by Lisa Hendrix
He turned into her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm, and as his beard ruffled over her fingers, it occurred to him, too late, that he had not shaved in far too long. “Did you also tell her I am the biggest fool this side of Gotham?”
“No bigger fool than I.” She curved her fingers into his jaw, just a bit, drawing him down until his lips lingered barely an inch over hers. “Let us both stop being fools. I cannot bear it any longer.”
“Gladly, my lady.”
“Eleanor. I want to be Eleanor again. I want to be yours again.” She rose that last inch and touched her lips to his, a sweet kiss that nonetheless poured through him like brandewine, melting away his last ridiculous qualms and leaving him drunk with need. “Make me yours. Let me feel alive again.”
Dizzy, he reached for her. “Most gladly, my … Eleanor.
She came into his arms with a sigh that opened her mouth to him. He remembered that taste, the velvet softness of her mouth, and the way her tongue met his so willingly. He remembered her curves, too, and he traced them as they continued to kiss, finding the places where she was still slim as a girl and those where her body had grown riper and more womanly, more tempting.
So very tempting. He scooped her up and carried her to the bed. The long drop as he sat broke their kiss and drew a surprised yelp from Eleanor that made him chuckle. He nestled her more securely onto his lap. “I have you.”
“I know.” Her eyes glittered like stars in the flickering light, and for a moment he thought she might be crying again. The notion vanished as she slowly traced a line down his neck and across his shoulder. The heat her fingers left behind spread over his skin like a ship’s wake, vanishing even as it left its path forever changed. He tensed, his body anticipating more heat, so much more, and as her trail dropped over the edge of his shoulder and she found the bunched muscles of his arm, she smiled. “You are too strong to let me fall.”
CHAPTER 19
IN THE NEXT breath, they were on each other, hands everywhere, stripping away clothes as quickly as they could in the rush to join. Gowns and shirts flew across the cave, followed by boots and shoes and hose, until Eleanor sat on his lap in nothing but her chemise.
Even that was too much. Together, they wrestled at the yards of cloth, drawing the gown up to be rid of it. As her bare legs came into view, Gunnar groaned and dragged her around to face him.
When she shifted, the hem pulled free. Unfettered, she wriggled around and straddled him, the cloth bunched around her waist, his hardness rising against her, barely restrained by the thin linen of his braies. With a growl, Gunnar grabbed her bottom and moved her until he pressed up against the sweetest spot, then followed bare skin up, beneath cloth, over hips and waist, and higher.
And all the while they kissed, wildly, deeply, the hunger so thick and heavy that when they broke apart even for an instant, her belly ached with it. He found her breasts beneath the linen and gathered their weight in his hands and thumbed over the tips, over and over until she couldn’t stand the pleasure of it anymore and had to push him away. Chuckling, he let her, then pulled his hands from under the cloth to find hers and guide them to his waist cord. A quick tug, some awkward pushing and pulling, and he was free, against her, flesh to willing flesh, ready to enter her. She closed her eyes, letting the want pour through her.
“Wrap your legs around me.”
Richard always said that. A cold weight settled into the middle of all the heat, like a block of ice thrown on a fire, doing little at first until it melted and the water doused the flames.
Eleanor opened her eyes to reassure herself. Not Richard, Gunnar. This was Gunnar, the man she’d dreamed of for years, the man she’d held in her mind and heart, pretending it was he in her bed whenever Richard had come to her. Now he truly was here, in her arms, and she was thinking of Richard? A laugh bubbled up, half sob, bitter with mockery.
Gunnar stilled. “What is it?”
She couldn’t tell him. She shook her head and reached for a smile, as she had so many times.
With Richard.
No. No! She refused to let him come fidgeting his way between them. He’d had his turn with her. It was Gunnar’s time now. It was her time.
She let the smile fade away and fixed her attention on the man before her, running her hands over his bare skin, watching herself trace a path across his rippled chest, up those huge arms, across shoulder and up into curve of massive neck. He was so different. New and yet familiar, so very unlike … She pushed back at the name.
“Gunnar,” she reminded herself, and threaded her fingers into his too-long curls to pull him close for more of those heated, wild kisses. Eyes wide open so she would remember who this was, she drank him in greedily.
Only Gunnar tasted like this, felt like this, touched like this. His hands wandered over her hips and belly and breasts, baring skin as he worked her chemise up and stripped it over her head to be tossed aside with the rest. Growling, he grabbed her hands and pulled them behind her back, catching her wrists in one hand, forcing her breasts forward to meet his seeking mouth. Unable to touch him, she watched him work back and forth between her nipples, saw his tongue curl around the tips, taking each into his mouth in turn to draw the pleasure from her body. He slipped his free hand down to touch her and fit himself to her. The heat poured through her, left her wet and open. Ready.
“Gunnar. Take me, Gunnar. Now.”
“At your pleasure.” Holding her gaze with his, he released her hands, grabbed her by the waist, and pushed into her in one driving thrust that tore a gasp from her lips. She grabbed his shoulders, her nails cutting into his skin.
“Big,” she breathed when she could say anything at all. They began to move together, gently then harder. He bent to her breasts again, and she closed her eyes and threw her head back, giving herself over to the sensation. Big and hard and so deep in her. Nothing like—
Her eyes snapped open. “Gunnar.”
“Aye, Gunnar. It is still I.” There was mischief in his eyes as he suddenly lifted her free and twisted around, flipping her down onto the narrow cot. He took a moment, barely a heartbeat, to kick his braies off, and then he was kneeling between her legs, not in her but looking at her so intently she felt herself blushing. She fought the embarrassment and looked back, and what she saw stole her breath.
Gunnar. It was Gunnar. She watched as the mischief faded, replaced by pure, raw heat as his gaze fixed on her quaint. Watched as he dragged her hips up onto his thighs and spread her knees wide to expose her to him. Watched as he rubbed his member over her until it shone with her juices and she was quaking with need.
Watched as he spread her wide with his thumbs and took her again.
Oh, how she’d craved this. She hooked her heels behind his butt and drew him deeper. His hands played over her belly and breasts, stirring her senses, setting her trembling. She rose up on shaky elbows to see how they looked joining, over and over.
“Lie back,” he urged. “Close your eyes. Give yourself over to it. To me.”
She couldn’t, not yet, so she reached to touch the place where his hardness stretched her, her explorations drawing a moan from him that hummed through her core. Her fingers came away slick, and on a whim, she traced a damp line up his flat belly and chest, clear up his neck to his face.
He caught her fingers and sucked them into his mouth, tasting her. A groan ripped from his throat. He fell on her, carrying her down, and as he moved over her, in her, she felt every sinew of her body begin to tighten. Tighter. Closer. So close. If she could shut her eyes … But not yet.
He arched back to look down at her, and the move put him just where she needed him to be. His next strokes sent her over the edge, and as her eyes fluttered shut, she arched back hard, pleasure pounding through her as she thrashed.
He stayed with her as the spasms carried her past pleasure to the edge of pain, letting go only when she slipped into pure bliss and her body went limp. His shout echoed off the stones, and as he collapsed
atop her, their bodies spent and soaked with sweat, there was only one face in her mind, only one name on her lips. As it should be. As it should always have been.
“Gunnar.”
THEY LAY STILL and silent for a long time afterward, holding each other while a nightjar churred in the distance and the fire burned down. The coals had begun to fall into embers when Gunnar finally gave in to one of the many questions that had started prodding at him as soon as his blood had cooled.
“How did Richard die?”
Eleanor stiffened against his side. “No. No, don’t.”
“Don’t what? It is but a simple question.”
“And I will answer it, I swear. I will tell you all you wish to know.” She pushed up on one elbow, so tense he could have used her as a bowstring. “But not here, and most especially not while I lie in your arms. Please. Please.”
“Shh, shh.” He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her more onto his chest so he could better see her eyes in the dim glow from the coals. “You’re right. I should not have brought him into bed with us.”
“It must be our sanctuary,” she said firmly. “Ours alone.”
“Aye, our sanctuary,” said Gunnar. He was about to pull her down for a kiss when he thought of something, one of the Church tales a monk once told him about a different sanctuary. “You know what they call this place, don’t you?”
“No.”
“It used to be Jodene, for its yew trees, and that is how I still think of it in my head. But as the old tongue faded away, the name shifted, first to Yoden, which was what they called the village, and then to the name they gave the castle, the name it bears now. Eden. This is Eden Dene.”
“Eden.” She breathed the name in wonder as she leaned down to him. And though the blanket fell forward and hid her face in deepest shadow, he knew she was pleased because could feel her smile as she kissed him.
And his was just as broad.
BRAND STOOD WITH his fists on his hips, staring up the dene toward where Lady Eleanor was poking a fresh log into the fire. “What do you think? It’s only been the one night. Do we dare walk back into that mess?”
“She’s smiling,” said Torvald. Being more surefooted, he’d clambered partway up the cliff face for a better view, and it was still light enough that he could make out Lady Eleanor’s face with no trouble.
“Is she? Well, then, either he’s made up with her or she’s chased him off entirely and is pleased with herself.”
Torvald edged back down from his perch. “She may have decided to go back.”
Brand shook his head. “No.”
“You can’t be certain.” Torvald hopped off the last ledge and brushed the rock grit off his hands.
“She’s not going back,” repeated Brand. “Even if I must tie her down. Or tie him down. Or tie them to each other, and the both of them to the rocks. Naked. Face to face.”
Torvald chuckled. “I know where Jafri keeps their best rope.”
“Good. We may need it,” said Brand sourly. “Ah, there comes Gunnar. Let us see what passes.”
They watched their friend pick his way down the trail, and they both grinned when Eleanor ran to meet him at the brook’s edge.
“That’s better,” said Brand as Gunnar picked her up and spun her around, then bent over her for a long, possessive kiss. “Come on. Ari planned to go fishing today, and I’m hungry as a bear.”
“Imagine that,” said Torvald, and they started upstream.
ELEANOR WATCHED IN awe as Brand split, roasted, and ate enough shad to supply a small monastery with Friday dinner, well over twice what Torvald, Gunnar, and she ate put together.
As he stripped the needle bones out of yet another fish, she suddenly realized he was watching back, an amused grin on his face. Blushing, she snapped her mouth shut. “Your pardon, sir. I have forgotten my manners.”
All three men laughed.
“You’re not the first to stare,” said Gunnar. “I used to wager on how many herrings or eels he could eat at one sitting. I won every time.”
“Untrue, my lady,” said Brand. “He laid his coin against me the first time. I took half a mark from him.”
“No doubt you did. Sir Ari said you liked fish. I just didn’t think …”
“No one thinks it until they see it. That’s what makes it a good wager.” Gunnar turned to Torvald. “You could pick up a few extra shillings that way, if you were of a mind.”
Torvald nodded. “I just might.”
“Well, I’m done for tonight, so no wagers won or lost.” Brand popped the last morsel into his mouth and sucked the oil off his fingers. “Lady Eleanor, Ari said you woke up in time to help Jafri sort out your men’s horses from the others.”
“I did, but …” She stopped, confused. “Sir Ari said? How? I thought you and he never saw each other.”
“We leave each other messages, my lady. Well, mostly Ari leaves me messages. He can start taking the outlaw horses to market tomorrow, one or two at a time.”
“Jafri said he would take them all to different markets so no one will notice where they came from.”
“Aye.”
“Except for Tunstall’s gelding, there is little chance anyone might recognize them,” said Eleanor. “The others are Scots horses—and scurfy things they are, too.”
“They are that,” agreed Brand with a chuckle. “But they’ll still be worth a mark or two each. That little black mare is a fine animal. She is yours, correct?”
She nodded. “Her name is Rosabelle.”
“She favors her right foreleg,” said Gunnar.
“She got caught in the gorse when I tried to escape Tunstall. Jafri put a poultice on it, and it already begins to heal. Richard died of fever last autumn.” The last came blurting out unexpectedly, her mind somehow going from poultices and healing to Richard on its own. The three faces around her looked as surprised as she felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t …”
“I have been wondering how you came to be here,” said Brand.
“I do owe you explanation after all you did.”
“But I thought …” Gunnar began, but he shook his head. “Never mind. You may as well tell us all together.”
She began with that May Day night at Raby, her father’s unholy fury, and the way she’d been dragged off to Clementhorpe the next morning before the sun had even cleared the horizon. Brand and Torvald listened patiently, if with frowns, but Gunnar got more agitated with every word, until finally, he shot up off his seat.
“Bikkjusonr!”
“He is her father, Gunnar. Speak with more respect,” said Brand.
Torvald caught her eye and answered her unspoken question. “It means son of a … female dog.”
Gunnar paced back and forth within the circle of firelight, pausing just long enough to kick a cobble that shot off in the dark and cracked against the far wall of the dene. He turned to Eleanor. “He told me you had decided to honor your betrothal of your own accord. He said you were too ashamed to face me, that you went willingly to Richard.”
“You had just warned me to silence about your curse by telling me the Church would torture you, and that the torture would go on and on without end. My father used exactly that threat, almost as if he knew it would most terrify me.” She met Gunnar’s stark eyes across the fire circle. “I did what I must to keep him from hunting you down. I went to Richard obediently, but I never went willingly.”
Pain rippled across his face, and she knew he understood—that they all understood—and she hurried on before the shame of them knowing could stop her.
“My father left men with Richard, with orders to take you alive if you came near before I produced an heir. They were still with us at Alnwick. When I realized you were at Lesbury, I feared you would try to approach, so I contrived an excuse to make Richard carry me home, and I fled.” An excuse—what a thing to call a babe, even one who never existed. Still abashed by that lie more than any other she’d told, she wanted nothing more than to curl up
and hide behind her hands like a child. Instead she sat up straighter and knotted her fingers together so her hands wouldn’t shake, and told of Richard’s illness. “It was my fault he died.”
“No. The fault lies with that knave who sired you, and with the man he married you to.”
“Lord Burghersh made his own decisions,” said Brand. “You could not have pressed him to travel if he didn’t wish to.”
“No, sir, there you are mistaken. Richard made few of his own decisions. My father, York, Bedford, the king: they all tugged him this way and that at their whim. But none twisted his will so much as I. The only time he refused me was when he insisted upon riding on to Burwash, and he did that only because I had bedeviled him so about going home to begin with. No, his death is on my head.”
Gunnar stopped his pacing. “Did you say he died in autumn?”
“October.” She understood where his thoughts were taking him and hurried to explain. “I wanted nothing more than to fling myself onto Rosabelle and race to find you. But winter was coming, and Richard was my cousin, as well as my husband. I owed him some measure of mourning for that, if nothing else. And I was uncertain of where you were. I decided to have his tomb built while I waited till the weather softened so I could search the denes. But I waited too long.” She told them about her father’s unexpected arrival at Upton on Severn and what had unfolded since.
“But you’re a widow!” blazed Gunnar. “You get to choose for yourself.”
“Even I know that is the custom amongst you English,” said Brand, his anger finally showing in the set of his jaw.
“Aye. But it is my lord father’s custom to get what he wants even if it means whoring out his children to get it. I am not the only daughter traded for power and riches with no regard for her happiness, just the only one who dared look elsewhere. Had I refused him, I have no doubt he would have beaten me again and then carried me to Percy bound and at sword point. So I feigned agreement to gain his trust, even as I searched for a way to slip his trap. When the king, God save him, summoned him to court, I felt the saints were at last on my side. But no sooner had Westmorland ridden out of my life than Tunstall rode in. And more men died because of me.”