Page 28 of The Rose of Blacksword

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Dawn was but a vague promise in the east when they finally stopped. Aric had been silent as they rode, and Rosalynde had been too exhausted to do more than sit in his strong embrace. She had dozed intermittently in his arms, secure in the knowledge that at least he was safe, and heading away from Stanwood. But although the terrain appeared vaguely familiar, it was not until the tireless destrier splashed unhesitantly into a shallow river crossing that she realized where they were. In the purple gloom of early morning the hulking ruins of the adulterine stood shadowy guard in the hills above the river Stour.

Rosalynde shivered in the cool night air, not certain whether this return to the doomed castle boded good or ill for them.

“Will we rest here?” she asked as Aric slowed the horses and allowed the destrier to pick his way slowly up the overgrown trail. The shrill cry of a hunting curlew hushed at her words.

“We shall wait here,” he answered, guiding the horse with only the slightest pressure of his knees. Beneath her thighs Rosalynde was well aware of his strong legs. One of his arms circled her and rested comfortably where her waist flared down to her hips. She felt his every breath in a silky puff against her hair and cheek. Despite her grogginess, she was acutely aware of his robust masculinity. Only with a determined effort was she able to concentrate on his words.

“Wait? What shall we wait for?”

She felt him stiffen. “We wait for Gilbert, of course. And your father.”

“But why?” Rosalynde cried out in sudden fear. She twisted around to see him. “Why wait for them when we can get away so easily?”

Aric kept his profile to her. His expression revealed no real emotion, neither anger nor even concern. “It has never been my goal to escape Stanwood. You should know that by now.”

“But things are different now. You’ve been discovered.”

He turned the horse into what was once the castle bailey, then glanced down into her pale face. “The only difference now is that the players have all been revealed to one another. The secrets are all out. You are still my wife, however. And Gilbert is still my enemy.”

“But … but if he finds you, he and his men will kill you! You will not have a chance!”

“Leave Gilbert to me, Rosalynde.”

“But we can get away! Just keep riding—”

“ ’Tis a hard life you describe. Hard enough for a man alone. Impossible for a man with a wife. No, I’ve grown fond of Stanwood. No one shall drive us from it.”

With that final statement he halted them before the same little stone storeroom where Rosalynde had hidden the wounded Cleve—it seemed like a year ago, not just a matter of weeks. Aric slid over the horse’s rump, then reached up to help her down with a hand on either side of her waist. Rosalynde’s palms rested on his shoulders and once on the ground she started to back away, unwilling to abandon her argument. But Aric’s hand held her before him and even pulled her nearer.

“To confront Gilbert again is foolhardy,” she began.

“I do not wish to speak of Gilbert.”

“But my father will not help you—”

“Nor do I wish to discuss your father.”

“But they will find us—”

“Eventually. But not yet. And until they do, I’ve other things on my mind.”

He pulled her nearer, until her breasts brushed his chest and she stood within the span of his parted legs. Rosalynde pushed once against his chest, trying futilely to make him listen to her. But he was adamant in his intentions, and lowered his face to capture her lips.

Without warning Rosalynde’s logical protests died, swallowed up in the flame that leapt between them. She had known this was inevitable, for despite all else that might go wrong, this intense physical reaction between them flared ever stronger. Yet even as she melted beneath his fiery ardor, even as she welcomed the exquisite stroke of his tongue along her sensitive inner lips and met its increasingly bold thrust with her own, she was overwhelmed by emotions stronger than mere desire. She clung to him as she might cling to life itself—pressing herself close, clutching tightly—for there was no doubt in her mind that without Aric she would no longer wish to live. He must be safe if she was to survive. They must be together if life was to be worth living at all.

His hand slid down her back, splayed to caress every curve and hollow, then moved lower to press her hard against him, shaping the soft flesh of her belly to the rigid contours of his arousal. Willingly she came against him, and her blood sang dizzily in her ears. Here was the proof of life, she thought as she drowned beneath his ravenous kiss. His life and hers together had the force to create yet another life.

In that moment she knew that she wanted a child of him, and tears of happiness sprang to her eyes.

“I love you,” she murmured silently into his kiss. “I love you. I love you. I love you—”

With a mighty groan Aric lifted his face from hers then buried it in the warm silk of her hair. “By damn, but I would not have you this way, in the leaves of a ruined castle!” A harsh laugh escaped him and he raised his head and took a shaky breath. “You should be wooed upon silken sheets or the softest furs.”

“I don’t need those—”

“And yet I would give them to you.” He paused and in the slowly strengthening light his eyes were a rare clear shade, silver as the moonlight, yet as warm as the sun. “There are things I have not told you,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving her own. “Things you should know.”

“Those things are nothing to me,” Rosalynde answered as emotions choked her voice. “Just come and lie down with me. We’ll make a bed—I have a blanket.” She pulled away from him, letting her hand slide lightly down his arm until she took his hand in her own. “Come with me.”

Aric’s eyes searched her face, seeming almost to drink in her image. Then he bowed over her hand and brought it to his lips. One kiss he planted on her knuckles, another on the underside of her wrist. Then he opened her hand and pressed a warm kiss to the center of her palm. With his lips and tongue he caressed that tender spot, springing all her nerves to life. Then he straightened and pressed her hand to his pounding heart.

“You come to me when I had no reason to hope you would. For this, my thorny Rose—” His voice broke off and a wondrous shiver overtook her.

“My Rosalynde …”

Together they removed their meager possessions from the horses then set the animals free to graze. The blanket became the finest of rugs. The gathered leaves, a couch of rare design. The sky showed pale blue and striking gold above them, a painted ceiling that outshone the finest church rotunda. Crickets hummed softly as birds played a wild and wistful song. Serenaded they were, and surrounded by a beauty unmatched by all mankind’s efforts.

When Aric drew her to him, Rosalynde would not have had it any other way. He let her cloak down lightly, then with both his hands, smoothed her hair back from her cheeks. Gently he worked the tangles free, sliding his fingers down to where her hair brushed her hips.

She touched his hair as well, running her fingers through locks that felt too soft and silken for such a hardened man as he was. His jaw was rough with the faint growth of his beard, yet the contrast was exquisite. Soft hair, rough chin, soft lips. Across his face she let her fingers roam, exploring this man of hers, learning all she could: how thick his lashes were; how fine the hairs at his temple were.

How sensitive his ears were to her touch.

As she ran one finger lightly around the rim of his ear, his eyes darkened and she heard the sharp intake of his breath. Before she could put that new knowledge to the test, he was down on one knee before her, his hands intent on her waist.

“This gown must go,” he said in a thick voice as he fumbled with the ties at her sides. Then when his fingers worked the lacings loose, he slid his hands within the space, sliding the thin linen of her kirtle sensuously along her heated skin.

“Aric,” Rosalynde breathed, bowing her head to kiss the golden hair at his crown.

“Sweet Mary, but you fire my blood,” he groaned. He gathered her in his arms even as he knelt there, crushing her thighs and belly to his chest. Rosalynde held the side of his face against her breasts, glorying in his nearness, in his desire for her, and in hers for him. Then he tilted his face up and she cupped his cheeks.

“Won’t you show me how a husband comes to his wife who loves him well?”

“Who loves him …” His words trailed away, but his gaze was unshakably fixed with hers. Then a faint, wondering smile edged his harshly handsome features. He rose from his kneeling position, never letting go of her, so that she was held quite aloft, looking down upon him. For a long moment they stood there in the quiet of the abandoned castle, just looking at one another. Rosalynde felt as if her heart were filled to bursting, so much love did she feel for him. Then he slowly let her down, sliding her torturously along the hard length of him.

Once again they met in a kiss, bodies close, limbs entwined, lips clinging. Rosalynde’s loosened gown found its way off, as did his own girdle and tunic, the garments forgotten and abandoned as they met in passionate recognition. They fell together onto their grand bed, cushioned by leaves and well-worn wool, yet oblivious to all but each other.

“Are you my wife then truly, Rosalynde? Before God and man?”

Rosalynde stared up into the strong face above her, and it was easy to answer. “Forever, as you are my husband.”

“Ah.” He lowered his head until their foreheads touched. “My wife. My love.” Then he rolled over until she lay above him, stretched full length upon his hard and ready frame.

His love.

A rare and complete joy filled Rosalynde at his words, and she wanted to hear more of that sentiment. But Aric’s sudden movement prevented her from pursuing it, for he lifted her upright above him, sliding his hands up beneath her kirtle as he forced her to straddle him. Pressed intimately against her, she felt the thrusting strength of his arousal. Although his braies separated them, a damp quiver began in her down there, and she arched in unthinking desire. Aric’s breathing came faster, as did her own. His hands slid higher until her kirtle exposed her legs completely, and his palms rested on the naked flesh of her hips.

“Come, wife,” he whispered huskily. “Be obedient to your lord husband’s command.”

A smile curved Rosalynde’s lips as she stared down into the face she loved so well. She ran one hand down his wide chest, then lifted the hem of his linen chainse so that she could touch his skin. The smile widened further when he sighed in clear pleasure. When she pressed both of her palms against his stomach, then slid them in small circular patterns up along his ribs, then higher to discover his small flat nipples, his groan told her she was most definitely doing something right, as did his tightened clutch on her hips. But when her fingers strayed down to the ties at the waist of his braies, he exhaled noisily.

“It will not work this way,” he said as he sat upright with her still on his lap. “These clothes …”

In one swift motion he whipped his chainse over his head and flung it aside. Her kirtle was next, leaving her covered only in the loosened tangles of her long, dark hair. But Rosalynde had no time for modesty. He lay her down and in an almost violent movement shed the troublesome braies. Then they were both naked, lying together in the roofless adulterine, ready to meet at last as husband and wife.

Rosalynde tried to resume the role of aggressor, but Aric would have none of it. When she ran one hand down his side, he caught it. When she kissed his mouth and let her fingers play at his sensitive ears, he stopped her there as well, catching both her hands in one of his and holding them captive above her head.

“If you touch me that way,” he breathed hoarsely, then pressed a deep, sultry kiss to her parted lips. “If you continue this way, I shall surely explode—”

Before she could argue back, he moved his kiss down, along her chin and neck and throat. His free hand strayed even lower, brushing the side slopes of her breasts as his mouth slanted in the same direction. Then his palm cupped one of her breasts and she arched in shameless longing. His breath warmed the stiffened peak, tightening it in almost unbearable excitement.

“Aric, please—” she cried in aimless plea. But his answering kiss, taking her aroused nipple between his lips, tugging in a hot wet torture, drawing it in deep, raking it with his teeth—this relief was even more unbearable than was his teasing. Her strong young body arched beneath his superior weight, begging in a voice as clear and strong as the ages.

But Aric’s answer was to offer her other breast the same attention, lavishing upon it the same exquisite torment. Though she fought to free her hands, he held her immobile until tears streamed down her face. Only then did he move down her body, planting hot kisses against her stomach, in her navel, in the soft curving flesh of her belly.

Rosalynde’s hands were in his hair, running along his cheeks and his shoulders as he edged her legs apart. When his lips found the pulsing source of her erotic desires, she arched once more in near-perfect agony. His tongue stroked a delicious wet rhythm as his fingers added their own secret caress. One of his hands pressed down on her belly. Another cupped her derriere. She was held in a sinful bondage, pressed beneath his hands as his lips and tongue fired her to unnameable heights. Then his thumb found the slick entrance to her, and she cried out in a glorious upheaval. Her hands tightened in his hair as he pushed her to the precipice of completion. Her whole body stiffened as white-hot waves of passion lifted her. Her entire being—heart, body, soul—opened in that most personal acceptance as a rush of sensations washed over her. Then before she leapt over the edge into that dark, insensible pleasure, he moved over her and, without missing even one thrust, filled her completely.

The heated pressure of his manhood within her was sweet beyond imagining. He filled her and drew away, at once pleasing her and tormenting her in the same enthralling movement. Slick and hot, they moved together, the friction raising them both to monumental heights. Rosalynde’s arms circled Aric; her face pressed against his thick, muscled neck as he moved faster and faster over her. He drove into her relentlessly, and with every wild plunge, she cried out her pleasure until they were moving as one, frantic for the ease they found only together.

“I love you.” She heard his hoarse words as he drove on like a man possessed. “God, but I love you.”

If perfection could be reached on earth, Rosalynde found it in that moment. Her heart swelled with love, even as her body erupted in violent fulfillment. It was an absolute harmony of her physical and emotional love for him. Swift hard shudders welled up from deep inside her and radiated out to encompass her entire body. Yet she was still aware of Aric’s answering response as he tensed over her. With a muffled cry against her hair, his body quaked in uncontrolled passion as he poured his life and love into her.

His breath came in great gasps as he spent himself within her. And yet this too they seemed intimately to share. As they both fought for breath, they lay there together, Aric half upon her still, their arms and legs twined together in the perfect lovers’ embrace.

“I love you,” Rosalynde murmured through her hazy contentment. “Love you …”

Aric stirred at her words and lifted his head to look at her. His face was little more than a shadow in the thin light of early morn, yet Rosalynde could see him clearly. His dark-golden hair fell about his face; his eyes were dark and solemn, although she knew he was well pleased with her.

“Is it truly love you feel?”

Rosalynde nodded, her eyes direct upon him. “I love you,” she repeated without hesitation.

“Why?”

A small frown creased her brow as she pondered his question. Did he doubt the depth of her feelings? She reached her left hand to cup his hard prickly cheek. “I love you because I must. I must breathe to live. And eat. And I must love you.”

She felt the faint relaxation of his jaw beneath her fingers, and then her eyes closed and a sleepy smile spread over her face. “I love you,” she said once more as a yawn overtook her.

When he curled her against him, cradling her head on his arm, she surrendered completely to sleep, lulled by her exhaustion and the soothing sound of his whispered “I love you” in her ear.