She must know what her look did to a man. What it did to him. He told himself it was just a moment. A strange moment where she remembered their kiss and perhaps did not entirely regret it. That was all, and he should be glad she blushed at the memory instead of gutting him.
The next day she paused in the afternoon to look in the direction of the main road. They kept it in sight but did not travel on it. By an unspoken agreement, they had again skirted villages and slept under the trees instead of finding an inn or guest house. It was safer for him, of course, to avoid as many people as possible, but he had expected her to prefer the company of other travelers.
But then he remembered how she had looked when she had asked why men always came at her, and he understood why she did not suggest joining a larger party. To travel alone was better for them both, even if it meant he would spend the nights listening to her sleeping breath, remembering her look, burning for her.
Now she led them further away from the road, decisive in her steps. They walked a narrow, barely visible path, wading through flax growing at the edge of a field until they reached a river. This must be the route Hal had suggested – they should follow the river north before striking west, to avoid a forest notorious for its outlaws. But Hal had directed them to find the river flowing through a village much farther down the main road.
This was undoubtedly the river he meant, and it baffled Gryff that she had so easily found it despite her disregard for the instruction given.
“How knew you the path was there, and that it leads to the river? Do you know this place?”
He had broken the silence without thinking, without first considering whether he should spend words on it. She seemed surprised at the question, but did not lift her eyes to his face.
“I may have known it, when I were a babe.” She shrugged, uncertain. “But nay, I do not recognize it.”
That was all the answer he was likely to get, and he spent several minutes walking beside her, trying to decipher the meaning of this particular silence. She did not seem angry that he had asked it, nor did she have the air of hiding something from him. He thought it was born instead of a simple disinclination to speak at length on something she thought insignificant.
But then she spoke again, and he saw it was only that she had been looking for words to explain.
“There are always other ways.” She still did not look at him. “The king makes roads, and the Church, and lords and towns – them that have authority, they make roads so you will go the way they tell you to go. But there are some as would choose their own way, and make a path that suits them. Like how a bird will fly direct across the sky, and pay no mind to the roads men build.”
“A bird sees all paths from above, but you are no bird,” he observed. “How did you know the way?”
She frowned a little. “It’s only sense. We are far from any market town here, and for as many as must lead their cattle along the main road, there must be a path to take them to water. And so I kept my eyes open until I seen a little dirt track, and it goes past the fields and toward these trees that are like to grow near water.”
He looked back at where they had come from and wondered aloud, “How is it that I saw naught?”
She made no answer, and when he turned back he found her eyes on him. She looked away quickly, but he could feel the heat of it on his skin, a fire along his throat and jaw where her gaze had been fixed.
The bloom of color across her cheek told him it was not his imagination. The way she kept her eyes down as she resumed walking just a touch too quickly said more than words ever could.
“You’ve not needed to see it,” she said finally, in a hushed voice. There was something awkward in it, something like embarrassment. “It’s the lowly who must search out hidden ways, and stray from the path set out for them, to survive.”
If he were daring, he would ask if she meant her sister or herself when she spoke of straying from paths. But he did not, because he only wanted her unease to pass. Whether it was because she had met Hal or because she had a sister who shamed her, she seemed to be more conscious of how he was not as lowborn as she. It was another reason to be glad they journeyed alone and avoided civilization. They traveled the same path now, and it was not the one the world had set out for either of them.
“I am in the muck now, as you said to me.” He smiled to put her at ease, even as he felt her silence descending on them again. “Before this journey is done, I think me I will have learned very well how to search out secret ways.”
After that, the quiet between them was comfortable again – or as comfortable as it could be, when he spent every moment remembering her eyes on him, wondering what would happen if he ever dared to touch her again. He did not let himself think beyond that, but it was enough to fill his mind for hours. He imagined brushing his hand against hers, and how she might tremble as she had before. He allowed himself the fantasy of putting his fingertips to the inside of her wrist, where he had put his mouth days ago, and feeling her pulse leap with excitement.
They were innocent enough thoughts as she walked silently beside him, but at night his dreams took them further, until he was sure he would roast in hell for the sins he committed in his sleep.
At the end of the day she washed the dirt from herself as she always did, lifting her hem to bare her feet, her ankles, her calves to the water. Wet skin, just within his reach. The firelight played against her throat as she bent over the flames and his mouth watered, remembering the taste of her, the feel of his tongue sliding over her neck.
It was madness. He had been a fool to think he should travel alone with her for days, for weeks. He would go mad.
The next day he ignored the tendril of hair that had escaped her kerchief, and the look of her mouth when she gave a soft smile to her dog, and the faint scent of her that might only be his hopeful imagination. Instead he made himself look at the blades ranged along her forearms. They were short, small, deadly – like her. He thought they must have been made specially for her. The letter E was stamped into the metal at the base of each one, and he considered asking her what the meaning of it was, as his query for the day. Or perhaps why one was missing.
But the rain came down before he could ask anything, a light smattering that turned into a downpour just as they were preparing to light a fire and eat their evening meal. There was no easy place to shelter here beside the river, but they had passed a small building not long before stopping, an empty cowshed at the far edge of a field. Now they gathered their things and ran to it.
It was empty because it was half in ruins. There was still some of the roof overhead, thatching that needed repair but held out the rain in one corner. Gryff looked around and saw nothing but beaten earth, blessedly dry where they stood – a patch large enough to build a fire.
He watched Fuss shake the rain off and imitated him, shaking his head, wiping his hands over his face and through his wet hair. When he turned to her all he could see was how the rain-splattered dress showed the outline of her legs more clearly. The edge of linen beneath it clung to the skin at her collarbone, droplets chasing each other down her chest.
He knew he was staring. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from that pale crescent moon of flesh showing through the soaked linen. When he finally did, it was to find her looking at his mouth again. He held his breath as she moved her eyes restlessly, glancing over the floor and the dog and the walls but always returning to him.
Instinct made him walk to her, slowly, prepared with every step to halt. She only watched him as he came closer, her eyes trained at the base of his throat as he advanced. He stopped inches before her, the slightest bit too close, near enough to just barely feel the heat that rose from her body.
He reached very carefully to take the bag from her hand. There was a stiffness in her, a quivering tension, but she did not move away from him. He spoke softly, as though sharing a secret.
“Would you have me build a fire?”
She swallowed
, and nodded. He reached behind her with slow and controlled movements, attuned to her every breath, and pulled her cloak forward over her shoulders. He drew the edges together over her chest to cover her fully, hiding the sight of her damp skin, savoring the little shiver that came from her.
Then he stepped away and built the fire, not regretting that he had spent his day’s words on such a mundane question, preparing himself for another torturous night of unfulfilled lust.
Chapter Sixteen
Nan’s habit was to wait, hidden in the dark, watching for an hour after the sun had set to be sure no villain lay in wait to attack them in the night. It was long past an hour, and she could hardly see anything for the steady stream of water that ran off the eaves. Still she stood and listened to the rain fall as she tried to forget the heat that rose off his body, the huskiness of his voice offering to light a fire.
She was pressed against the outside wall of the cowshed in the narrow strip of dryness, afraid to ask herself why she had invited him to journey with her. It was not like her to do so. But then again she no longer knew herself at all. It had started from the moment he kissed her, this unravelling. Perhaps even before, from when she first saw him starving at the side of the road.
She had always known who she was, sure of her place and her purpose. But now she could not say she was sure of anything. No more was her purpose to save her sister from imagined suffering. No more did she shun the idea of a man’s touch – of this man’s touch. She felt weightless, untethered from the life she knew, from all her ideas of how she should be.
Fuss was curled near the door, looking out at her from a nest of waxed cloth. The Welshman had put it there, not needing it himself when the floor was dry and knowing that Fuss must always dig at something to make a bed for himself. He had smiled as the dog pawed at it, that warm smile that made her heart glow, so she had looked away – only to steal a glimpse of his body under the cloak, the firelight filtering through the linen tunic to show his form clearly.
As well cut out her eyes as lie to herself. She wanted him, that was the truth of it. She should not. Better to want something that would not risk her body and her heart, that had no dire consequences. Better to want something that was easy, for once.
She slipped inside the shed and saw him lying in the faint glow of the tiny lamp. She had left it burning in hopes it would prevent her stumbling over him in the dark. His breath was slow and even, but she knew he did not sleep. He never slept until she returned from her vigil.
A divided mind, a divided conscience. She wanted him. She should not. It was foolish. It was tempting.
Be selfish, came the whispered answer of her heart.
The stout branches against the wall where she had spread her dress and his tunic to dry, damp hose laid atop it all, took up nearly half the dry space available. She took off her belt and set it beside the arm braces, then held her cloak close over her linen shift as she stood over him.
He looked up at her, calm and waiting, all that unending patience in his eyes. When she knelt beside him, he did not startle. When she tugged at the cloak laid over him like a blanket, his breath caught – but he stayed still.
Beneath the cloak was the warmth of his flesh, the beat of his heart accelerating as her fingertips moved over his chest, an exploration and a question. What a strange thing, to want a man so badly. To want him to want her. To see that he wanted this, and be glad.
She sensed his intention to reach for her, so she leaned back from him to prevent it. Immediately, she felt the intention fade. It was...different, unexpected, a relief. This was new to her, how he did not impose his will in any way, ceding everything to her. All she had known of coupling beyond the hated groping of strange men was what her husband had done to her. And though he had been careful and kind, her only role for those few nights they had been together was to lay pliant beneath him until it was finished.
That was not what she wanted with the Welshman. She wanted things she could not name. She wanted his kisses and his touch, but she did not want her desire to be drowned by his.
Her hand slid over the rapid pulse at the base of his neck and then under the linen, over his heart. She marveled at the feel of the soft hair against her fingers as she put her lips to his. It was as she remembered it – better than the memory, the way his mouth opened hot and inviting, the way her tongue knew now how to taste him while her hands moved over him. The same liquid excitement ran through her as before, the same prick of pleasure at the tips of her breasts, the same urgent need to press her body against him.
Now his hands drifted up to untie her cloak and move into her hair, pulling the strands of her braid free as she let her cloak fall away. It left only the thin layers of linen between them, a realization that was at once exhilarating and unnerving. She deepened the kiss, reveling in the harshness of his breath against her cheek, the feel of his hands in her hair, his body laid out beneath her.
He did naught but touch her hair, her cheek, and kiss her. All the while, she let her hands move over him. The hollows caused by hunger were gone, leaving only lean muscle. Never would she have thought to take pleasure in a man’s body like this, to touch it and explore, to learn the curves and lines of his flesh while he lay still. It made her want the soft and hidden places of him. She tugged his linen tunic upward, then pulled loose the ties of his braies and smoothed a palm over his bared hip.
A shot of raw and carnal pleasure raced through her when he responded with a gasp, his fingers tightening against her scalp. His excitement ignited her blood. Never had she felt anything like it, and her teeth raked against his lips, hungry for him, craving more. Then his hand was at her breast, a firm stroke, a squeeze of her flesh while he held her mouth pressed hard to his and the knife was in her hand as she jerked away.
She hovered over him, ragged breaths, body still feverish and wanting him even as she held the blade to his breast. The knife – she had drawn it almost without conscious thought, muscle and bone reacting to threat.
She would not hurt him. She never would. Only he must not grab at her like that, so sudden and controlling.
He was holding his breath, his whole body tensed. She could feel the confusion in him beneath the alarm. The dagger between her breasts remained, hanging heavy inside the linen. It was the little silver knife from her garter she had pulled, one that he probably did not even know she wore. She waited until his eyes moved from the gleam of metal to her face, and then tried to conjure words to answer his look, to explain.
But she did not have to. He seemed to understand without words. He held her gaze and took his hands away from her hair, her body, a slow retreat until they rested at his sides. He lay there prone, undefended, an offering. His eyes moved to her mouth, a hungry look that beckoned her to kiss him again. And she wanted to, more than she wanted to try to explain anything. She bent down to his lips, inviting the warm thrust of his tongue, keeping the blade in her grip but moving it away from him as she stroked her other hand over his hip again.
She pushed the linen away to bare all his body to her touch, her look. The curve of muscle on his chest fascinated her, the plane of his abdomen, the hard flesh jutting out at her from the join of his legs. She touched him in gentle exploration, marveling at the feel of him, solid and warm. When her fingertips scraped across his nipple, he let out a harsh breath that thrilled her. Her hand moved along the curve of his inner thigh, soft and vulnerable, and she could feel how he held himself taut, all the power and desire in him restrained, held in check. For her.
It aroused her, sent heat through her until she almost could not bear it. She guided his hand to her breast and sighed to feel the same touch that had frightened her only moments ago. What a mystery it was, all of it – how it satisfied but stoked the flame higher, how it made her want to lean down and put her mouth to his chest, his belly, run her tongue across his skin while he fondled her.
When her fingers curved around his cock, he gasped again and jerked as though touched by fire.
A groan of pleasure came from him and seemed to echo all through her. It must be a sin to delight in it so much, this feeling of holding all his lust in the palm of her hand, to stroke the length of him and hope to hear his gasp again. He gripped her wrist, hard, stilling her hand as air hissed through his teeth.
She looked up at him and watched his throat work to gulp air. It only made her want him more.
“God save,” he gasped, his voice strained to the breaking point. “I cannot... You must stop, or I....”
She slackened her hold but did not take her hand away. She leaned closer, pressing her breast into his hand and her lips close to his ear. “I want you to.”
Her mouth pressed along his jaw and then his lips. She pulled back so that he might see her face and know she understood that he would spill his seed, and she wanted it. His eyes fixed on hers, dazed, and she knew at last a little of what it meant to wield beauty like power. She had always rejected it, knowing the beauty they said she possessed could be used in that way. But the way men looked at her never made her feel powerful; it only frightened her. Until now.
His palm circled hers around him, guiding her in a firm stroke of his flesh. His other hand grasped her breast tighter, pressing the stiff tip between thumb and forefinger, pulling a sound of lust from her. She felt him grow impossibly harder as her hand moved with his, rhythmically, the excitement in him building to a frenzy. His hips lifted – a powerful thrust as an animal groan rose from the back of his throat. She put her mouth on his to catch it, her hand moving on him as he convulsed beneath her.
When he lay still, panting, she savored his mouth, dimly amazed at herself. She felt wild and reckless. Ravenous. She only pulled back from him when his hand slipped off her breast and moved to pull the linen over his head. He wiped it across his belly, cleaning himself, his eyes refusing to meet hers.
She did not have room for shame in her. Not now, when there was still so much desire. A melting heat had settled between her legs, and all her skin felt alive and aching for him. She did not know what to do with it if he would not look at her. The blade was still in her fist – it seemed impossible to let it go when she was so exposed – but with her other hand, she brought his touch back to the ache at her breast and waited.
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