maid, of course. But having neither of those, Sir Edward became the only logical choice, no matter how poorly suited to the part he was.

“I’ve enough and more to keep me busy here. Besides, the hunt is not a favored activity of mine. I’ll be more content to attend my daily routine.”

“You won’t forget your other task? The one I charged you with?”

“Other task? Oh.” Her smile faded as her father’s meaning became clear. He’d asked her to learn something of Aric’s past, something that would help him to rest easier at the thought of the man fighting at his back.

“He was … that is … he won’t—” She took a nervous breath and started again. “I’ve learned very little, only what you already know. He’s from a place called Wycliffe. Oh, and he is the youngest son, although he has said little of his parents,” she added, remembering Aric’s words once before.

“A youngest son, eh?” Her father shifted in his saddle, a puzzled expression on his face. “ ’Tis curious, indeed. How did a lad of such meager beginnings come by his skills, then? ’Twould seem a man would keep such a strong worker at home.”

“Perhaps there were too many mouths to feed,” Rosalynde speculated, wondering herself about the mystifying man she’d bound herself to. Like her father, she felt there was more to Aric than was immediately apparent. And as her father did, she wished to know the truth of it. But not now. Especially with Sir Gilbert in temporary residence at Stanwood.

“He was no doubt not a sterling son,” Sir Edward mused. Then he straightened on his horse. “I can forgive the mistakes of his youth so long as I have reason to trust him as a man.”

“Do you trust him?” Rosalynde was unable to resist asking.

Her father was slow to respond. “Aye, I do. At least I trust him to do his part in a fight. But that does not mean you should abandon your efforts, Rosalynde. Today would be a good day to approach him, while the castle is quiet. There will be few enough quiet days in the next weeks. Perhaps you could send for him, say … oh, I don’t care why. Because you would have him fitted for a new tunic,” he suggested with a vague gesture of his hand. “Use whatever excuse you like. Just give it another try.” Then, with an encouraging smile, he turned his horse and joined the waiting group of hunters.

In a matter of minutes they were through the gatehouse and on their way to the thick forests that stretched as far as the eye could see around the Castle Stanwood. Rosalynde was left standing on her block, contemplating her father’s final words and debating whether she should approach Aric again. It wasn’t her father’s request that prodded her to it, however. Rather, it was Cleve’s vague allusions that troubled her. His conversation with Aric made no sense to her, yet her entire future—and Aric’s—seemed to hang upon it. She could not rest until she knew how he had managed to sway the heretofore implacable Aric and actually convince him to leave.

She found him at the horse pen beyond the stables, staring intently at the horses fenced there. Come upon from behind, with his wide shoulders hunched thoughtfully while one foot was propped upon the second fence rail, he struck her once again as being possessed of the most extraordinary air of nobility. There was an aura of power about him, as if he naturally expected others to bend to his wishes. As her pace slowed to an unconscious halt, she felt an intense pang of regret. Nothing ever came out as it should, she thought morosely. No one she loved ever stayed. Not her mother. Not her brother. And now not Blacksword either.

He turned his head sharply. Then when he recognized who so silently watched him, he altered his stance at the fence. “Is there something you want of me?” he asked curtly. His gaze was hard as he raked her with it, yet the anger she saw there was not cold and icy. Rather, it burned her with its ferocity and seared her with its thoroughness.

“My father sends me on a mission,” she answered honestly. “He would have me learn more of your dark past. He likes you,” she added with a bitter smile. “He would keep you among his men-at-arms.”

His expression lifted marginally at her truthful revelation. He leaned back against the fence, studying her well before he replied. “What would you know?”

At this unexpected response, Rosalynde became even more confused. Cleve had revealed that Aric would leave after the tourney. Why, then, was the man now becoming so agreeable? Still, she was too curious about him to forgo this opportunity to learn more of his vague past. “In the years since you left your father’s house—”

“I robbed and pillaged, and took whatever I wanted from whomever I wished.” He straightened up and started toward her. “I honed my skills on villein and noblemen alike, and I devoured young maidens like yourself. Is that what you wish to hear?” he finished sarcastically as he stopped mere inches from her.

“That … that’s not true,” she whispered hoarsely, as much dismayed by his cruel words and taunting tone as she was by his sudden nearness. As if the heat of his strong body reached out for her, she felt an answering warmth rise quickly in her, lifting all her senses to a new and sharper awareness of him.

“I devoured you, didn’t I? You sacrificed your virginal feast to my insatiable hunger, didn’t you?” He mocked her unmercifully. “Isn’t that how you would describe it?” His eyes bore down into hers with a fury she guessed born of her rejection and Cleve’s as-yet-unnamed threats. Panicked by her chaotic emotions, she stumbled back a pace.

“No … no, it wasn’t that way.”

“No? Then pray tell, describe it to me.”

Rosalynde shook her head in confusion and stared at him with wide, haunted eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why?”

But he did not answer. As if he struggled with his own emotions, he only stared at her, his eyes dark and opaque with his own private tortures. Then he lifted one hand and touched her chin briefly. The smile that lit his masculine face seemed to mock him even more than it did her.

“Why not buy my answers, Rose? As you did before. For a kiss you might learn something to appease your father. For an embrace, a fact he would value. Perhaps you would pay the ultimate price.” His eyes burned her with their piercing strength. “Throw yourself on the altar of pure physical pleasure and finally know the truth about the man you wed.” He took her suddenly by both arms and pulled her hard against the rigid length of him. “Know the truth, my sweet thorny Rose, unless you fear it.” Then before one of the few watchmen could turn and notice his too-bold handling of her, he thrust her away from him.

For Rosalynde, however, the damage was done. It was impossible for her to remain aloof from him, to treat him as if he were just another of her fathers men. Too keenly did she feel the imprint of him against her. Too painfully did the sweet ache of longing fill her. She wanted him, yet she would see him gone. She trusted him with her fathers life, yet she knew that already he had tampered irreversibly with her own. Was ever a maiden so accursed?

“I do fear it,” she confessed in a voice that shook with repressed emotions. “I fear you.”

“ ’Tis right that you do, fair lady. Do not press me or you shall feel the full weight of my anger.”

He turned from her and stared once more at the horses, clearly dismissing her from his presence. Yet she could not go. She watched in helpless confusion as one mighty war-horse broke away from the rest and ambled toward the taciturn man. As Rosalynde remained where she was, too shaken to move, the tall black horse nudged the man’s arm, demanding a caress, seeking a treat. When Aric rewarded him with a dried apple and then a scratch between the ears, she struggled with her feelings. She had hurt him with her rejection, and that knowledge sat heavily upon her. But whatever had passed between him and Cleve had aggravated the situation even further. Unaware of the soft plea in her voice, she spoke again.

“Why do you not leave here now?”

She thought he would not answer, for his attentions remained focused on the huge, amiable animal. Then he shifted slightly. “You are more than anxious to be rid of me. You make that clear enough. But ’tis my intention to stay at Stanwood.”

“To stay!” Happiness leapt foolishly in her heart, to be swiftly followed by renewed fear for him. “But … but Cleve said …”

His head twisted sharply toward her and his flint-hard eyes pinned her once more. “Your rabid pup made a bargain with me. He thinks, of course, that he shall win and that I shall leave. But I have no intentions of losing, Rose. You may mark my words well. I will not lose and I will not go.”

“What of Sir Gilbert?” she whispered. “He is bound to identify you eventually.”

“He will not see me, because he does not expect to see me.” Then his mouth curved in a mirthless grin. “Of course, you can end the suspense, if you like. Simply tell him of me.”

Rosalynde was stung by his easy disregard of her honest concern for him. She was angry, but primarily she was hurt. However, she would sooner die than let him know how his cruel words cut her. Her voice was brittle and her eyes bright with fettered tears when she responded to him.

“You like the suspense, the intrigue, and the danger. Well, perhaps I do as well. If you wish to court disaster, so be it. I’ll not intercede again on your behalf.” She started to turn away, unable to maintain this charade of nonchalance any longer. But Aric stopped her with an angry jerk, then hauled her rudely around to face him. Beyond them the big war steed whickered softly, and Aric’s furious gaze flicked briefly away from her to scan the empty bailey.

“I would speak to you privately,” he said quietly, although his eyes glittered with emotions.

“N-no,” Rosalynde answered shakily, as her heart’s pace trebled from both fear and anticipation.

“Why this sudden hesitation?” he taunted, his face just inches above her own. “You said you sought information for your father. I’ll give it to you now, only come into the stables. Unless, of course, that was not your true purpose in seeking me out.” He released his harsh grasp on her then stepped back a pace and gave her a brief mocking bow. “Your servant, milady.” Then he strode into the barn, as arrogant and unrepentant as ever.

Rosalynde stood against the fence, bracing her weight against it as she struggled to calm herself. How easily he played her emotions against her. How deftly he ferreted out her vulnerabilities and used them to his own ends. Yet knowing all that, she still could not resist the challenge he had given her. She did want whatever information he might reveal, she told herself, if not for her father, then for herself so that she could more easily shield him from the threat of Sir Gilbert’s discovery. Yet as she finally forced herself toward the stable, she knew with a sinking sense of doom that those practical reasons had nothing whatsoever to do with her real reason for following him.

In the dim light of the stable she saw him in the shadows near a crude ladder. Up the ladder he went, seemingly unaware of her presence until he cast a bold glance at her as he disappeared into the loft. Rosalynde refused to hear the voices of warning clamoring in her head. Her pulse beat high in her throat as she reached for the ladder and looked warily up into the dark hole that was the loft. Then, holding her skirt in one hand, she mounted the steps, one by one, until she was half the way into the storage loft. Suddenly, before her eyes could accustom themselves to the absence of light, she was plucked from the ladder by two sure hands, stood firmly on the floor, then easily spun around to face him. Her breath caught in her chest as she stared up at his harshly drawn face, lit only faintly by cracks in the slanted roof above them. But instead of the kiss she expected—the kiss she wanted above all else—what she received was an ungentle shake and the hoarse threat of his voice.

“Ask your question,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Ask your question. ’Tis why you came, is it not?”

“Oh … I …” Rosalynde faltered and unreasoning tears stung her eyes. “My … my father would know for certain if he … if he may count on your loyalty in battle,” she finally managed to say.

“It seems I answered that once before.” He drew her against his chest and his voice lowered to a husky rumble. “Kiss me, Rose.”

She went into his fierce embrace without hesitation. Molded to his body, pressed within his steely clasp, she surrendered completely to his demand. On tiptoes she reached up to meet his lips, fired with a recklessness completely foreign to her. She felt his hesitation and his anger. His lips were hard and punishing, meeting hers, then forcing her back as if he must let her know that he—only he—was in control. But her pliant acceptance of him became her triumph, for as her mouth opened to him, accepting the heated plundering of his tongue, she sensed a change in him. The rigidness of his body relaxed, and as he bent over her, he fitted her to him more naturally.

When he lifted his head they were both gasping for breath. In the dark, low-ceilinged space she could hardly see him. But beneath her hands and against her body she could read him well, and she was much encouraged.

“He can rely on me,” he whispered against her ear, then searched out the sensitive curve of her lobe, sending tremors of delight through her. “What else would you know?”

Rosalynde closed her eyes tightly, trying to focus on his words as he pressed languid kisses down her neck, circling his tongue in the exposed hollow of her throat. “I … He …” She took a sharp breath and concentrated. “Why did you leave your father’s house?”

His mouth abandoned its sultry task and she felt his gaze on her face. Reluctantly she raised her lashes, fearing to see unpleasant reality intrude on this most turbulent of interludes.

“That answer will cost you dearly,” he murmured. She felt one of his hands move down her back to sweep across her derriere. Then his palm pressed her intimately to him and a wave of shameful heat rose in her belly. His hand slid back and forth. It was a mere matter of inches, and both her skirt and kirtle rested between his hand and her skin. Yet in that slow, seductive rhythm he raised her emotions to a new and fiery level.

His lips slanted across hers, and his tongue slid into the warm depths of her mouth. In and out he stroked the sensitive skin of her inner lips. Back and forth his palm stroked. Then his thigh pressed between her legs, opening her to his further sensual assault. Rosalynde was gasping for breath, drowning in a splendid storm of pent-up emotions and physical desire. When he finally pulled his mouth from hers, she let out a helpless moan of disappointment, then let her head fall weakly against his warm chest.

“I left to fight with the Empress Matilda and then Prince Henry, first in Normandy and later in England.”

Rosalynde hardly heard his husky answer to her question. His words hardly registered in her mind. Yet as he held her there against him, his heart thudding a mirrored rhythm to her own, she realized that he was waiting for her next question. She did not reason out what it would be. The words came without thought, more from her heart than her head. Nor did she fear the price he would demand.

“Why have you stayed? Why do you continue to stay?” His answer was swift in coming, and it stole her breath away.

“For this,” he whispered as his teeth tenderly caught the fullness of her lower lip. “For this,” he murmured as his hand curved around her breast and his thumb stroked with intense accuracy across her already-hardened nipple. “For this,” he groaned as his other hand pressed her possessively against the thick swelling at his groin.

Everything that was feminine in Rosalynde gloried to the answer he gave. He stayed for her. He risked her father’s anger and Sir Gilbert’s swift punishment for her. He did all this for her. Could she risk any less for him? At that moment, none of the practical reasons that made such a liaison between them impossible mattered in the least. She refused to remember that he had once professed to want her for Stanwood only. He was a man who wanted her to the point of grave risk to himself. And she wanted him beyond all caring. That was all she need know.

As she rose to meet his masculine domination, she knew it was inevitable. She had no answers for the future, but she pushed that dampening thought from her mind. He wanted her, and though that was not quite the same thing as love, at that moment it nonetheless felt very much like it. God knew that she had begun to love him with an intensity strong enough to sustain them both.

He lay her back upon a stack of empty sacks. Her girdle fell aside; her gown was unlaced and tugged swiftly over her head, and yet she did not recall him relenting in the devouring kiss he pressed upon her. His tunic and chainse were torn from him, as much by her own eager hands as his own. Then he lay down over her, pressing her slender form into the cushion of rough-woven burlap.

“Be mine,” he murmured as his lips teased hers apart with gentle nips from his strong teeth and silken strokes of his tongue. His hands caught both of hers, bringing them above her head. The full length of him weighed down on her, imprinting her, it seemed, with his possessive mark. One of his thighs parted her own, resting intimately against the damp warmth of her most private place. Her breasts rose with every labored breath to rub his shirtless chest, and even through her kirtle she felt the coarse caress of the curling hairs sprinkled lightly there.

She squirmed against him, restless from the building heat inside her. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run her fingers through his long, golden hair and slide her palms against his damp, overheated skin. But he would not release his hold on her hands, only grasping both her wrists in one of his hands and leveraging himself up on his other elbow.

“Do you burn for me?” he whispered huskily against her throat as he marked a trail of sensuous bites and kisses down to her collarbone and across one shoulder. He slid his hard male torso against her, torturing her with the heavy weight of his arousal against her linen-clad belly. Then his mouth moved down her chest, kissing the soft upper swells of her breasts through the thin garment. When he found her nipple, he teased it at first, flicking back and forth across its puckered peak, wetting the kirtle and sending her senses reeling. Then his lips fastened on the dusky nub, and he drew it deeply into his mouth.

At once Rosalynde’s entire body lifted against his much heavier weight. As he alternately circled her sensitive nipple, then lightly bit and sucked on it, she strained up to him, wanting to get away, wanting to get more—wanting everything. From one nipple to the other he moved, offering it the same torturous caress. But now his other hand drew one of her knees up, so that his insistent arousal pressed directly against the center of her desire. In dire need of the completion he teased her with, Rosalynde thrashed her head back and forth and struggled to free her hands.

“Please,” she begged, her eyes closed in passionate thrall. “Please,” she panted in unashamed longing.

“How sweetly you beg me, my fiery wife. How good your words sound to my starving body.” Once more his lips closed on one of her nipples, biting until the passion approached pain, then soothing with hot, wet circles of his tongue. “ ’Twould be my pleasure to keep you ever thus, tied helpless beneath me while I explore your tempting body and teach you all the lessons of passion.” His loins ground against her as he slid up and down against her belly. “Would you like that, my hot honey Rose? Do you long for such torture at my hands?”

Rosalynde was too overcome with desire to respond to his sensory threat aloud. Yes, she told him with the raising of her other leg. Yes, she answered as she wantonly pressed her hips up to the rigid proof of his manhood. Yes, yes, yes …

But even as he pushed her almost to the brink of madness, he perversely pulled away, pushing off her to sit back on his heels, kneeling above her as his breath came in harsh gasps. His eyes were flaming brands scorching her with their hot regard. She lay beneath him, writhing inside with the intensity of her longing for him, her legs still parted, her arms still above her head. Though the kirtle still covered her, she knew it was less than nothing, for the naked emotion in her wide eyes revealed far more to him than could her bared body. As if he knew that too, he reached out one hand and let it slide slowly down her ribs to her stomach, smoothing a wrinkle in the thin kirtle.

“Show me what you want,” he murmured quietly. His hand moved lower until his knuckles just brushed the upper curls of her triangle of hair. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you must ask for it.”

Rosalynde’s mind was so dazed by her tumultuous feelings for him that she did not at first comprehend what he was saying to her. Then a shiver that was part longing and part fear shook her. “Please,” she whispered, reaching a hand up to him. “Please come to me.”

She saw him swallow and vaguely realized that he fought mightily for control. “Tell me what you want,” he repeated, but in a voice choked now with strain.

The words were hard to come. They seemed torn from her and yet she could not hold them back. “I want you,” she admitted so softly it might have passed for a rustle of the fabric beneath her. He closed his eyes briefly and an expression almost like pain moved across his face.

“That I know, my sweet innocent. Now tell me what you would have me do.”

Her face grew hot as she realized what he was forcing on her. This time she would make the decision. This time there would be no blaming another for the sinful desires that drove her. This time she could not pretend to be a passive receptacle for his lust. If their joining had not already been dangerous, this new slant made it much more so, at least emotionally. Yet Rosalynde was unable to go back now.

“I would … I would see all of you.” She caught her breath at such an admission. “Please, remove your … your … the rest.”

It was done in a moment. Chausses and braies fell to the floor, and he stood above her in all his naked splendor. She lay beneath his widespread feet, feeling for all the world like a pagan offering to some mighty god, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice if he deemed it necessary.

He did not have to command her to remove her kirtle. Like one mesmerized, she reached down for the hem, then with a quick arch of her buttocks and back, slid it over her head and cast it aside. A fit of trembling took her as he continued to tower over her. Every detail of his body was boldly revealed to her in the splintered sunlight that fell through the roof joints. From his powerfully muscled legs, past the lean hips and ridged belly to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, every muscle and sinew appeared tensed and poised. A light sheen of sweat showed on his thick arms, and even the tendons in his neck stood out. But it was the muscle that lifted so proudly from his groin that drew her eyes at last. He was an awesome figure of a man, a battle-tested soldier and a hardened criminal. But he was also a masterful lover, and she knew he prepared now to prove that once again.

“Come to me,” she breathed, unconsciously writhing in artless appeal. “Please.”

He moved over her almost before the words were finished. Like the pagan god she fancifully imagined him to be, he approached the offering she made of herself, lowering himself to cover her, stretching his full length and weight upon her. His skin met hers, hard heated flesh that melted her into him. Rosalynde felt his arousal hard against her belly. Her eyes closed as she slid her arms around his shoulders and ran her fingers wonderingly across the damp contours of his back.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered into the tangle of her hair against her neck. “Tell me why you sought me out today.”

Rosalynde swallowed convulsively as the words sprang to her lips. More than anything, she wished to say that she loved him, that she needed to be with him, that she could not give him up. But some remnant of logic made her repress those words, and instead she pressed a line of desperate kisses to his shoulder. “Do what you did before,” she pleaded as joy and fear threatened to overwhelm her. “What you did before.…”

In an instant she felt his hand move in a slow, torrid caress down her side to pause at her hip. Then he shifted his weight slightly and his palm slid over her belly until his fingers reached that very part of her that longed so violently for him. His mouth captured hers in a fiery kiss as his fingers parted the curls there. Then, as his tongue seduced hers into a wildly erotic dance, his fingers slipped along the wet folds of her most private place.

Rosalynde felt as if she were melting beneath that knowing touch. When one of his fingers slid deep within her then pulled out, she arched up in near agony. Then when he rubbed that same slick finger over the tensed nub where every nerve in her body seemed poised to explode, she cried out against his mouth in mindless abandon. “My love … my love …”

Blind with her need for him, she raised up against his hand. But his need too was beyond denial. With a groan of desire he moved over her, then buried himself completely within her. There was no startled pause, no hesitation or surprise in their joining. Like one born for this moment, she accepted the full length and strength of him into her. She rose in willing surrender and became strong in his domination. He plunged into her dark warmth and surrendered to her feminine demands. Like sword to sheath they fitted together, like key to lock and hand to glove. There was no learning needed as they joined their bodies in that ancient ritual. One in heart, one in mind, they strove toward that momentary perfection. His mouth devoured hers, dragging her up into a kiss that tore every emotion from her. He cleaved himself to her in a runaway rhythm that pushed her further and further. She held to him as a last reality in a world filled only with sensation. Then the explosion began and as she tightened her arms and legs—indeed, her entire body—about him, he drove into her with unrelenting insistence.

“Aric!” Her cry seemed to fill the world, though it was less than a whisper, lost in the enveloping warmth of his kiss. Her entire being shuddered in total surrender, even as he tensed and, in a final outpouring of energy, spent himself within her.

She was shaking uncontrollably as he came to a heaving halt. They were both slick with sweat and drained of emotions. She was certain he had given his all to her, just as she had given all of herself to him. It was an oddly sweet sentiment, and Rosalynde smiled as she clasped him tighter to her. He gave her the best of himself when he made love to her. She felt it as surely as she felt his heavy body pressing her down upon the rough burlap. But did he know what she gave him in return? Did he know that it was still more emotional than physical, despite the intense physical pleasure they both had found? It seemed impossible that he could not know, and she smiled in perfect happiness.

He moved and one of his fingers touched her lips lightly. When she opened her eyes he was regarding her with a fiercely tender expression. “Save such smiles only for me.” He bent and placed a sweet kiss on her lips, one not filled with the passion they had just shared but with another less clear emotion. “Only for me.”

At her silent nod he let out a weary groan and let his head fall to the curve of her neck. Then he rolled to his side, bringing her with him so that she rested half sprawled upon him. One of his hands ran possessively up her arm, then down her side, just skirting the side of her breast. It was so tender and felt so right that, given her newly vulnerable state, it seemed an even more intimate gesture than all that had gone before.

She smiled once more against his shoulder, refusing to think beyond this moment in time. Lying in his arms in the aftermath of such glorious lovemaking, for a little while at least she could pretend that everything was right with the world.