Sharon Schulze (19 page)

And she did find the idea of having this handsome, strong, very desirable man at her beck and call extremely appealing.

Tossing back her head, she told him, “Kiss me.”

“I did that already. Surely there’s something else you’d like.”

“I liked it when you kissed me,” she said, staring at his mouth. “Perhaps you could kiss me—elsewhere.” Slipping her hands into his rumpled curls, she drew his head to her breasts.

She felt his lips curve into a smile against her flesh before he captured her nipple in his mouth. He suckled her greedily, caressing her other breast with his fingers. Catrin gave herself over to the sensations, arching her back and pressing him tightly to her.

Nicholas dropped his hands to her waist and lifted her, moving her to fit more closely against his thrusting manhood. He released her nipple, gasping for breath.

His loins were afire, and only Catrin could ease the ache.

God help him if she stopped him now.

He’d likely die of it.

She grasped him by the shoulders, stilling him. He watched in amazement as once again a wave of color washed over her face.

How could she blush now?

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, tempting him to take her mouth again. But he waited, eager to discover what had caused the pretty flush still staining her cheeks. “Would you mind—” Her fingers plucked at the drawstring of his chausses. She cleared her throat and began again. “Would you take these off?”

Mind? Was she mad? If he hadn’t been concerned about offending her or frightening her, he’d have removed them long ago, just for the pleasure of feeling her against him from head to toe.

“You do it,” he said, hoping to see that wave of color wash over her again.

He wasn’t disappointed.

She didn’t refuse. She didn’t say anything at all. She answered by lowering her hands to his waist, her trembling fingers plucking at the drawstring.

Impatient now, Nicholas picked her up and sat her next to him, rolling onto his side to give her better access. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she worked at the knot, every movement nudging her fingers against his aching flesh.

If she didn’t finish soon,
he’d
be finished; he’d spill his seed half-dressed, like an inexperienced boy.

He sighed with relief when she finally untied the string, but the torment hadn’t ended yet. Her eyes wide, she began to ease the material down.

Nicholas knew the precise moment Catrin saw his engorged manhood; her swiftly indrawn breath wasn’t quite a gasp, but it came close. Placing his hand beneath her chin, he made her meet his gaze. “I would never hurt you, Catrin.”

“I know that,” she whispered. It wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes, but trust.

He drew her down beside him. “Will it bother you to feel me over you? Or would you rather lie atop me?” He slowly stroked her from neck to waist.

“Nothing you’ve done has frightened me,” she said. She nuzzled at the hair on his chest, then looked up and stared into his eyes. “I know ’tis you, Nicholas. I’ll know
it when you’re deep inside me, no matter how we make love. I could never mistake you for anyone else.”

A shudder passed through him. Easing her back against the pillows, he nudged her thighs apart with his, kneeling there so she could become accustomed to him.

His gaze holding hers, he captured her lips, stroking them with his tongue while he slipped his hand between her legs to test her readiness. “Gently, love,” he whispered against her mouth when she started to clamp her legs together. “Do you want me to stop?”

She shook her head and relaxed her legs, allowing him access. Plunging his tongue deep within her mouth, at the same time he slipped his finger into the waiting folds of her womanhood.

Her flesh tightened around him, clasping him gently as slight ripples coursed through her. Reluctantly withdrawing from her warmth, he brushed his damp finger over the tiny nub hidden within the petals of her femininity.

Catrin quivered against his hands, a soft, keening moan rising from her throat Nicholas lowered his weight, spread her folds slightly with shaking fingers and slid his aching flesh deep.

Raising her knees, Catrin arched into him, accepting him fully. The soft, gasping sounds she made nearly sent him over the edge, and he paused, still buried within her, waiting for the urge to spill his seed to pass.

“Nicholas?” she whispered against his cheek, her eyes questioning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he gasped. “I just want to make this last.” Catrin stared up at him, her eyes a smoky gray, a look of wonder lending her features an ethereal beauty. “How do you feel?”

“Just fine,” she said. She raked her fingernails over his back, nearly undoing his attempt to slow down.

If all she felt was “just fine,” she wasn’t ready yet. He devoted himself to making her feel so wonderful she wouldn’t be able to imagine the words to describe it.

Lowering one hand to toy with her breasts, he began to rock his hips, pressing himself deep within her, then withdrawing slightly. He concentrated on her pleasure, ignoring the scorching heat boiling through his veins to pool in his loins. As her body began to pulse around him he altered the primal drive for completion to a slow, deep quest for mutual fulfillment. He wouldn’t permit himself to reach that pinnacle without her. With lips, hands, body, he drove her toward it, savoring her response and allowing it to carry him along with her.

She was so close. He could hear it in the sounds she made, feel it in the press of her hands, her nails into his flesh. “Look at me, Catrin,” he said urgently, continuing to press deeply into her quivering body. He wanted to watch her when it happened.

He wanted her to watch him.

Her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed at him intently, her body arching to meet his thrusts. Slipping his arm beneath her, he lifted her, holding her more tightly to him.

Nicholas knew the moment it happened, would have known even if he hadn’t felt her body spasm around his own pulsing flesh. Catrin held his gaze, the look in her wide gray eyes touching him to his very soul.

N
icholas’s cry of release still echoing in her ears, Catrin blinked until the room came back into focus. Tears puddled in the corners of her eyes, soaking her eyelashes and running down her temples to soak into her hair. She hated to cry, and the fact that these were tears of pleasure made no difference.

What had she just done? Had she gone mad, to make love with Nicholas Talbot?

She’d realized how wrong she was for him days ago. That hadn’t changed. And doubtless he’d expect certain things of her now, things she couldn’t give.

But dear God, how she wished she could!

She didn’t regret making love with him. How could she be sorry she’d sampled such joy?

She hadn’t known it was possible to feel so intensely..

Although she lay quietly beneath him, inside she fought against a swirl of panic. More than anything, she wanted to push him aside and run—away from her fears, her worries—away from Nicholas.

She didn’t want to be on this bed with him when he opened his eyes.

She didn’t want to hurt him.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Catrin knew she’d never be docile, meek, submissive—all the qualities noblemen looked for in their ladies. She might as well get out of this now, before she hurt them both.

Shoving at his broad shoulders, she tried to wriggle out from beneath him. But he raised himself up on his elbows, his mouth seeking hers before he even opened his eyes.

She turned her face away; his lips brushed against her cheek. “Catrin?” Opening his eyes, he held her trapped with his gaze, as well as his body.

“I’d like to get up now, please,” she said, voice flat. She stared past his shoulder at the moth-eaten tapestry on the wall.

If she met his eyes, she’d be lost.

“What’s wrong, love? Tell me.” Grasping her chin in a gentle grip, he tried to turn her to face him.

But Catrin resisted, firming her resolve when her eyes filled with tears again. “If you please, milord.”

“As you wish,” he said shortly, rolling onto his side. After staring at her for a moment, his expression revealing his confusion, he pivoted to sit on the side of the bed.

She scrambled across the mattress and snatched up the coverlet, winding it about her body like a shroud. Her eyes wouldn’t cease their infernal watering. She dashed the moisture away, angry at her lack of control.

Nicholas slipped on his chausses and stood, his eyes on her as he absently tied the drawstring. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He held out his hand, reaching across the mattress. The bed had seemed so small when they were in it, but it loomed large now, when she considered what bridging that distance might mean.

Better to leave while she could, before Nicholas battered down her feeble defenses and she found herself in
that bed with him again. It would take very little effort for him to lure her back where she truly wished to be.

She hoped he didn’t realize that

But she couldn’t go just yet, she realized with dismay. Tildy had never brought her clothes. She scanned the chamber for something—anything—she could put on besides the bedcover she wore now. She settled on a mass of white linen at the foot of the bed.

It was Nicholas’s shirt Her feet hampered by the heavy fabric wrapped about her, she shuffled over to the shirt, snatching it up just before Nicholas could.

She dropped the garment over her head and wriggled her arms into the overlong sleeves. “I haven’t any clothes,” she mumbled, settling the soft material around her with a final shimmy and letting the blanket fall The shirt hung to below her knees. Although not what she’d prefer, at least she was decently covered.

Stepping over the rumpled blanket, she headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. “You’re not leaving this room with only my shirt to cover you.”

Catrin wrenched free and stepped back. “I’ll do as I please.” Giving him a wide berth, she again headed for the door.

She managed to unlatch the door before he caught her again. This time he wrapped his arms around her middle and lifted her off the floor. “Put me down, you idiot!” He slung her over his shoulder. “Damn you, Nicholas!”

In two strides he’d made it back to the bed. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, his hand hovering over her backside threateningly. Draped over his shoulder, her head hanging upside down in a tangled web of hair, she could do little to fight him, although that didn’t stop her from trying.

Her hands slid over the tight musculature of his back and waist as she attempted to pinch him. But since she couldn’t find a bit of loose flesh to grab, she poked him in the ribs instead. “Release me now, or else I’ll—”

“You little hellcat,” Nicholas growled. His flesh twitched beneath her meager assault. He must be ticklish. She redoubled her efforts, fully expecting him to slap her on the rump—he couldn’t miss it, sticking up next to his face. But instead he swung her around in his grasp and fell across the mattress with her cradled in his arms.

Before she could scramble away he pinned her to the bed with his body, her wrists held above her head on the pillows, shackled by his hands. Shifting until he lay atop her, he stared down into her face.

“What is wrong?” he asked sharply. She squirmed, trying to break free, so he settled his weight more fully over her, his legs holding hers so she couldn’t kick at him. “Stop it.”

She was no match for his strength, so she ceased her struggles and lay motionless, though it galled her to obey him.

He hadn’t expected her to do as he’d ordered. Her sudden compliance took him by surprise. He bent to kiss her cheek, but the pain he saw in her eyes stopped him.

Why this complete change? A short while ago she had appeared happy in his arms, and he knew he’d given her pleasure. “Is it something I did?” he murmured. “I would never harm you. I thought you enjoyed what we shared.”

From the stubborn set of her chin, he knew he’d gain no answers now. And he didn’t want to add to the distress he saw in her eyes. Perhaps once she’d dressed, after some time had passed, she’d be more willing to tell him what was wrong.

He rolled away and got to his feet, offering his hand to
help her up off the bed. She refused, moving to the other side of the mattress.

“You needn’t get up,” he told her. “’Tis your chamber, after all. I’ll leave.”

Catrin nodded. She looked so small and frail lying there, her face drained of color and her eyes huge. He felt like a brute, hefting her about like a side of meat—especially so soon after her injuries.

He refused to berate himself for making love with her, however, she’d been as active a participant as he, no matter what qualms she might have now.

If, indeed, ’twas their lovemaking that accounted for the return of Catrin’s sullen behavior.

Perhaps he overrated his own importance.

But he hated to leave her like this. Gathering the coverlet from the floor, Nicholas spread it over her. “I’ll send Tildy in with some clothes for you. Once you’ve rested, would you meet with me in the hall? We’ve plans to make.”

He fought the urge to smooth the tangled curls back from her face, but he couldn’t walk out the door without saying something.

Taking her unresisting hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “Thank you for the joy you gave me,” he murmured, staring into her eyes. He turned her hand and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Until later.” Releasing her, he bowed and left.

The thump of the door clicking shut echoed loudly in Catrin’s ears. She felt beyond thought, beyond caring. But deep inside she knew that wasn’t true. If she allowed herself to ponder everything roiling within her heart and mind she’d go mad.

Too drained to confront her worries, she burrowed her face into the pillow and let the tears flow.

*   *   *

Ian and Rannulf followed Padrig’s trail through the forest, covering a good distance before darkness forced them to halt. After a cold, miserable night, they set out again as soon as dawn brightened the sky.

Ian led Rannulf along a barely noticeable path through the woods. He’d traveled many of the trails before, though he wasn’t as familiar with this one. But he knew that the trail should merge with one of the many routes between Gwal Draig and l’Eau Clair. If necessary, he’d follow them all. It was a matter of time until they found the place where Catrin’s party had been attacked. They couldn’t have simply disappeared.

However long it took, they’d find her.

As the day wore on, his eyes burned from the strain of searching; once they left the trees and picked up the road, Rannulf took the lead. The faint warmth of the midday sun, combined with too many sleepless days, weighted him down with weariness.

“Let’s stop,” he called. He estimated they’d been on the road for an hour without a sign that anyone had passed this way. “Perhaps after we rest and eat, we’ll be more alert.” He dismounted and led his horse down the trail. “I believe there’s a clearing up ahead. ’Tis a good place to stop.”

Rannulf dismounted, as well, and they walked along in companionable silence.

Suddenly Rannulf halted in the middle of the trail and bent to examine the ground. “This hoofprint—” Rannulf traced the rain-worn mark with his fingertip. “It looks familiar.” Sitting back on his heels, he drew his finger around the print again. “’Tis Nick Talbot’s stallion. He might have passed this way after he left l’Eau Clair.” He stood and scanned their surroundings. “The king sent him
to see Llywelyn. He visited with us—left about a week ago.” He met Ian’s gaze. “Around the same time Catrin left for l’Eau Clair.”

“Just because Talbot passed this way doesn’t mean he saw Catrin,” Ian protested. “It would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, if either of them saw the other coming, they’d head in the opposite direction. There’s no love lost between those two.”

Rannulf laughed. “Perhaps. But you haven’t seen how they look at each other when they think no one is watching. If they’re ever in the same place for any length of time they might discover they’re kindred spirits—if they don’t kill each other first.”

Though it was an amusing thought, Ian wasn’t sure he could imagine his sister paired with a Norman. ’Twas a trifling thought, at any rate. His sister was missing.

Finding her was all that mattered.

Taking up the reins, Ian again headed down the road.

He noticed the smell first, near where the road ended and the clearing began. Moving silently, he looped the reins around a sturdy branch; Rannulf did the same. He slid his dagger from its sheath with one hand and closed the other about the hilt of his sword, then slipped into the trees surrounding the copse.

The clearing held no threat. He let the sword slide back into the scabbard, but kept his dagger in hand when he entered the field.

’Twas butchery. Although animals—both wild and human, from the look of it—had been at the bodies, they’d left enough behind for Ian to recognize them as human.

His heart in his throat, he moved from body to body, each time fearing the next would be Catrin’s. Rannulf watched in silence as he walked about the clearing.

Finally, knees weak and heart heavy, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

The corpses were all men. Catrin’s remains did not lie here, ravaged by beasts, thieves and the elements. Even as he mourned his men, however, he thanked God that his sister appeared to have escaped their fate. “When I find whoever did this, they’ll rue the day they meddled with my family.”

Had Catrin witnessed the slaughter?

“They’re your men?” Rannulf asked.

“I knew three of them. The others—” He shrugged. “But mine were good men, though not the best of fighters, alas.” He shook his head. “When I get my hands on my sister, I’ll blister her backside for this.” Hands clenched, he pounded his fists against a tree. “And I’ll never let her out of my sight again. She knew, damn her—she knew they weren’t soldiers. Yet she brought them out here anyway.” He kicked at a pile of wet leaves. “When will she learn to think? I’ve given her the chance to prove she can be reasonable, over and over. Every time she disappoints me. Once I find her, she’ll not leave Gwal Draig again. I swear it.”

“Hold, Ian.” Rannulf picked up a scrap of parchment Ian had sent fluttering across the ground. “There’s writing on this.” Squinting, he read the untidy scrawl. “It looks like the directions for some medicinal compound. Gillian has a bundle of these, bound together into a book. Could this belong to Catrin?”

Ian snatched the parchment from Rannulf’s hand and examined it “Aye, ’tis her writing.” Crumpling the scrap in his hand, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, expelling a harsh breath.

Rannulf laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Let’s see if there are any clues to tell us who did this.”

Rannulf was right. He’d gain nothing by ranting about things he could not change. But how his palms itched to give Catrin the beating she deserved!

Even as the thought entered his mind, Ian knew he’d never do it.

Damned woman!

Sighing, he joined Rannulf as he searched the clearing, poking and prodding.

When they finished, by unspoken agreement they began scraping out two shallow graves—one for Ian’s men, another for the rest—while they discussed what they’d found.

“It looks as if they were attacked as they approached the clearing.” Ian gouged at the wet soil with a stout branch. “It’s the perfect place for an ambush. While I’m not sure who did it, several possibilities come to mind.”

“You don’t believe that robbery was the motive?”

“Nay, though that didn’t stop them from stripping the dead,” Ian said with disgust. “Catrin didn’t bring much with her, certainly not enough to tempt any but the most desperate bandit. I think the trap was in place before she got here. Someone planned on taking her.”

“Nicholas must have come through here around the same time as Catrin.” Rannulf paused in his labors to strip off his shirt. “My only question is who left with whom.” Ian looked at him curiously. “The signs are faded from the rain, but I think they left in two groups. A small one, and a larger one. I’m just not certain what that means.”