“Stop,” she said. Perhaps if she covered herself... She reached for her discarded shift.
He snatched it away from her and pitched it across the room. “It gives me pleasure to watch you, love. Your skin is so beautiful, and your body..:” Kneeling before her, he skimmed his hands over her from shoulders to knees. “Your body is made for mine.” He eased away from her. “I’ll behave, as long as you let me look my fill.”
Since she intended to do the same, she could hardly argue the point with him, so she focused her attention on him—a distraction, indeed.
He lay back on the pillows, his arms at his sides, and gifted her with another of his teasing smiles. He seemed as willing as she to have her pleasure him.
She helped him tug his shirt and tunic together over his head. His chest gleamed in the candlelight, limned in the warm glow. His arms bore the strength of years of a warrior’s training, sleek and strong. She curled her hand about his upper arm, the flex of muscles beneath her fingers sending a wash of heat through her. “You’re so much stronger than I.” She traced her finger over the bulging muscles and down to the tender skin of his wrist.
He sat up, leaned toward her. “I will never use that strength against you, my love,” he said, the urgency in his voice startling her until she realized the source of it.
She caught his hand in hers and raised it to her lips. “I know,” she assured him. “I would never expect that of you, Rannulf. I trust you, body and soul, and I always will.”
She pushed him down onto the pillows and, holding his gaze, spoke words she’d never thought to say, save that he needed to hear them. “Your strength excites me.” Her touch light, she outlined his shoulders, chest, stopping at the waistband of his braes. “You make me feel delicate, cherished—not weak, but not as outwardly strong as you.
“There’s something about feeling your size and strength surrounding me... I cannot describe it, but knowing that you could overwhelm me if you wished—yet knowing you will not—it sets fire to my blood.” Fingers unsteady, she toyed with the knotted drawstring. “You overwhelm me in other ways, with your tenderness, your kind heart—” She untied the knot, grasped his braes and began to tug them off. “Your passion.” Trying not to stare, she shoved the fabric over his legs, but found her fascinated gaze wandering back to his manhood.
She glanced up in time to see him close his eyes for a moment, then open them and send her a teasing smile. “My ‘passion’ is quite overwhelmed by you as well,” he said with a chuckle. Her face, doubtless flushed red already, grew hotter still.
But she’d not look away.
“And I thank you for what you said,” he added, his voice serious. “It means more than I can say.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m glad my body pleases you. Feel free to do with it as you will.”
“Gladly,” she murmured. Uncertain where to begin, she sat back on her heels and, taking her time about it, eyed him from head to toe.
She kissed him while she decided what to do next, savoring the taste of him, spicy and warm. “Where did that apple go?”
She found the slice on the sheet and picking it up, pondered what to do with it. She’d certainly enjoyed what Rannulf had done, so she brought the fruit to his lips.
Before she could do anything further with it, he captured her hand and nibbled at the apple. “You’re not supposed to eat it!” she cried. He snatched the rest of it from her fingers with his teeth as another thought came to mind. “You...you smeared that over my...” she gestured toward her breast.
“I know.” He grinned and finished chewing the fruit. “’Tis the most delicious apple I’ve ever tasted.” He tugged her down onto his chest and kissed her, sweeping his tongue, apple-tart, over hers.
Pulling away, she scowled at him for a moment before deciding that she’d play his game, aye, and beat him at it.
She found the apple on the table beside the bed, then groped under the pillows for the knife, giving Rannulf a close view of her naked torso in the process. The idea didn’t disturb her as much as it probably should have—less, in fact, than it had only a few moments ago. After watching him eat the slice of apple with such gusto, she could feel her maidenly reserve ebbing fast.
Catching the knife by the hilt, she slid it free and hacked off a piece of apple, then set it, along with the fruit, on the table. “I might need them again,” she told Rannulf, her smile teasing. “Depends upon how much of this you can withstand.”
“You may need the whole apple.” His expression called her to him, dared her. “What are you waiting for, love?”
If she must be bold, she’d give it her full attention. She reached over and dragged the candle stand on the far side of the bed closer, nudged the bed hangings out of the way. “I want to see what I’m doing,” she said when he raised his eyebrow in question.
The slice of apple clutched in her hand, Gillian knelt beside Rannulf on the mattress and leaned over him as though pondering where to begin. He followed her every move with his eyes, amusement brightening his passion-dark gaze when the apple hovered near his manhood. His smile dared her, but she couldn’t be that bold—not yet, at any rate.
She chose instead to mimic his route, anointing his lips first, bending to sample the taste of him as she grazed her fingernails lightly over his whisker-dark cheek. “I think ’twas naught but a ruse,” she whispered in his ear. “All I taste is you.”
His laugh was a deep rumble, sending a shiver along her spine. “Perhaps.” His tongue darted out and trailed over her lower lips. “Or perhaps you need to try again.”
Apple or no, ’twas no hardship to kiss him, to trail the piece of apple on a meandering route from his mouth to his belly, her mouth following m its wake. He didn’t touch her with his hands, but he caressed her with his voice, murmured words of passion designed to spur her on.
To build her desire again.
By the time she had kissed and licked her way to his stomach, his comments were interspersed with moans of pleasure—and she’d decided to raise her daring to new heights. Rannulf’s eyes, closed now, shot open when she cupped his manhood in her hands.
His breathing ragged, he raised himself on his elbows. “I didn’t believe you’d go so far, love.” She shifted on the mattress, sending her hair streaming over his belly before she swept it out of the way.
He sat up and caught her to him, his arms hard bands about her, his hands cupping her face. “You win, love. Any more of that, and I’ll not last to make you mine.” His kiss stole her ability to think, to feel anything. beyond the man who held her so tenderly. When he broke off the kiss she found herself sprawled beneath him, his manhood pressing for entrance. “Do you want me?” he asked. He raised himself on his arms to gaze at her face, his eyes dark, intense.
“You know I do,” she told him, sounding as breathless as he.
“Then take my love and give it back again,” he whispered, staring into her eyes as he joined himself with her.
This made all that had gone before but a game, temptation for a pleasure beyond imagining. Moving together, they found passion, a joy so complete she never wanted it to end.
Together, anything was possible.
Rannulf crept from Gillian’s room well before dawn began to lighten the sky. Though they’d barely slept, he still felt wonderful when they met in the bailey a short time later, his body sated with love, his heart full of hope for a future with Gillian.
Perhaps with his family as well, for he’d begun to believe he might resolve his differences with Connor. He’d seek out his mother, too, at the convent near FitzClifford. Perhaps now, with the passage of time to heal her, and the promise of her family together again, she’d be ready to return home.
As for himself, with Gillian by his side he believed he could come to terms with all that had happened these four years past.
To his eyes Gillian had the look of a woman well loved—he’d done his best to see that she was, he thought, hiding a grin—though he hope
d that to Nicholas’s eyes, she’d simply appear as though she’d just crawled from her bed—alone.
He doubted anyone would notice. In the flickering torchlight ’twas difficult to see clearly.
Will, bundled against the predawn chill, led his mount from the stables and joined them, cutting off Nicholas’s spate of final instructions. “Ready whenever you are, milord,” he said, his voice giving the lie to his words, his expression that of a man ready to crawl back beneath the covers. Scowling, he mounted and sat hunched over in the saddle.
“You should have sought your bed a mite earlier, lad,” Sir Henry said flatly. “Look at Lord Rannulf—’tis clear he got plenty of rest last night.”
Rannulf caught the amusement in Gillian’s eyes and nearly burst out laughing. Plenty, aye—but not of rest, he thought, winking at Gillian. She turned away, coughing into her cloak. ’Twas laughter she hid, more like.
Rannulf listened as Talbot finished relaying his orders, handing him a folded parchment with a message for Ian. “Have a safe journey,” he said as Rannulf climbed into the saddle. “Come back as soon as you can.”
Once Nicholas stepped away, Gillian approached March and motioned for Rannulf to lean down. “I’ve something for you,” she said quietly. She handed him a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. “Don’t open it now. Save it till you’re away from here.”
He accepted it with a nod of thanks, catching hold of her hand before she could back away. “Think of me while I’m gone.” Leaning down farther, he brought her hand to his lips: “Adieu.”
Releasing her, he waited only until she’d moved back before nudging March into motion. Their hoofbeats echoing in the empty bailey, they rode out through the gate.
Rannulf turned to catch a glimpse of Gillian, compelled to go back lest she disappear while he was gone. Would it always be this way? Would he wonder, every time he left her, if he’d ever see her again?
Gillian watched Rannulf and Will ride out, then turned to go back to her chamber—and her bed.
Mayhap this time she’d sleep there, she thought, her quiet laughter sounding loud in the silence.
“Gillian, wait,” Nicholas said, grasping her by the arm and drawing her to a halt under one of the torches that lit the stairs to the keep.
She glanced around. Sir Henry must have returned to his quarters in the gate tower while she watched Rannulf leave, for only she and Nicholas remained in the shadowy bailey. “What is it, milord? We should go inside if you wish to talk.”
He shook his head. “Even at this hour there are too many people in the hall. This suits my purpose well enough.” His touch firm, he spun her about so the torchlight fell on her face. Eyes narrowed, he pushed back her hood. “I don’t care to see my ward wearing the look of a woman well loved,” he snarled. “I don’t know what game you and Rannulf are playing, milady—”
“’Tis no game, Nicholas,” she said quietly, though she wanted to snarl and rage at him for his words and what they inferred. “Not on my part. Nor on Rannulf’s, either, for I trust him to be honest with me.”
“Your trust is easily given to a man who is little more than a stranger to you.” His expression harsh, he released her arm, but stood close to her, holding her there by force of will alone. “I hope you haven’t been foolish enough to give your body as well,” he added. Exhaling sharply, he ran a hand back through his hair and gazed intently at her face. “I simply wish to protect you from hurt, Gillian. Not only because you’re my ward and it’s my duty, but simply because I want to keep you from harm.” He leaned closer. “Although he’s my vassal, I know very little about FitzClifford. He seems a decent man, but I could not swear to the fact.”
He sounded sincere, appeared concerned for her. She’d come to trust Rannulf again; would she be a fool to risk trusting Nicholas, as well?
“I know less of you, milord, yet you expect me to trust you,” she said, watching him carefully.
“Unlike Rannulf, however, I want nothing from you.”
“Nothing but my blind obedience,” she said bitterly.
“Nay, how can you say that? All I’ve asked of you is to be careful.” Nicholas appeared genuinely surprised.
Of course, he knew nothing of her unusual upbringing. ’Twould be a mark of trust on her part to tell him of it. “Unlike most women, milord, I’ve been taught to defend myself with knife and sword.”
“That won’t do you any good if you happen upon a raiding party on your own,” he said, sounding the stern guardian once again.
She opened her mouth to refute his words, until the meaning of them rang clear in her mind.
He’d not said them to insult her, but because of his concern for her. She worried about Rannulf because she cared for him; could it be that she mattered to Nicholas as Gillian, rather than some nameless, faceless ward?
If that was true, she’d been insulting him, through that hadn’t been her intention.
She placed her hand on his arm and stared up at his face. “I apologize for my thoughtless behavior, milord. Do you think, if we get to know each other, that we might become friends?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the days passed with no word from Rannulf, Gillian’s unease mounted. Had something happened to him? Had he and Will ever made it to Gwal Draig at all?
What if the raiders had taken them? Could that explain why there had been no further attacks since the one the day before Rannulf left? But if that were the case, she’d expect to have received a ransom demand, or to hear some word about their capture.
At least Nicholas didn’t suspect Rannulf of having any part in the attacks—‘twas a foolish thought, but not beyond imagining. Besides, the attacks had started long before Rannulf’s arrival at I’Eau Clair.
She shook her head. Her mind had become full of such ideas of late, scurrying from thought to thought with scarce a moment’s respite—impossible ideas, many of them, but increasingly beyond her ability to control.
Her days were so full, ’twas a wonder she found time to think at all. But the nights... in the dark of night, as she lay in bed wishing Rannulf was nestled by her side, her traitorous mind could believe anything.
Life at I’Eau Clair settled into an uneasy routine of sentries patrolling the boundaries of her lands, of guards dogging her heels whenever she wished to go outside the castle walls for any reason.
’Twas much like being under siege, save for the fact that their enemy remained hidden, unknown to them.
For the most part, she remained within the keep, only venturing to the village every few days to care for the sick. Of late, however, the need for that task had lessened, for the villagers appeared well and happy.
She’d gone to the pool once, accompanied by several heavily armed guards, intending to gather herbs to replace those Rannulf had dumped from her basket of simples It had been a mistake she’d not cared to repeat, for the place seemed haunted by the memories of everything that had happened there between them.
Everything reminded her of Rannulf, it seemed. She’d become a lovesick fool, for not even the press of her duties could ease her longing.
Or her worried mind.
She told herself her concerns were based on nothing more than the fact that she missed Rannulf, ached for him with every fiber of her being. Having lost him once, she felt he was doubly precious to her now. She missed him far more this time than she had in the early days of his absence four years earlier. Perhaps fear alone accounted for it, the fear that once again they’d shared their passion and he’d left her. The situation was different this time—they were different—yet in the depths of the night when she could no longer distract herself with work or the company of others, she could not prevent her misgivings from rising to the fore.
If only Rannulf’s father hadn’t died, would Rannulf have returned to her sooner? What would their life have been like? Would they have had children by now? she wondered, pressing her hand to her roiling stomach as if she could drive away another worry come to haunt her.
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’Twas no use thinking of what might have been, for all she had any hope of controlling was the here and now. Though from what she’d observed, she’d little chance of that, either.
Surprisingly she found Nicholas’s company a blessing. They’d come to an understanding of sorts on the day Rannulf left, and had begun to know each other better. She’d discovered a completely different man hidden beneath the pompous courtier sent by the king to watch over her, a decent man who seemed hesitant and afraid to reveal his true self. She liked the new Nicholas. She would never have suspected the sense of humor lurking beneath his handsome viesage, humor directed at himself, often as not. Nor had she realized what a good friend he could be.
He realized how much she missed Rannulf, had come to know some of their story from the conversations they had, yet she’d seen little sign of the overprotective guardian from his early days at I’Eau Clair. His behavior then had been what he thought a guardian should be. Now, though he continued to guard her and her people, he did so with an ease and common sense she found much easier to accept.
She’d even begun to hope he favored a marriage between her and Rannulf.
The question in her mind was whether Rannulf still wished them to be together.
Why hadn’t he returned?
But other than a brief message, sent when he reached Gwal Draig, they heard nothing—from Rannulf or from Ian.
Nicholas teased her about her growing malaise, saying she grew sick and wan from pining for Rannulf. If Rannulf didn’t return soon, he pointed out with a laugh, she’d dwindle away to nothing. Though he refused to send anyone after them, as the days mounted to weeks, she could see that Nicholas grew anxious as well.
But his words and teasing couldn’t cheer her for long, especially once she began to wonder if her sickness was more than longing—and caused by an all-too-likely reality.
Food held little appeal, not that it stayed put for long anyway. It seemed as though everything made her stomach rebel—smells, loud sounds, the mere act of being awake, though staying awake had become a challenge, too.
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