Eva gazed up at him in awe as he rose above her like a god of old, a golden Adonis. She lifted her fingers, knuckles sketching against the sheen of his skin, the ruts of muscle packed across his stomach. He sucked in his breath at the tentative contact, then grabbed her wrists to pull her upright, plucking swiftly at the side-laces of her gown, his movements feverish, expansive. She should have felt shy, but instead, a feeling of an innate safety spread through her, a trust that he would treat her properly, with care, and she laughed out loud as he tried to yank both her gowns over her head at the same time, muffling her in yards of cloth.
‘Too many clothes,’ she said, her cheeks bright with effort, as he finally managed to pull them away from her and throw them into the corner.
‘I agree,’ Bruin said, his eyes trawling across her gauzy white shift, the push of her bosom against the filmy fabric, the rosy tip-tilt of her nipples. In response, she lifted the shift over her head, clinging to his eyes as she did so, revealing her nakedness in that one swift movement. His lungs emptied of air; he struggled to breathe, his mind battling to comprehend, to make sense of the beauty before him. Her skin was pure satin, gleaming with a pearl-like lustre. Her ripe breasts were firm and luscious, her waist indented in a neat elongated curve before flaring out over her hips. Sweet Jesu, she was perfect.
And in this very moment she was his.
‘My God,’ Bruin stuttered. His arm wound around her bare back and he crushed her against him, skin to skin. His blood looped dangerously, boiling, surging with a barely uncontrollable force. He hadn’t lain with a woman in some time, yet he knew he must be careful. Eva was—she was special. He didn’t want to ruin this for her by rushing things, and yet, by God, he would need every ounce of his experience to hold back, to stop himself ploughing roughly into her sleek lustrous body.
They fell back into the hay, Bruin’s eyes darkening, silver-gilt caverns of desire, scorching, intent, as he crushed her against him, hip to hip, belly to belly, hard muscle packed against pliable curves. Air twisted heavily in her lungs as the lean, naked length of him wrapped around her, powerful and aroused. Tracing his lips against her delicate collarbone, he moved his mouth lower, then lower again, to the shadowy cleft between her breasts. Her insides squeezed with pleasure and she cried out, thinking she would die beneath the tumult of sensation ricocheting through her. ‘Bruin…?’ Something gathered, deep within her, a spiralling sensation, a flowering of need. As if a distant, secret place within her drifted to the surface and unfolded bit by bit before him, laying itself bare before his silver eyes. Revealing her innermost desires, exposed to his knowing gaze. Her stomach contracted, vibrating with sweet awareness, excitement bubbling like scalding liquid.
He moved his big body over hers. His skin was cool, the hairs on his legs tickling her satiny calves. A flick of fear pierced her stomach, coupled with a burgeoning anticipation; the blistering heat of his desire was hard against her thigh. His mouth seized hers once more, before she had any time to think, or question, his lips roaming across hers, deepening the kiss. She arched up against the sculptured planes of his chest and, in that moment, he moved into her, slowly, easing into her tender folds. Her arms flew outwards like startled birds, shocked at the sudden onslaught, at the bewildering sensations pummelling her within, searching for a hold, for some stability, a rock to which she could anchor. Her hands found his face and she clung to him, tying herself fast to the savage gleam of his eyes, bracing herself against the inevitable storm.
Unable to hold himself back, he surged into her then, his body consumed by a desire that took him completely by surprise. The fragile barrier of her virginity made him pause for a moment, before he pushed into her completely, utterly. Blood pounding in her chest, Eva’s head knocked back against the hay, stunned by the force of his possession, her flesh consumed by him, aching from him. And yet, when he moved again, it was with such gentleness that the mild pain dissipated, to be replaced by a soft, eddying fullness. She began to match his movements, slowly at first, but soon, with a delighted eagerness of her own. Her eyelids dipped, the conscious part of her brain folding away, ripples of desire lapping deep within her belly, her groin. Her breath emerged in short little pants. She thrust her hands into Bruin’s hair, gripping tightly, holding on for dear life, rocking against the man she longed to call her own. A boiling, surging wave broke through the very innards of her flesh, shooting white-hot flashes of light across the darkness of her mind, a storm of scattering stars.
She cried out then, her body shattering into a thousand brilliant pieces, as Bruin pounded into her, deeper and deeper, sweat dropping from his chin, his hands tangling in her hair. The taut straining skin that stretched and stretched between them split with sudden violence; waves of undiluted pleasure surged through her body, again and again, leaving her gasping. Above her, Bruin shouted his own release, shuddering with her, then collapsing on top of her, heavy, replete and, for the first time in a long while, blissfully alive.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blood slowing, Eva lay against Bruin’s chest, the sinewy rope of his arm clamping her naked flesh with a fierce possession. His chest hair tickled her ear; she listened to the slackening thud of his heart. Her palm spread over his belly, the sweat drying on his cooling flesh. My God, how could she have known how wonderful lying with a man could be? Her knowledge had been scant; nothing could have prepared her for what had just happened. Her body ached, quivered with the memory of him, but it was the sweetest hurt she had ever known: as if every muscle and sinew in her body had been stretched and slightly altered, reset into a new and better place.
Bruin said nothing and she was glad. His hand fumbled across the hay, searching for something to cover them, and pulled the voluminous folds of her cloak over their cooling bodies. Now was not the time for apologies, or recriminations. She wanted nothing to spoil the beauty of the experience; tomorrow was soon enough to face any doubts. And there was no question that it was she, Eva, who had made this happen. Bruin had given her the option to stop; she had been fully aware of what was happening.
She snuggled against Bruin’s heated flank, her eyelids drooping. Her lashes fluttered down, sweeping across her flushed cheeks. Bruin heard the small sigh, the shift of her body relaxing against him, her slowing breath as she fell asleep. His chin rested on her glossy crown, the satin ropes of her hair still pinned to her head. In their haste, he hadn’t even bothered to loosen her hair. A rawness twisted his expression, his eyes bleak, riven with guilt. How could he have done such a thing to her? How was it possible that he had lost control like that, especially with her, Eva, the woman so different from any other woman he had met, the woman who—he might have dared to love?
* * *
He had allowed Eva to sleep for a few hours, wrapped in his arms, as he watched snowflakes blow sporadically through the opening above their heads, tracking their dancing journey through the dim light. He had relished the feel of her: her bare flesh like plush velvet against his flank, the spill of her hair across his chest. A hollowness gnawed at him, a wretchedness: he had betrayed her trust and hated himself for it. He had told her time and time again that she could trust him, that he would protect her from his brother, and he had reneged on both those things. As the first fingers of dawn light filtered bleakly down on to the hay, he shifted his position, jostling her out of sleep. ‘Eva, you need to wake up now.’
Reverberating beneath her ear, his speech rumbled in his chest, which rose suddenly, tipping her sideways into the hay. Rolling away, her befuddled mind registered the sound of Bruin pulling on his clothes: the slither of braies and surcoat, the heavy chinking of his chainmail falling into place across his brawny thighs. His sword sliding into the leather scabbard.
‘Here.’ His tone was brisk, matter of fact, as he bent down to pick up her chemise, her gowns. Eva sat up hazily, pushing back an errant curl of ebony hair behind her ear. A hairpin dug into her scalp
and she raised one arm, poking it savagely back into place. Bruin’s heart lurched, heat jolting through his belly. Bare-breasted, she looked like a mermaid in a sea of hay, propping herself on one arm with her legs bent behind her, the magnificent sheen of her skin adopting the pure translucency of a pearl, the glimmer of satin. And last night, he had devoured her, consumed that beauty with all the rutting instincts of a boar on heat.
A dull redness covered his cheeks. ‘Cover yourself, will you?’ he said, exasperated with himself, annoyed that he could not control his feelings, his desire for her. He turned away, kicking irritably at the swathes of hay, searching for his boots.
Shivering in the chill air, Eva crossed her arms over her chest, heart plummeting with sadness, hurt pride. Sticking her chin out at a mutinous angle, she picked up her creased chemise and pulled it over her head, her chest caving with despair at his sharp tone, the scowling expression on his face. She clamped her lips together, fiercely, telling herself she wouldn’t cry, nay, she couldn’t! She had lain with this man willingly, with her eyes wide open, and had been fully aware of the consequences. So why did the blunt edge of disappointment hammer clumsily at her spirit, making her movements leaden, defeated?
Anger would be her best defence now, not this crushed, miserable attitude. The hurt coiled with her, solidifying, hardening, shot through with a flare of anger. Show him that you’re not affected by what happened and act with courage, a shrugging nonchalance, Eva told herself sternly. Standing up, she tugged the cumbersome gowns over her head. ‘There,’ she said, fumbling to tighten the side-lacings of the gowns, ‘are you happy now?’ Sarcasm laced her tone; she welcomed it.
Bruin glowered at her, buckling his sword belt. ‘No, I’m not happy.’ He stuffed his big feet into his leather boots. ‘I took advantage of you last night and for that I am truly sorry.’ He stuck his hand into his hair, sending the vigorous bronze-coloured strands awry.
‘Don’t be,’ she bit out. ‘Don’t be sorry. It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter, Eva. You should hate me for what I have done. I’ve dragged you here, against your will, forced you to lie with me—’
‘No. You didn’t force me, Bruin. You gave me the chance to push you away—’ She placed her hands on her hips, the stance lending her strength. Her heartbeat accelerated as she remembered the muscled hardness of his thighs against hers, his big hands roaming across her flesh.
‘But you had no idea what you were letting yourself in for.’ A lone muscle jumped high in his cheek. ‘I took what was not mine to have.’
Eva ducked her head, embarrassed by the bluntness of his speech, shamed. How could she tell him that it had all been worth it, to lie with him, to savour his touch against her body, to feel him move against her? Her innocence was something she had been prepared to give freely. She would never forget this night; the memory would rest in her heart for ever. He had to know, even if it meant she would drive him further away.
‘I wanted you to have it.’
‘Eva—?’ His eyes widened, stunned by her simple admission. ‘Oh, my God, why? Why would you give yourself away so arbitrarily, to me of all people?’ He scooped up her cloak, shaking out the heavy folds, brushing bits of hay from the cloth. ‘Me, the ruffian who dragged you here. Remember?’ His metallic eyes met hers, shot through with anguish.
Because I love you, she thought. Streams of hopelessness lapped her heart; she bit down hard on her bottom lip, reminding herself how to behave: to be strong, resolute in the face of his rejection.
Bruin sighed, scuffing the loose hay with his boot, shaking his head ruefully. ‘I am not a good person, Eva.’ His voice was low, the foreign inflection more pronounced. ‘I have killed people—men. After Sophie’s death, I went to pieces, lost control, and there was no limit to what I wouldn’t do. I was given orders and I followed them, blindly, without question. I gave no thought to what I did. That is the sort of man I am.’
Eva took her cloak from him. A chill wobbled through her at the mention of Sophie’s name. The image of the women striding across the bailey, the boy at her side, loomed across her vision; at some point she would tell Bruin about her and her own suspicions: that the lady was the same Sophie he thought was dead. But now was not the time. Now, she realised, she was fighting for the man she loved. Snow crystals blew in through the opening above her head, speckling the dark blue wool over her arm. ‘That’s the sort of man you were,’ she responded quietly, emphasising the past tense. ‘You’re different now.’ Her voice was clipped; she would not plead for him to change his mind, but a small voice whispered at her, nay, begged her, not to give up on him, just yet.
His eyelashes dipped fractionally, hooding his brilliant eyes. ‘No, I’m not. The things I have done, Eva, they live up here—’ he tapped the side of his skull ‘—and they will never, ever go away. You’re a fool, if you think I can give you anything.’
A horrible sense of desolation chewed into her. Flags of colour patched her cheeks. She tipped her head to one side, her bright eyes challenging him. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Bruin. Let’s be clear about that.’ Beneath her cloak, her nails dug cruelly into her palms. ‘But please don’t ruin what we shared together. You owe me that at least. But if you want to forget about it, then that’s fine. Forget it, forget it ever happened and never speak of it again.’
Shocked by the bluntness of her speech, the unexpectedness of it, his chin shot up. He frowned at her, brindled eyebrows drawn close together. ‘You—I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me,’ Eva responded brutally. ‘Forget it ever happened.’ Reaching down for her veil, she jammed the fragile cloth savagely into place with her silver circlet, mouth set in a terse, rigid line.
Bruin peered at her, then touched her shoulder, lightly. She flinched away, resenting the contact. He had expected tears and lamentations, not this bullish stance, tight-lipped and stony-faced. But he had underestimated her, he realised that now. He had forgotten how she had fought him in the forest, how she had battled for her freedom. ‘You don’t have to be like this.’ He saw the turbulent mixture of fire and false bravado, the hurt in her eyes. She was like a wild cat, he thought, fractious and diffident, on the edge of running away to lick her wounds in private.
Oh, yes, I do, she thought. Otherwise I will sink to my knees and weep at your feet, and that is the very last thing I want to happen. I will not plead with you to love me, or honour me, after what you have done. ‘How else should I be?’ she responded waspishly. ‘I’m not going to cry about it, if that’s what you’re expecting. I have no regrets, even if you do.’
Her eyes shimmered with unspent tears. Her stance was tense, poised tightly, as if she balanced on a thin ledge, peering with trepidation into the chasm below. Her arms maintained a fierce grip on her cloak. She clutched it to her stomach like some sort of buffer; a cloth wall between the two of them. But then, what had he been expecting? He had pushed her away before she had even time to fully surface from sleep, erecting his well-worn barriers, his impenetrable defences. He had caused all this: her terse, strained demeanour, the sadness floating in the huge blue pools of her eyes.
A wave of guilt jolted through him. ‘Why are you even here, Eva?’ Walking over to the door, he rattled the iron latch with impatience. ‘Why would Steffen lock you up with me? I thought he would at least have given you a bedchamber to sleep in.’
Eva let out a long surreptitious breath. Bruin was convinced, she was certain, convinced that she was unaffected by what had happened, that she didn’t blame him in any way. It was a good thing he couldn’t see her heart, or the tattered remains of it, for then he would realise her behaviour was a sham. ‘Steffen doesn’t trust me. I’ve already escaped from him once; I suspect he thought I would try it again.’
Her explanation made sense. Bending down, Bruin plucked his cloak from the hay, his hair glinting a dull bronze in the stark dawn light.
And on the side of his head, a web of matted hair, clotted with dark red blood.
‘Oh, God, Bruin, your head!’ Eva cried out when she saw it. All her reasons for maintaining an aloof distance from this man vanished in that moment. Shame flooded over her, guilt that she had forgotten what had happened to him, that she had neglected him. ‘Oh, Bruin, I’m so sorry, your wound looks nasty and I forgot to look at it!’ The tough unnatural lines slid from her face. Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them.
Straightening up, he swung the cloak around his broad shoulders, a practised, efficient manoeuvre. He read the concern in her expression, the glimmer of tears, and wondered at them. His breath hitched in his chest. Why would she still care for him, after all that he had done to her? They both knew why she hadn’t looked at his wound; in the heat of their passion, the reason they were in the chamber had been forgotten, slipping away, lost in their clamouring need for each other. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, firmly.
‘But it’s bleeding!’ she protested, stepping forward. ‘I need to clean it, to bind it with something before it becomes infected!’
‘It will have to wait, Eva,’ Bruin replied. He touched her elbow, lightly, in acknowledgement of her worry. ‘We must leave this place, as soon as possible, before Steffen starts trying to find out where your ruby is.’
Too late, she thought dully. I traded the whereabouts of the ruby to be by your side. Her mouth twisted down slightly, mocking her own stupidity.
Bruin’s silver eyes darted around the grey-lit chamber, alighting on the opening high up in the wall. ‘I don’t suppose you remember if the door is locked or bolted on the outside?’
‘Bolted,’ Eva replied immediately, recalling the stiff, grating noise as the guard had pulled the bolts back. A lifetime ago. She had been a different woman then.
He raised one eyebrow at her, questioning. ‘In that case, do you think you can fit through that window?’
Marriage Deal With the Outlaw & the Warrior's Damsel in Distress & the Knight's Scarred Maiden : Harlequin Historical August 2017 (9781488021640) Page 42