The Rose of Blacksword (41 page)

But even as he pushed her almost to the brink of madness, he perversely pulled away, pushing off her to sit back on his heels, kneeling above her as his breath came in harsh gasps. His eyes were flaming brands scorching her
with their hot regard. She lay beneath him, writhing inside with the intensity of her longing for him, her legs still parted, her arms still above her head. Though the kirtle still covered her, she knew it was less than nothing, for the naked emotion in her wide eyes revealed far more to him than could her bared body. As if he knew that too, he reached out one hand and let it slide slowly down her ribs to her stomach, smoothing a wrinkle in the thin kirtle.

“Show me what you want,” he murmured quietly. His hand moved lower until his knuckles just brushed the upper curls of her triangle of hair. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you must ask for it.”

Rosalynde’s mind was so dazed by her tumultuous feelings for him that she did not at first comprehend what he was saying to her. Then a shiver that was part longing and part fear shook her. “Please,” she whispered, reaching a hand up to him. “Please come to me.”

She saw him swallow and vaguely realized that he fought mightily for control. “Tell me what you want,” he repeated, but in a voice choked now with strain.

The words were hard to come. They seemed torn from her and yet she could not hold them back. “I want you,” she admitted so softly it might have passed for a rustle of the fabric beneath her. He closed his eyes briefly and an expression almost like pain moved across his face.

“That I know, my sweet innocent. Now tell me what you would have me do.”

Her face grew hot as she realized what he was forcing on her. This time she would make the decision. This time there would be no blaming another for the sinful desires that drove her. This time she could not pretend to be a passive receptacle for his lust. If their joining had not already been dangerous, this new slant made it much more
so, at least emotionally. Yet Rosalynde was unable to go back now.

“I would … I would see all of you.” She caught her breath at such an admission. “Please, remove your … your … the rest.”

It was done in a moment. Chausses and braies fell to the floor, and he stood above her in all his naked splendor. She lay beneath his widespread feet, feeling for all the world like a pagan offering to some mighty god, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice if he deemed it necessary.

He did not have to command her to remove her kirtle. Like one mesmerized, she reached down for the hem, then with a quick arch of her buttocks and back, slid it over her head and cast it aside. A fit of trembling took her as he continued to tower over her. Every detail of his body was boldly revealed to her in the splintered sunlight that fell through the roof joints. From his powerfully muscled legs, past the lean hips and ridged belly to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, every muscle and sinew appeared tensed and poised. A light sheen of sweat showed on his thick arms, and even the tendons in his neck stood out. But it was the muscle that lifted so proudly from his groin that drew her eyes at last. He was an awesome figure of a man, a battle-tested soldier and a hardened criminal. But he was also a masterful lover, and she knew he prepared now to prove that once again.

“Come to me,” she breathed, unconsciously writhing in artless appeal. “Please.”

He moved over her almost before the words were finished. Like the pagan god she fancifully imagined him to be, he approached the offering she made of herself, lowering himself to cover her, stretching his full length and weight upon her. His skin met hers, hard heated flesh that melted her into him. Rosalynde felt his arousal hard
against her belly. Her eyes closed as she slid her arms around his shoulders and ran her fingers wonderingly across the damp contours of his back.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered into the tangle of her hair against her neck. “Tell me why you sought me out today.”

Rosalynde swallowed convulsively as the words sprang to her lips. More than anything, she wished to say that she loved him, that she needed to be with him, that she could not give him up. But some remnant of logic made her repress those words, and instead she pressed a line of desperate kisses to his shoulder. “Do what you did before,” she pleaded as joy and fear threatened to overwhelm her. “What you did before.…”

In an instant she felt his hand move in a slow, torrid caress down her side to pause at her hip. Then he shifted his weight slightly and his palm slid over her belly until his fingers reached that very part of her that longed so violently for him. His mouth captured hers in a fiery kiss as his fingers parted the curls there. Then, as his tongue seduced hers into a wildly erotic dance, his fingers slipped along the wet folds of her most private place.

Rosalynde felt as if she were melting beneath that knowing touch. When one of his fingers slid deep within her then pulled out, she arched up in near agony. Then when he rubbed that same slick finger over the tensed nub where every nerve in her body seemed poised to explode, she cried out against his mouth in mindless abandon. “My love … my love …”

Blind with her need for him, she raised up against his hand. But his need too was beyond denial. With a groan of desire he moved over her, then buried himself completely within her. There was no startled pause, no hesitation or surprise in their joining. Like one born for this moment,
she accepted the full length and strength of him into her. She rose in willing surrender and became strong in his domination. He plunged into her dark warmth and surrendered to her feminine demands. Like sword to sheath they fitted together, like key to lock and hand to glove. There was no learning needed as they joined their bodies in that ancient ritual. One in heart, one in mind, they strove toward that momentary perfection. His mouth devoured hers, dragging her up into a kiss that tore every emotion from her. He cleaved himself to her in a runaway rhythm that pushed her further and further. She held to him as a last reality in a world filled only with sensation. Then the explosion began and as she tightened her arms and legs—indeed, her entire body—about him, he drove into her with unrelenting insistence.

“Aric!” Her cry seemed to fill the world, though it was less than a whisper, lost in the enveloping warmth of his kiss. Her entire being shuddered in total surrender, even as he tensed and, in a final outpouring of energy, spent himself within her.

She was shaking uncontrollably as he came to a heaving halt. They were both slick with sweat and drained of emotions. She was certain he had given his all to her, just as she had given all of herself to him. It was an oddly sweet sentiment, and Rosalynde smiled as she clasped him tighter to her. He gave her the best of himself when he made love to her. She felt it as surely as she felt his heavy body pressing her down upon the rough burlap. But did he know what she gave him in return? Did he know that it was still more emotional than physical, despite the intense physical pleasure they both had found? It seemed impossible that he could not know, and she smiled in perfect happiness.

He moved and one of his fingers touched her lips
lightly. When she opened her eyes he was regarding her with a fiercely tender expression. “Save such smiles only for me.” He bent and placed a sweet kiss on her lips, one not filled with the passion they had just shared but with another less clear emotion. “Only for me.”

At her silent nod he let out a weary groan and let his head fall to the curve of her neck. Then he rolled to his side, bringing her with him so that she rested half sprawled upon him. One of his hands ran possessively up her arm, then down her side, just skirting the side of her breast. It was so tender and felt so right that, given her newly vulnerable state, it seemed an even more intimate gesture than all that had gone before.

She smiled once more against his shoulder, refusing to think beyond this moment in time. Lying in his arms in the aftermath of such glorious lovemaking, for a little while at least she could pretend that everything was right with the world.

22

Aric sat on a crude bench as the other men-at-arms left for supper. To the several calls to join them he gave only a silent shake of his head. Food was the last thing on his mind.

“Perhaps he’s meetin’ with Molly.” One large fellow guffawed. “I seen her flittin’ about after ’im. Now’s the time when the dairy’s still. What man wouldn’t prefer Molly’s offerin’s over a trencher of mutton an’ gravy!”

“Who’s to be fillin’ whose belly full, I wonder,” another man good-naturedly threw in.

Aric looked up, forcing an appropriate grin to his face. Although it was the immodest dairymaid they jested so coarsely about, his recent meeting with Rosalynde was too fresh in his mind for him not to inwardly cringe.

“I’ve no doubt she’s too tired to tend to my needs,” he replied, but lamely. “There’s a well-worn path to her door already.”

“Molly’s never too tired.”

“She don’t do nothin’ but lay there and spread ’er legs. What’s to get tired of?”

By the time the others trooped off to the great hall, Aric was gritting his teeth in anger. But the anger was directed as much at himself as it was at the lot of braggarts he watched depart. Molly was no concern of his; she did not
interest him in the least, nor did he care that her reputation as a slut was well deserved. But he was just hours from lying with Rosalynde; her scent and the feel of her shapely body beneath his was still fresh in his mind. To hear the act they’d participated in so eagerly denigrated to the level of coupling animals disgusted him. What was worse, however, was the unpleasant fact that there were a string of Mollys in his past—the camp followers at battle; the duly impressed maidens who always gathered at the tourneys he frequented. Many a pale white body had lain beneath him in some darkened place. He’d sought temporary ease in many a warm belly and pair of parted thighs. But Rosalynde was different.

Frustrated by the position he found himself in, he drew out his knife and picked up a sturdy length of oak. Without thinking about what he did, he began to work on the staff, whittling smooth the place where a branch had been, thinning the thick end so that the staff would be ideally balanced. Splinters were banished and the proportions of the sturdy weapon were perfected. In his deft hands the staff took shape. But all the while he worked, his mind relived his hours with Rosalynde.

She had been so sweet, an unbelievable melding of innocent reticence and passionate abandon. The very thought of her willing young body and eager response caused his blood to heat and his loins to rise in renewed desire. What had become of the anger he’d nursed toward her? The disappointment that a title mattered more to her than the man inside? He’d known it to be a foolish hope on his part. Illogical even. Yet something in him—perhaps the unrecognized bastard he’d always been—had wanted to believe it possible, and when she had spurned him for his perceived lack of position, he had been angry beyond reason. Then when the lad, Cleve, had struck his reluctant
bargain, he’d promised not to seek her out. At the time, consumed as he was with his plan for revenge on Sir Gilbert, it had been an easy enough concession. No matter what did or did not transpire between Rosalynde and himself in the two weeks before the tournament, it would not affect what was to come. When he met Gilbert in the melee—and defeated him—he would reveal all to Sir Edward and, in so doing, claim Rosalynde as his wife. He had no doubt her willingness would resurface when she learned he was a knight, and although the inconstancy of her nature infuriated him, he had no intention of letting such a prize escape him. He would have both her and Stanwood, or else die at Sir Gilbert’s hand.

But this day’s surprising encounter with her put another slant on things.

He paused in his whittling and ran his hand slowly along the staff. He had not sought her out; she had come to him. Yet he could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. He had not broken his word to Cleve, but he had also not sent her away. Indeed, he had taunted her and mocked her, sending her a challenge he knew she would not be able to ignore. Then, when she had joined him in the low-ceilinged loft above the stables, he’d forgotten everything else but her. Cleve’s forced promise, Sir Gilbert’s ominous presence—none of that had mattered when he’d been faced with her intoxicating nearness. She had stood there, small and afraid, yet bold enough to follow him when she surely knew what he was about. And then she had given herself so sweetly to him.

He leaned back against the wall, the work in his hands forgotten as he relived each delicious moment. Surely the scent of the stables—horses and straw and burlap—would ever remind him of her, overlaid, at least in his mind, with
the light fragrance that was uniquely hers. His Rose. His woman.

But was she truly his?

It was that uncertainty which kept him from the great hall tonight. He knew it a coward’s way to avoid the truth. Yet he could not bear to see her sitting so far above him, fawned over by that snake, Gilbert, as she gave him the smile that should be reserved for no man but himself. More than that, however, he feared to see her look down upon him, to see in her eyes that she had only one use for him, and that a purely physical one.