The Heather Moon (46 page)

He wanted far more than comfort or benison now, the need so strong that his body ached and pulsed for her. He exhaled, and took her arms to put her away from him a little, both seated on the bed, heads leaned in together.

"Tamsin," he said. "I willna stop, given another moment of this with you."

"Dinna stop," she breathed out. "Please. Unless... you still want to beware lust?"

He sighed, caressed her back. "I wouldna beware anything with you... but the occasional jug." She huffed a laugh, and leaned against him.

"I need to leave soon for Linlithgow Palace," he said. "Musgrave sent his agents out after the queen, before Archie caught him. I dinna know who Jasper has sent or what he's done. Pray God I can find out from him and get there in time."

"Listen to the storm," she said. "There will be no one riding out tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"And what if tomorrow is too late?" he murmured.

"Ah, then, I willna interfere with what you must do." She sat up and put her hands on her tangle of braids, and the beads that sparkled in the low light. She tugged, wincing, a gesture of stubbornness with a hint of dismissal.

William sighed, watching her. He lifted his hands to her hair and silently took over the task from her. She bowed her head a little, dropping her hands into her lap as she sat cross-legged in front of him, the coverlet spilled across her legs.

"You dinna need to help me," she said. "I will manage."

"I know," he said. "'Twillna take long, this."

"Go, if you must. 'Tis one lesson you have taught me, Will Scott," she said, her head bowed, the words hushed.

"And what," he asked, drawing a length of beads out of her hair, feeling another braid give way, slipping like heavy silk over his hand, "is that lesson?"

"Lust willna wait," she said. "But love is patient, and keeps its fire forever."

"Oh, God," he whispered, closing his eyes, bowing his head. His heart slammed within him, his soul felt as if it stirred, awoke. He drifted a rich kiss over her mouth, and went back to his task.

With calm hands, he unraveled another braid, spilled a handful of beads onto the quilt, clicking in the darkness. Tamsin sat serenely while he sifted his fingers through her hair, loosening it, freeing the curls, combing his fingers through the thick, glossy, silken masses as they escaped their confines.

He did not know how he kept at the task, when his body surged and his heart pounded. But somehow what he did was a prelude of what he wanted with her, for her. With patience and caring, he knew he could set her free along with the braids. He wanted her loose from the limits she had placed on herself, so long ago, with her conviction that she was undesirable, less than perfect. When she came into his arms, he wanted her to feel beautiful and cherished.

He left a slow trail of kisses at the side of her neck. Then he unwound a long strand of shimmering beads, coiled around a thick skein of hair. "Females are far better architects than anyone credits them," he remarked. He threaded out some single beads and loosened a coronet of braids.

She laughed, a sultry sound that shivered through him.

"You, my lass," he said, as he pulled out the last few ivory pins and tossed them away, so that the whole of her hair spilled down in a dark, thick curtain, "are beautiful."

"Oh, aye, a half gypsy who canna even do her hair or dress proper," she said. But her voice was light, and without the accusation and bitterness he had heard there at other times. She closed her eyes and moaned low in her throat as he winnowed his fingers through her hair. His body pulsed. He made himself wait. He would wait forever for this woman, he thought.

"You dinna need to wrap yourself in damask and beads, or busks and hoops. Not for me. Though you look bonny in such gear," he murmured, and rubbed her temples until she shivered, moaned again.

He took a handful of loosened tresses, fragrant with roses and rain and woman, and wound his fingers in it. He tugged until her head tilted back. Her eyes were closed. He set his lips to the soft creases that ringed her long, arched throat.

"Mmm," she breathed. "But I want to wear such gear. I like it. For myself, see you."

"Ah, then do so," he said, laying her back gently on the bed. His body throbbed with need. "But that gear will come off when we are in our chamber, my love," he whispered, his hands slipping over her shirt, grazing the firm swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the long, lean curve of her thigh. "I know how to undo whatever you've done."

She smiled and lifted her arms and pulled him down for a slow kiss, opening to him as he licked the contour of her lips and delved inside. Passion washed through him like new wine, raising his heartbeat to match the drum of the downpour outside. He pulled her closer, rolling with her, sinking down into the featherbed and the pillows.

She worked her fingers at the ties that closed his shirt at the neck. "I am not so skilled at that as you," she said, tugged, and drew the shirt off of him. He tossed it away and took her into his arms, warm against his bare skin. Her fingers fell to his waist, pulled the drawstring there. "But I know how to free you when I want too."

Her hand slipped over serge, taking him by surprise, cupping the rigid part of him so that he filled and swelled under her brief touch. He groaned, took her wrists in his hands to pin her gently, resting on one knee to gaze at her through the shadows.

"Bold lass," he said, kissing her ear. She writhed a little, and he thought he would burst, having hardly begun to love her. He kissed her mouth, drawing away so that she arched toward him, eyes closed, waiting. He slid her shirt away, revealing the supple length of her body, gleaming and splendid.

Too late, he thought, to respect chastity until they were wed properly. Far too late, for he was lost, burning now to meld his body to hers. He sank down to kiss her lips, trailing his mouth over her throat, down over her breasts, perfectly globed, peaked and waiting. He tasted her there, savored her, and she moaned softly.

She swept her left hand over his hair, along the curve of his jaw, let it roam the planes of his shoulders and chest. Her touch was warm, gentle, timid. He knew, from her earlier boldness, that her shyness was due to the hand itself, and not due to how she felt toward him.

Reaching out, he captured her left hand in his and laid his lips to her palm. She seemed to go still in his arms. He kissed her hand again, and put it to his cheek, and looked at her through the shadows. The ruby light showed the glint of a tear slipping down her cheek. He kissed it away and smoothed back her hair.

"You are perfect," he whispered. "Dinna ever think otherwise. I see no flaws in you, only what is fine about you."

She gasped and pulled him to her, wrapping her leg over his, gliding her torso along his until he thought he might go mad with wanting her. "No flaws?" she asked, leaving kisses along his jaw, finding his mouth while she spoke.

"Only a temper," he breathed out, skimming his hand down her body. He found the soft place between her legs, dipped inside, where her inner folds were slick, heated, waiting. She sucked in breath and moaned. He touched her hard, touched her soft, until she arched and whimpered and pulled him to her. He felt her climb to her release and let go, and she grasped at him again, at the drawstring of his breeches, shoving at his confining clothes.

He helped her to free him, then slid his leg over her, laid his lips over hers, pausing, though it cost him will and strength to do so. "We are not wed," he murmured. "You know that."

"We were, once," she said against his mouth, her breath ragged. "I am sorry that I undid that. We'll wed again."

He groaned, low. "How?" he breathed. "When?"

"Now," she whispered. "Here."

And she pulled him closer, spread and opened and surged upward as he glided toward her. A pause only, while his heart thudded. But he knew, utterly, that what existed between them was unlike anything he had known before. Faith and love were strong and pure, here and now. The walls that he had constructed around himself vanished in that instant.

She made an impatient sound, drew on him. Gentle and slow, she took him into her, catching her breath as she surged past the brink. He slid into the lush welcome she offered. Something unexpectedly poignant, something whole and complete, seemed to surround him. He closed his eyes, sank into her.

She made an exquisite sound of surrender, of triumph. He echoed, raw and ecstatic, savored, thrusted, and felt her tremble around him. The lightning took him over, and he knew it flashed through her. He knew then, somehow had always known, that she was the bright, elusive mirror of his soul, rediscovered.

He sighed, and heard the rain again, heard the thunder. He felt her shift beneath him, separate. He kissed her, made a vow to himself that this would never be undone between them.

A little rest, he thought, just for a bit, would help them both. He nestled with her, pulled the coverlet over them, and felt sleep overtake him. It lured her too, for she went still and peaceful in his arms with scarcely a word.

* * *

"Oh, God," he said, a little while later. Dim light, cool, moist air, the trill of a lark, poured through the small window. The light streamed silvery over Tamsin's sleeping face. "Oh, God. How long have I been here?" He sat up, shoved back his hair, yanked on his shirt, his breeches, his stocks.

"Will?" Tamsin sat up. He glanced at her sleepy eyes, tousled hair, naked body, sheened and lovely. He leaned over and kissed her, tender and quick, and she reached for him.

"I must go," he murmured. "Where are my boots—ah, still in the dungeon." He shoved his hair back, which fell insistently over his eyes. "I meant to talk to Musgrave and ride out. Damn," he swore, and stood to tighten his waist string, tuck in his shirt. "I need to hurry. God," he said, "dinna do that. You'll stop my heart."

She stood, slim and perfect, and let her shirt fall over her like a cloud, silhouetted by the window. "I'm coming too," she said. "Wait until I dress."

"Stand there like that, and we'll go nowhere but back to the bed," he growled, his voice hoarse with sleep. She smiled and came forward into his arms. "You'll stay away while I talk to Musgrave," he said firmly. "Come down and say farewell to me shortly. And if Archie has food about, can you find me some? My thanks. Sweet heaven, you are a bonny creature." He kissed her mouth, kissed her hand, gave her a little shove toward the bed. Ignoring the protest she began, he pulled the door open.

He ran down the turnpike steps in stockinged feet, while the castle slept around him. He passed the great hall, empty but for a gray, tranquil light, and headed down another set of stairs into the bowels of the tower, where the dungeon lay like a dark, sprawling beast.

* * *

"Wake up," he said, prodding Musgrave with his booted foot. William stood back, watched Musgrave rouse, grunt, shift on the straw floor of the small, dark cell. "Wake up!" He fisted his hands at his waist, legs widespread. Booted and in his leather doublet, wearing his sword and dagger, he was prepared to ride out as soon as he found out whatever he could. Just outside the open door, Rabbie Armstrong stood, bleary with a few hours of sleep, holding a torch and William's steel helmet.

Musgrave sat and leaned against the wall, his belly huge, his shoulders bowed, framing the width of his chins. The chain linking his manacled wrists clanked as he wiped the back of his hand over his eyes and looked up.

"Eh," he said. "Did they let you go, then? What are you doing here, dressed to ride out?"

"I'm free," William said. "Tell me what the hell you've done, Jasper. I need to know."

"Confessed, did you? Damned Scots," he grumbled. "And if I confess, think you the regent will let me go? I misdoubt it. Oh, but they let their own damned Scotsman go."

"Confess," William said. "Admit what you've done, and tell the details. They'll let you go back to England. I'll put my word on it."

Musgrave slid him a piggish, disbelieving look. "Did you tell them you're a loyal Scotsman, after all? Typical rogue, turning tail for the other side when it's convenient."

"Who did you bribe, and where have they gone?" William demanded. He stood firm, laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger.

Musgrave stared up at him, and something dawned in his eyes. "Damn you," he said. He heaved himself to his feet with a long grunt, wavered there. "You've sided with the regent! King Henry will be furious to learn of this disloyalty after your promise to me! What did they pay you? We'll double it! We need a man inside the court! Name your price, and ride to England to claim the coin for the deeds we want done!"

William strode forward and grabbed Musgrave's wrists, shoving them upward, causing the chain to choke him, pin his bulk against the wall. "I side with no one," William said, "but the little queen of Scotland."

"Fool! Back a warrior, not a nursling!" Musgrave rasped. "Join those who have already ridden to claim the little prize for Henry. If I were you," he said, "I'd turn in Archie Armstrong and his damned gypsy chit. I told their names to the regent myself last night. Do the same. They'll be taken down, soon, for their disloyalty. If I have to die, Archie will go down too."

"If you tell me what I want to know, and tell me quick," William growled, "you willna die. You'll be taken back to England."