Heather Graham (11 page)

Later, when they paused in a small farming village for a drink of ale, she was startled to discover Pierce DeForte watching her again. For the briefest of moments, there was something puzzled within his gaze. Then the curious gleam was quickly shielded. He bowed low to her and turned away, slipping an arm around Anne and walking back toward their horses.

To her amazement and distress, she felt a catch in her throat, then a warmth filling her.

And an aching.

She quickly mounted her own horse. When Jason Padraic asked if he might ride along with her, she offered him a warm and inviting smile.

They came to the ancient inn in the forest. The place had once been a small fortress, and was built unerringly solid, in the Norman way. Long hallways led to guest chambers, and there was a massive hall below where guests could gather. Servants saw to their things while they found places at planked tables in the great hall, with the rotund innkeeper running about, delighted to entertain this royal party. His daughter, equally rotund, with bright eyes and a wide smile, ran about, too, loaded down by a platter of roasted fowl decorated with new potatoes and cabbage leaves.

Rose looked about, wondering whom she should dine with. But before she could move, she discovered Jamison’s hand upon her arm, leading her toward a table where the Lady Anne was already seated, and Lord DeForte was in the process of joining her. Anne smiled at Rose with such welcome that Rose’s protests died in her throat. “Do join us, my dear! It’s been a splendid day, hasn’t it?”

“Splendid,” Rose agreed, meeting DeForte’s gaze. She took her seat and discovered that Anne’s brother was beside her, grinning her way.

Ah, they had a way of quickly making her lose her appetite! At the very least, she’d not turn into a fat goodwife this way!

“Good woman!” Jamison called to the innkeeper’s daughter. “Bring us wine here, lass! My throat is dry and parched. Come, lovely Rose, let me pour for you! Dear sister Anne, and my Lord DeForte!”

For a moment it looked as if DeForte would protest simply because he disliked Jamison so much. But Anne, wanting to keep the peace, cast her supplicating gaze upon him, and he winced as he gave her a barely perceptible nod. “Fine, Bryant, pour.”

Rose bit her lower lip, quickly looking downward. He was so very courteous to Anne! Despite herself, she wondered what it would be like if he were ever so tender to her.

Jamison poured the wine, filling all their cups. He pointed out various antiquities in the room as he did so, telling Rose that his own home had been built not long after the Norman Invasion of England. DeForte seemed uninterested in the conversation. It was obvious to Rose that he endured Jamison and Jerome only for Anne’s sake.

He managed to down several cups of wine, even as he murmured to Anne beneath the din in the room, pretending that Jamison spoke to Rose, and Rose alone.

Rose saw Jerome watching his sister, then his curious gaze fell upon her. He smiled. She tried to do the same.

Food was brought to the table. She tried to eat. She didn’t seem to be very hungry, but perhaps that was because she was drinking so much wine. Every time she looked about the room, she turned back to find Jamison’s eyes probing into hers. He’d refill her wine cup and press it into her hands.

The king rose and spoke to the company, dedicating the event to his queen, who blushed and thanked him. Rose wondered fleetingly if she was aware of his numerous infidelities. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she accepted them. She was, after all, the queen. And there was no more tender man than the king—even if he chose to share that tenderness widely!

The room seemed to be growing very warm. She could feel the snap and crackle and heat of the fire in the massive hearth at the room’s rear. People were talking and chatting so loudly. A harp player came. The room was darkened, and a puppeteer created a shadow play against a screen. Rose was trying very hard to concentrate. Something was wrong. The room was too hot. She was too keenly, mercilessly aware of everything around her. Sound was heightened. The least bit of light burned her eyes. She could feel the wood plank bench beneath her, even the rustle of her skirts against her. And she was weary. So very, very tired, she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

What was happening to her? She had drunk too much wine, but this seemed to be deeper than that. Then the question faded from her mind. She didn’t really care. She was exhausted, she thought, but she also felt wonderful, and light. She just needed to lie down for a while. She had to rise, had to take herself up to bed. There would be a room arranged for her somewhere. Mary Kate would surely be there by now, to help her.

She tried to speak. “I’ve—I’ve got to rest,” she managed to whisper. She looked to Anne for help, but Anne hadn’t heard her. Anne’s eyes seemed glazed, peculiarly highlighted by the fire.

“Yes, we need sleep,” DeForte said. He looked as strange as Anne and was staring at Rose. For once, he didn’t seem to be condemning her. Perhaps it was the wine, Rose thought. Perhaps he had drunk too much, too, and was now feeling the same curious helplessness. For once, though, she thought that she liked the man. His dark brow was knit, he seemed to sense some danger, and he was truly worried for her, a champion ready to assist her. Of course. They were at a table with Jamison and Jerome, and that worried him. But why? Suddenly she couldn’t remember. She felt incredibly peaceful and at ease.

“Anne and I will see you to your quarters—” he began. But he broke off, stunned to realize that he could not rise. Even as he spoke, Rose noticed from what seemed like a very distant place that he crashed face-first into the table. Ah, the great DeForte! It should have been so very amusing; she should have enjoyed this. Except that he had fallen in her defense …

But she couldn’t seem to think or feel herself, except for those physical things that were so very strong, the exceptional heat in the room, the slightest brush of fingers against her flesh.

“I’ll take you to your room,” someone said.

Jamison! An alarm sounded in her head, but she couldn’t heed it. She could scarcely move. She was falling, then being swept up. She heard him saying something to someone, an explanation.

“No,” she managed to murmur.

“It’s all right, we’ll get Mary Kate,” he told her. Somehow that made sense. Mary Kate was supposed to be here.

Had she drunk that much wine? The world was spinning. For long moments there was nothing, nothing at all. And then she thought that she heard whispering.

“Don’t be daft, the chemise, too. Strip her naked. How else would she be?”

Clothing was being peeled away from her body. She was aware of it as she might have been in a silver mist, in a dream. Mary Kate. Mary Kate was here, helping her into bed. “Mary Kate!” She tried to form the name on her lips.

“Yes, yes,” she heard. “Move your arm so, aye, that’s fine.”

She was suddenly cold. Acutely cold. “Freezing!” she murmured.

“You’ll be warm soon enough.” She thought she heard a little snigger of laughter. There was a woman with her. It had to be Mary Kate, even if she did look a little strange in the darkness, even if her touch seemed unusually rough.

Moments later she heard, “Are you sure
he’s
out for the moment?”

“The witch guaranteed the potion.”

“What of Anne?”

“Next, next …”

Then she heard nothing. The blackness swirled around her. She slept so peacefully.

Then …

She began to dream.

It was a wild, deep, incredible dream. And she was not so cold. She was deeply, sweetly comfortable, resting on something soft, next to something incredibly warm. Something that touched her flesh, that radiated heat, that sent it sweeping into her.

“My love …”

She thought she heard the whisper. She was walking on clouds. Silver clouds, by a stream that rippled with silver waters. She could feel the radiating heat, but in the dream, he had not come to her yet. He was walking toward her, naked. Hard bronze muscle rippled in his chest and shoulders. His legs were powerfully built and strong. She tried to look to his eyes, but her gaze wandered back to his body—but it was all right, for the silver mist encompassed him.

“Want you, sweet Jesu, want you. So tired … but want you. Always want you …”

Arms swept around her, pulling her close. Hands touched her, fingers stroked her. Rugged, callused fingers, masculine hands. Excruciating against her bare flesh. Creating searing tongues of flame to sweep around her …

The silver mist dissolved for a moment. It was dark, so dark. She lay in the clouds, but she could see the fire burning in the hearth, so far away.

It was DeForte, she realized. DeForte in her dream. She moaned softly with distress. She’d never even imagined such things as this! Not until she had met him. Then she had begun to discover the feelings. The heat, the aching, the longing for something she had never touched, something that beckoned, excited.

Oh, no. Oh, dear Lord, no. Not DeForte. But it was him. Hard as steel, searing with heat. DeForte, touching her, stroking her. She lay naked with him.

She had dreamed about him once before, she remembered vaguely. Couldn’t she dream these decadent dreams about someone else?

Or did she dream about him because, in truth, she longed to be touched by him? To lie like this …

No, oh no.

Yes.

His caresses, fingers stroking her. The touch of his kiss, his whisper breathing fire against her. This was enchantment. Ecstasy and desire, an aching, a longing. She twisted, she turned. The hands swept over her. The fingers threaded into her hair. She moved against his strength and incredible warmth. And her body cried out to feel more.

Now his lips were on hers. Demanding. Parting her mouth. His tongue swept forcefully into her mouth, bringing liquid fire. She felt the heat through the length of her. Felt it spiraling down, between her thighs. She moaned beneath the heady onslaught of his kiss, shifting.

His lips left hers, then pressed to her throat, arousing, tasting, feverishly hot, moist. This was a touch that demanded, that seduced, that evoked. Masculine, powerful.

His fingers curled around her breast, caressing the fullness of it. His thumb flicked over the nipple and she nearly cried out. She felt the hardness of his body, sweeping against hers. His tongue fell where his thumb had been. Savored, caressed.

“Oh, no …”

Did she speak the soft cry, or did she dream it? Could she possibly be imagining the shaft of fire that shot through her as his mouth fully savored her breast? She stiffened against him, amazed at the flames swirling wildly through the length of her. Her lips parted and her breath rushed through them. From the very center of her being, she felt a spiraling of need. Of desire. Hot, swirling, aching …

He shifted. Dark hair teasing her flesh. His hands upon her, his mouth closing around her right breast now. Dear Lord …

Distress swept into her for a moment. She had to fight it. This dream was … decadent. She could feel the vital heat of a tongue’s silky movement around her breast again, the stroke upon her nipple, a suckling there.

No decent woman had such dreams!

But she could not escape this one. She struggled to think, to reason. This could not be right.

No, nothing had ever felt quite so right before. DeForte! Brash, arrogant, hateful!

Yet so magnificently built, so hot and powerful beneath the light fall of her fingers. Just the feel of his thigh thrown atop her created an urgency in the blood, anguish and ecstasy, this incredible tempest. Building with her every heartbeat. Wicked, hot, haunting.

Now his hands were moving down the length of her. Sliding over her waist, her hip. The tantalizing hot fire of his lips followed, pressing a kiss here, there. She moaned, twisting. Her fingers wound into thick, rich hair, feathered over his powerfully muscled, taut shoulders. Her breath escaped her, she trembled violently. The slow trail of his tongue moved low and hot over the flesh of her abdomen. Jesu, but she had to awaken.

She tried to open her eyes. They were too heavy. She tried to fight the feelings. They were too real.

His hands were against her thighs now. Moving higher, becoming more intimate. The length of him shifted against her. She felt his kiss, teasingly, just above her knee. The stroke of his tongue. A caress … moving higher, deeper. She inhaled on a ragged breath, her fingers winding into the sheets. This was not possible! His touch was liquid fire unlike anything she had known or imagined, so intimate, so demanding, so impassioned. Molten honey streaked through her, sweeter than she could bear. She fought, twisting, writhing, surging, aiding and abetting the fierce invasion. The tempest that swept her soared higher and higher, coming faster, harder, deeper. She cried out and tried to twist again, feeling waves of sensation crash down upon her again and again. Shocking, violent, sweet, shattering, the feelings washed over her. She lay stunned, amazed at the sweet splendor that had filled her, shaken her, and left her floating now within the silver mist.

Then she was suddenly aware of a great strength wedged against her, forcefully parting her. Her thighs, drawn apart. That weight, dividing her. Her legs were spread. Even in the silver mist, the pain was excruciating. She cried out, but her cry was smothered against the fervent passion of his kiss as his lips seized hers. Pain, fierce and endless, seemed to tear into her. She fought it, trying to twist from the kiss, trying violently to heave his weight from her body. But he didn’t seem at all aware …

Their bodies were locked, his flesh was taut and slick. She tore at his shoulders, writhed beneath him, trying to avoid the impalement that seemed to strike into the depths of her body like a sword. Each movement seemed only to give him further assistance to enter her more fully, each twist but seemed to lock them ever more tightly together. Tears stung her eyes; she could taste them in her dream, just as she could taste the salt of her lover’s kiss against her lips. Dreams could not be this agony. They could not be the sensual ecstasy she had known before. They could not caress and tear the body. They could not …