White Lion's Lady (16 page)

But she did not pull away.

God help him, she did not run.

“Oh, Griffin,” she said in a broken, barely audible whisper. “What are we doing?”

He answered her truthfully, slowly shaking his head in a state of hopeless, helpless confusion. “I don’t know.”

As he said it, he swept aside the glossy mass of her hair, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against her nape, satisfying the curiosity that had been plaguing him since the tavern two days ago. As he knew it would be, Isabel’s skin was warm, soft as velvet and sweet as cream. She melted into his arms even while she trembled, tucking her cheek to her shoulder and granting him full access to the delicate column of her neck, the tender lobe of her ear.

Her soft mewl of pleasure made him hungry to taste her mouth. He slipped his fingertips under her slim jaw and gently coaxed her around, tilting her face up to meet his. For a moment, he could only look at her, mesmerized by the beauty of her face, ensnared by the depth of emotion glittering in her smoky topaz gaze.

She trusted him.

It was there in her eyes—a hopefulness, a belief in him that Griff himself could hardly fathom.

Not at all sure he wanted that burden of responsibility, Griffin dipped his head and claimed her mouth in a savage kiss. He pulled her into his embrace, testing the seam of her lips with his tongue, an insistent pressure that she yielded to with little resistance. When she parted to let him within, he nipped at her lower lip, catching the plump flesh between his teeth, then ravishing her with a languorous, sensual mating of their mouths.

All the hunger he had felt for her these past hours—nay, these past torturous, maddening days—poured out of him as he crushed her lips with his. He wanted to be gentle. He meant to sample her kiss and be done with it, to appease the maddening urge and think no more about wanting her. God curse him, he had not the will to be gentle, nor to walk away. Not when she was clinging to him so deliciously, her
body echoing the fevered wanting of his own, her mouth open for his plunder, her soft gasps of surprise and pleasure like a siren’s song at his ear, luring him into dangerous waters.

She said his name and he waded farther into the roiling tide, leaving the satiny sweetness of her mouth to kiss a descending path along the velvety line of her jaw and neck. His hand came up between them, seeking her breast. He cupped the pert mound through her gown, kneading it, wanting to tear away the offending barrier of her bodice so he could see her, so he could feel the tight bud of her nipple bead like a pearl between his fingers. Splendor of God, but if her kiss intoxicated him so, the smallest taste of her sweet body would surely send him into mindless oblivion.

Nay, he was already there, he realized. His desire for her in that moment was unlike any he had ever felt—quicksilver, molten. Consuming all reason in a swift conflagration of pure, primal need. Without a thought for what he was inviting, Griffin skimmed his hands down the outline of her slender form, his callused palms rasping against the rough-spun fabric of the commoner’s gown she wore. Just past her hips, he curled his fingers into the skirts, gathering up the thick folds of wool to permit his hands beneath. She sucked in her breath when he touched the bare skin of her thigh, a startled gasp that he caught with another hungry meeting of their mouths.

She was quaking in his arms, her limbs aquiver as he smoothed his hands over her velvety skin, up the lithe muscle of her flank. She moaned as he dragged her skirts higher, seeking the supple, round curve of her bottom. Then, vaguely, through the haze of want clouding his senses, Griffin realized that her hands were no longer twined in his hair, but in between them now, pressing flat against his chest in resistance.

“Griffin, no,” she gasped against his mouth, turning her head away from him. “We mustn’t … I can’t …”

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed against her ear, and although he meant it, the rough sound of his voice was surely enough to convince her otherwise. He released her skirts, letting them fall back down around her ankles as he reached up and cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her, staring hard into her darting, anxious eyes. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do,” he murmured against her mouth.

“But we should not be here like this together. We should not be doing this.” Her breath hitched, shuddering out of her on a quavery sigh even as her head tipped back in pleasure. “Oh, God … Griffin, this isn’t right.”

“Does it feel right?” he demanded roughly, knowing how unjust it was to ask, but too needful of her to be fair. He kissed away any weak reply she might have made, smoothing his hands down her back and gripping the swell of her buttocks in his hands. He drew her up onto her toes, pressing her pelvis against his straining arousal, grinding into her with the force of his desire, the full measure of his passion. She squirmed with virginal frustration, her fingers curled into the shoulders of his tunic, clenching at his biceps, her slender thighs quivering where they met the solid length of his own. “Tell me anything has ever felt more right to you than this maddening hunger, this torturous heaven.”

“Please,” she gasped, more breathless sigh than protest. “Oh, God … Please …”

Griff bent his head to hers, sucking at the tender flesh below her ear and taking wicked pleasure in the way her back arched, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath all but robbed by his ruthless assault on her senses. “Tell me that this fierce longing is mine alone and I will rein it in,” he rasped, his mouth partially open where it still touched her neck. “Tell me, sweet Isabel, that my touch doesn’t please you, and I swear, this is the last you will feel it.”

“Oh, Griffin,” she sighed, dropping her forehead to rest against his breastbone, her body still warm and trembling in his arms.

With the edge of his fist, Griffin tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you do not want me as much as I want you?”

She stared up at him in mute torment, her jaw quivering, mouth trembling but giving him neither confession nor denial. Finally, she shook her head. “No,” she said, and Griffin watched in humbled amazement as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She backed out of his arms, eyes glistening with a well of damning, heartsick tears. “Heaven help me,” she whispered, “but I cannot tell you nay.”

Pressing the back of her hand to her kiss-bruised lips, she pivoted on her heel and ran to the door, flinging it open and nearly stumbling down the stairwell in her haste to flee him.

What was she thinking? Mother Mary, what had she done?

Shamed by her actions, horrified by her terrible admission to Griffin, Isabel could not run away fast enough. She descended the tower stairs and fled down the snaking corridor, heading in no particular direction, not caring where it led. She needed solitude. She needed guidance.

Following the dimly-lit passage around one corner and the next, Isabel let the dark artery carry her deeper into the heart of the castle, beyond the hall, beyond the solar and common rooms—anywhere, so long as it carried her far from Griffin. She could not face him now. She could not face a soul now, not when her lips still burned from Griffin’s kiss, her throat yet constricted with tears and this new, profound humiliation.

What sort of woman was she to invite such a breach of honor? What sort of wanton would let a man kiss her so brazenly—let him touch her so illicitly—when she was pledged to another? What sort of fool would forsake a solemn vow for a few moments of bliss when it would mean certain heartache, certain and duly deserved condemnation?

Isabel was reminded at once of the hopeless lady in the bard’s tragic ballad. Heaven help her, but she would not follow that same path. She would not give herself to a man she could never have, a man who would use her and toss
her aside for a handful of silver. If she possessed even so much as an ounce of will, she would not give her heart to Griffin of Droghallow.

She would not love him—she could not.

That phrase became her prayer, a silent, desperate plea as she navigated the gloomy corridor, breath hitching, heart hammering in her breast. Finally her feet simply stopped moving, her legs refusing to carry her any farther. Disoriented, uncertain precisely where she was, Isabel looked around and realized she had paused outside the keep’s chapel. It did not surprise her that even without design she would end up there.

So often during her time at the abbey, she had sought solace and answers in the peaceful silence of the chapel. Hexford’s chapel was smaller than the one at the abbey of St. Winifred, but its whitewashed walls and flickering altar candles promised the same sanctuary—a holy place that smelled of incense and tradition and merciful absolution, a haven far removed from the bustle of the castle and the churning confusion of her thoughts.

Isabel entered, breathing an inward sigh of relief to find no one else about. Her leather-soled shoes padded lightly on the stone floor when she advanced toward the nave, her soft scuffs and the hiss and pop of melting wax the only sounds to disturb the quiet of the vacant chamber.

Alone with God and the weight of her recent sins, Isabel sank to her knees before the altar and bowed her head in prayer. She did not know how long she was there, asking for strength and guidance and forgiveness. She prayed for relief from her feelings for Griffin, for fair weather and clear roads that would deliver her in all haste to Montborne before temptation claimed her again.

They were selfish prayers, all of them, but she was desperate.

Was this queer confusion she felt merely a woman’s desire, or was it something deeper? What was it that made
her yearn to be near Griffin yet made her tremble in his presence? Why did it seem so natural to let him touch her, to let him kiss her and hold her, when everything she knew, everything she had learned in this life, proclaimed it to be wrong, to be a sin?

This thing she felt for Griffin was like the devil’s own temptation, a test of honor that Isabel was failing miserably. He had asked her if his kiss felt right to her, if it pleased her to have him touch her, if she shared any measure of what he so aptly called a fierce longing.

Even now, on her knees in the house of God, with the crucifix and Holy Mother staring down at her in mute judgment, Isabel could not deny it. She longed for Griffin. She yearned to feel his warm caress, his strong embrace … his sensual, dizzying kiss. She wanted all of this and more. She wanted his heart.

Though it was wrong—a sin to so much as think it—she wanted his love.

“Please,” she whispered beseechingly through fresh tears, her fingers twined together before her and held tight as a vise. “Please, Lord, I beg you. I don’t want to feel this … show me what I am to do.”

A sound at the back of the chapel startled her: the shuffle of footsteps, the swish of long silk robes. Isabel quickly dashed away the wetness from her cheeks and pivoted her head over her shoulder to see who had entered.

“Oh. Forgive me, my child,” Father Aldon, Hexford’s visiting old priest, said when his gaze lit on her. “I’m afraid I did not see you there. Please, do not let me disturb your prayer.”

“ ’Tis all right, Father. I had finished; I was just about to leave.”

She started to rise and found that her legs were slow to cooperate, having been folded beneath her and pinned against the damp stone floor. The priest saw her struggle and hastened forward, offering his hand to help her up. His
wrinkled skin was cool and thin against Isabel’s fingers, but his smile was gentle as he assisted her to her feet. His expression muted to concern the longer he looked at her.

“You’ve been weeping, child,” he said in a sympathetic tone, retaining his feeble grasp on her hand. “Perhaps you would like to tell me what troubles you?”

Isabel shook her head and casually slid her fingers out of his hold. “Thank you, but no.”

“You know, daughter, a burden shared is a burden lifted.”

She forced a smile. “I was feeling a bit melancholy but my time in chapel helped. I am fine, Father, really.”

To say that she was fine was an outright lie. She hoped Father Aldon would believe her, that he would accept her casual dismissal, give her blessing and bid her good day. But he only seemed to study her more closely, his silvery eyes lingering on her face as if he could see her pain. As if he could see right through her to the lies and sin that corrupted her wicked soul.

Isabel found she could not hold that wizened gaze. She glanced down at her hands, clasped together now at her waist—a waist that bulged awkwardly with further evidence of her mendacity. Calculating the distance between herself and the door, she looked up and started to give the priest her excuses to leave. “I have been here overlong, Father. By your leave, I should like to return to the hall and let you get back to what you were doing.”

But the old clergyman seemed more interested in her now. “You are not of the flock here at Hexford,” he remarked thoughtfully after a long moment. “A pilgrim, are you, my lady? Recently come to take shelter through the worst of the weather?”

Isabel nodded. “That’s right, Father.”

“Yes,” he mused, wagging a finger at her in recognition. “Now that I look upon you, I do recall seeing you and your
husband at sup last eve. Traveling from somewhere in the north, I believe someone said?”

“To the north,” she corrected, guilt making her reply a bit too hastily, a bit too urgently. “We are on our way north … to visit with my family.”

“Ah, journeying home for the birth of your babe, then?” he suggested. “I wager ’twas an arduous enough prospect without the beleaguering rains. Your husband was wise to stop and wait out the storms. After all, you’re carrying precious cargo, are you not?”

“Yes … of course,” she answered, scarcely able to get the deception past her tongue because of the false smile she struggled to muster at the same time. She felt herself blush and for once she welcomed the tendency. Perhaps Father Aldon would think her stammering and awkwardness merely the outward abashment of a shy new bride.