Juliana Garnett (31 page)

Annice took up a pot of soap and began to lather it into a square of cloth, focusing on the soft, perfumed soap instead of on Rolf. It smelled musky, like sandalwood, and she breathed deeply of its spicy fragrance. When she looked up, Rolf’s head was tilted back against the edge of the tub and his eyes closed. He’d rested his arms along the edge of the wooden tub. His hair was matted and dark where the mail hood had crushed it to his head.

Resisting the urge to run her fingers through the dark gold strands of hair, Annice knelt beside the tub and bent her attention to scrubbing his shoulder, then down the length of one arm. Tiny pale scars marred the smooth skin in places, white against the darker hue. She dragged the cloth over his forearm and down to his thick wrist. His hand was large and well shaped, the fingers long and blunt. The knuckles were knotty, and there were numerous scars etched into the skin.

Without opening his eyes, Rolf murmured, “Not a pretty sight, at best, eh,
chérie
?”

“I think your hands most marvelous and capable,” she replied truthfully. “ ’Tis these hands that brought me back to Dragonwyck.”

He opened one eye to peer at her from beneath the bristle of his lashes. “Once you would have cursed me for that deed. What has changed?”

What, indeed? She looked at him helplessly for a moment, unable to say exactly what had changed. ’Twas obvious her feelings toward him had altered greatly, but she could not say what one thing had worked such magic. P’raps it was more than one thing. P’raps it was all that had transpired since he’d first brought her to Dragonwyck. The honor and gentleness she’d sensed in him had slowly become more evident, despite her worst fears. Yea, and the spark of attraction she’d first felt had ignited into a blaze. But to try to explain her emotions when she was so uncertain was more than she could do.

She smiled slightly. “I like your cooks.”

A dark-blond brow lifted and both eyes opened. “My
cooks
?”

“Yea. Never have I enjoyed such culinary masterpieces as those served by your cooks.” She drew the cloth through the water to rinse it, avoiding his gaze as long as possible. When she lifted the cloth, he caught her by the wrist, mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“If you do not wish to answer, just say so.”

She lifted her brow to mock his gesture. “I thought I answered your question right fairly, milord.” Waggling the dripping cloth, she said sweetly, “Now, shall I wash your hair next?”

As Luc’s wife, she had been accustomed to seeing gentlemen bathed and tended and usually thought nothing of it. It was a wife’s duty to see to the comfort of her guests. Never had she been the least tempted by any man’s form or presence, nay, not even Luc’s.

But ’twas not the same with Rolf.

As he stretched out, extending his long legs until his feet rested on the rim opposite his head, she felt an odd unsettling.
A quickening of her breath, a faulty rhythm in her lungs and heart that made her hand shake. To oppose it, she set her hand diligently to the task, washing first his hair, then his broad chest, his other arm and hand, and then his legs and feet. There was only the nether region beneath the water that remained to be washed, and she delayed by paying special attention to his toes. By the time she finished, he was gazing at her with a faintly challenging smile.

“If you would attempt a task,” he murmured, “do it well and thorough,
chérie
.”

She met his gaze reluctantly. He must know that she was not accustomed to bathing a man in so intimate a manner. Never had she done so, not even for her late husband. Yet Rolf tested her, and she would answer that challenge boldly.

Deliberately, she dragged the soapy cloth down the contours of his chest and belly, then beneath the water. She felt his muscles tense with reaction, and his eyes were startled when she began to scrub most vigorously.

“Is that thorough enough, milord?” she asked when he jerked upright. Rolf grasped her arm. Water splashed upward in a tiny geyser, wetting the bodice of her gown and her face. She blinked away droplets clinging to her lashes.

“Merde,”
he muttered through clenched teeth, eyes like green flames as he stared at her. “I did not think—if you hope to dampen my ardor, this is not the way to accomplish that goal.”

Her fingers moved boldly, though her arm was still gripped in his iron hold. His response leaped against her palm. A smile pressed at the corners of her mouth. “So I see.”

Rolf’s grip on her eased, though his fingers remained curled lightly around her arm. His lashes lowered over the gleaming green of his eyes, veiling them as he looked down toward her hand on him beneath the water. Slowly, deliberately, she drew her fingers up and down the length of him, the exploration more bold for all that it was being made blindly. The water was warm and scented, the sensation of his wet flesh under her inquiring touch mysterious and heady.

Rolf’s lashes drifted closed, and he gripped one side of
the tub with a fist. His hold on her arm loosened, then fell away, and Annice struggled against an odd pressure in her chest. This was exotic, exciting, a unique experience … she wasn’t certain what to do, how she should proceed. None of her past had quite prepared her for this, and she was amazed at her own daring. Her fingers and palm shaped him with even bolder explorations.

Rolf shifted, and water sloshed against the wooden sides of the tub, washing over the rim and wetting her. Even through the layers of her garments, she could feel its perfumed warmth. The moment was a vast contrast of sensations—the heavy fullness of him pressing into her palm, a contradiction of velvet and steel, and the scented heat of water dampening her skin and garments, making the silk cling to her in rapidly cooling folds. Exquisite. Arousing.

Lifting her gaze from the blur of water and skin, Annice met Rolf’s eyes. They were narrowed and hot, blazing like dragon-fire. She caught her breath. As if in the dreams she’d had those many nights, he rose slowly from the tub, naked and powerful and awakening a fire in her that raged wildly. Once more she saw him as she had in those dreams, a golden dragon of might and myth, reaching for her.

The dreamlike quality persisted as he stepped out of the tub and took her in his arms, his body pressed in steaming heat against hers. She was standing but did not remember rising to her feet. Her arms moved around him. Bending his head, he kissed her, his mouth hot and urgent against her lips, forcing them open. Annice swayed slightly. Her fingers dug into the damp skin of his shoulders and slid downward, the wet muscles slippery and fragrant with sandalwood.

“Rolf,” she got out in a tortured breath when his hand found the aching peak of her breast. He raked his thumb over the hard nub pressing against silk. Feeling helpless and swamped by emotions that swirled around her with dizzying speed, she clung to him fiercely.

Rolf’s breathing quickened. Spreading his fingers over her hips, he slid his hands downward, bunching folds of her gown in his fists. Gathering it slowly upward, he drew it to
her waist. Cool air whisked over her bare legs and hips, and she shivered, clinging to his neck with both hands.

Jésu
, but it felt so right—so wonderful—to have him with her like this. The world that had tilted so awry righted itself again. The fear and uncertainty of the past two days vanished, melting into the warmth of his solid body against her. Giddy with heart-swelling joy, she writhed invitingly against him.

Rolf muttered something indistinguishable. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her across the chamber carpeted with thick Eastern rugs to the bed. The embroidered silk hangings that had once swathed the bed were gone, and light from branches of candles flooded the interior.

Hardly had she landed on the comforting cushion of the mattress than he was removing her gown, fingers tugging impatiently at laces and silk. She put her hand over his.

“Let me,” she murmured, slanting him a rueful smile. “With your ardor I shall have few gowns left.…”

But in the end, laces were ripped and silk seams rent asunder. With barely contained ferocity, Rolf divested her of the garments with a muttered apology and a promise to purchase more. Caught up in his fervent passion, Annice could not even pretend to care.

His urgency mingled with hers. He was rough, jerking the silk remnants of her gown from beneath her body, then capturing her wrists in one of his hands to pull her arms over her head. Flickering rose and gold candle flame lit the heated intensity in his features. Angled planes of hard cheekbone and bearded jaw, glittering reflections in his green eyes—she caught her breath.

Her passion responded to his, urgent desire clamoring for the sweet release she knew would come. His mouth found first one breast, then the other, tongue washing over her with arousing diligence. The teasing, stimulating rhythm of his tongue made her moan with exquisite delight. Wordless and helpless in his tight hold, she curled her hands aimlessly into the pillows beneath her. Her body arched into the caress, aching and quivering with expectancy.

“Rolf,” she murmured in a lingering sigh when he
moved to press his lips against the slope of her cheek, saying his name twice more before his mouth claimed hers in a deep kiss. He moved lower, his body shifting atop her thighs.

“Open for me, lady fair,” he muttered, his words raspy and thick against her throat.

Before she could comply, his legs parted hers, insistent and demanding. Bare skin was a searing heat against her thighs, the force of his weight pressing her down. Annice made a sound in the back of her throat. She twisted, arms still held above her head, his grip pinioning her to the mattress.

Rolf looked up at her, dragon-fire in his eyes, sweet ecstasy in his hands. His lips moved to her throat, then to her mouth. Releasing her wrists, his hands swept down in a breathtaking caress over her body, then moved to cup her bottom and lift her against him.

The power of him pressed hard against her aching entrance, seeking admission with a slow thrust. She arched to receive him, shuddering with pleasure. Tilting back her head, she drew in a harsh breath that sounded like a sob.

Yea, ’twas this fulfillment that beckoned her to him, this consuming passion that drew her to him as a bee to nectar. Only one thing could compare to the exquisite delights he coaxed from her willing body. Moaning softly, she surrendered to the aggressive power of his invasion, the burning intrusion that filled her world. When they were one, inseparable in body, she felt as if nothing could ever separate them in spirit. He was hers. Her wedded husband. Her life. Her love.

Tears stung her eyes, and her throat ached with emotion. She loved him. Yea, loved him fiercely. Nothing would part them again.

Moaning and writhing beneath him, Annice lifted her legs to draw him even deeper into her. Breathless from the aching need that filled her, the release that waited just out of reach, she strained to grasp it. Rolf moved inside her with increasing strength, until the need melted into fiery culmination. She cried out, unable to still her singing sighs of ecstasy.
Shaking, she clasped him to her with trembling arms, scarce able to breathe as he paused for only a moment.

Burying her face in his shoulder as he thrust slowly into her at first, then more strongly, she slid her hands blindly down the ridge of his ribs to his waist. Holding him, she shuddered under the fierce impact of his body deep within hers until she felt him quiver. His breath was a harsh sob in her ear, his muscles taut beneath her hands.

Then Rolf moved hard against her in a racking shudder. He clutched her fiercely to him, shuddering again, his body going rigid in her embrace. A long, low moan vibrated deeply in his throat, and she turned her cheek into the pelt of hair on his chest. Harsh breathing shook him, drifting warmly across her cheek.

Annice held him as he slowly relaxed and the candles burned down. Deep shadows claimed the bed and its occupants. With Rolf still hard within her, they slept.

S
ummer waxed strong in Lincolnshire. Rainy days melded into sunny weather, and crops grew abundantly green in the fields beyond Dragonwyck’s walls. Inside the walls of Dragonwyck, the residents existed in a state of uneasy peace.

Though commanded to rejoin the king in France, Rolf sent more fines in lieu of service. There was still Thurston to contend with, and he had no intention of leaving Dragonwyck vulnerable.

Lord Henry and Sir Francis were only slightly mollified by the additional monies Rolf paid. The king’s men refused to leave Dragonwyck before securing a pledge from Rolf not to mount an assault on Seabrook until the king had been given the opportunity to review the events. Reluctantly, Rolf agreed.

Once the king’s men left Dragonwyck, Rolf assuaged the worst of his restless energies by tending the affairs of his keep. Though no traitor had been found lurking in the castle corridors, Richard de Whitby’s treachery was suspected.
Only Sir Simon defended him, arguing that Richard was an honorable man. Yet when word came back to Dragonwyck that Richard had met an untimely end in a squabble with a neighbor, there were those who said he’d earned his fate.