The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Her own beat a fierce rhythm as if in response. The weight and contour of his body fitted well to hers. She placed her hand on his back; he tightened his fingers over her mouth.

  As he turned his head warily, watching and listening, his inky black lashes swept over irises of striated greens and grays, like moss growing over stone. Emlyn was close enough to count the black hairs of his eyebrows, to notice the copper and brown hairs threading his thick black beard. His cheeks were flushed a high, clear pink, warming the cool colors in his eyes.

  After a time, Thorne removed his hand slowly from her mouth, frowning and touching a finger to his lips for silence. He shifted and stretched out beside her on the verdant forest floor, beneath the shadow of the log and its trailing, glowing mantle of primroses. Ferns tickled the side of her face and crowded over her shoulders, and a cluster of pale yellow flowers fell onto her cheek. He reached over to push the blossoms away from her face and rested his hand on her shoulder. Propping his head on his other hand, he looked at her.

  “Damn,” he said softly.

  She frowned up at him. “Chavant’s men?”

  “Aye.” He exhaled sharply. Emlyn waited for him to speak again, but he lay quietly, rubbing his thumb absently over her shoulder. Her heart thumped, hard and strong, with each circling touch. Peering up at the treetops far above, he looked as if he were thinking.

  “Thorne.”

  “Hmmm?”

  A curious melting feeling had begun in her arms and chest. She wanted to move closer, to feel more of the warmth and strength that emanated from him, wanted to spread the glow further through her body. Yet she was afraid to move; he might stop rubbing her shoulder and get up. “Will they come back?”

  “Likely not. They will ride on, having found no one in this part of the wood.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, then took in a deep breath and sat up. Emlyn could not quell her flutter of disappointment. “Come, girl,” he said, holding out a hand, “you must be gone from this part of the wood.”

  Ignoring his hand, she stood and smoothed out her skirts. When she looked up, he was offering her a handful of primroses.

  “Here,” he murmured, “ ’tis what we came down the hill to get.” He lifted an eyebrow and she smiled faintly, accepting the flowers. With one finger, he tilted her chin to look into her eyes. “Are you fearful, then? The men are gone.”

  Mutely she shook her head, and turned away, sniffing the primroses shyly. She could hardly tell him that what subdued her was a shocking, lustful urge to lay in his arms, on the forest floor or anywhere, until Judgment Day.

  “My lady—” he said, his voice a bare whisper. She looked around hopefully. He took a step closer and raised a hand to touch her face, his fingers brushing down her cheek to her throat. As he leaned toward her, a feeling began within her lower body, heavy and glowing. Her knees trembled oddly as she moved forward and lifted her chin.

  The feel of his lips on hers was soft, warm, a little dry; a simple kiss, brief and gentle. When it ended, Emlyn gazed into his eyes silently, and glided closer, a little hesitant, sensing that she wanted more but not knowing what to ask of him. She placed her hand on his chest, feeling cool leather and the soft thump of his heart beneath her fingertips.

  Thorne grazed his fingers down her back to press against her waist, drawing her closer. His mouth touched hers again, a soft caress of lips and breath. A swirling, lightning-quick sensation rushed down the length of her torso to pulse in her lower body, and she drew in her breath sharply.

  Circling her arms around his neck, tilting her head, she moved into the kiss with greater courage. She slid her fingers into the thick, silky waves of his hair, aware, in some detached part of her thoughts, of the tremor in her fingers and the insistent thumping of her own heart. His lips on hers were still exquisitely gentle, a little tentative, and she sensed some element of tension.

  He drew back and she glanced up uncertainly. Touching a gentle fingertip to her cheek, he smiled a little wanly, ruefully. “I am sorry, my lady. You are promised to another, such as he is.”

  “Nay,” she breathed. “I am promised to no one.”

  Subtle as a cloud gliding over the sun, something crossed his face, and he lowered his hand. Lifting his bow over his shoulder, he turned away from her.

  “Go up to the cave,” he said quietly. “I must go to the village, to see what news of the guards.” Confused, Emlyn stood there for a moment. He turned and looked at her again.

  “Go,” he urged, his face impassive.

  Emlyn turned to angle up the hill away from him. Like a warm touch between her shoulder blades, she sensed his lingering gaze as she climbed the slope. Several moments passed before she heard the soft crush of his steps through the undergrowth in the opposite direction.

  Lilting through the twilight, the voices grew and faded, stronger as the singers climbed, fainter as they wended sideways. Emlyn peered out into the dimming light, through the tangle of trees and undergrowth that screened the cave entrance, curious and wanting to hear more of the music.

  Through the slender trees, she saw him in the bluish twilight gloom, reclining against a hollow oak that had been uprooted ages ago, its great dried roots clawing at the lavender sky. Emlyn fetched her cloak and went out.

  He glanced up as she stepped between the trees and beckoned her near. Heart quickening at the gesture, she went to his side.

  “Listen, my lady.” He held up a hand in the dusky light and slowly lowered it, resting his fingertips lightly on her forearm. His touch sent delicate shivers down her spine. “Listen.” Faintly, like the chuckle of a brook or the silvery chime of fairy laughter, she heard the song.

  She cocked her head to listen. “ ’Tis the young people of the village, out on May Eve.”

  “Aye.” He slid down from the gnarly perch and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  As Emlyn laid her hand in his, a light jolt danced through her palm as it touched his warm skin. Holding her hand firmly, he led the way past the cave entrance toward another outcropping of dark limestone, where a winding pathway, tufted with grass, slanted upward. He let go of her hand and stepped up.

  Tucking part of her skirt into her belt, she followed, maneuvering the simple inclined track with little difficulty. Closer to the top, the way became very steep, and Emlyn exclaimed softly in frustration.

  Thorne reached down and boosted her onto a wide, flat-topped crag. Emlyn stood up slowly, her chest heaving, slightly dizzy from the swift climb. The wind played fast and free with her cloak and hair and blew chill against her skin.

  The view from the plateau was stunning. Approaching darkness washed indigo over sky, hillsides, and the forest that clustered against the slope leading to the dale far below. Stretched out like a long bowl lined with velvet, the dale floor was studded with farms and stone walls and cut by narrow streams, like deep folds in the velvet. The sides and ends of the dale faded in deep misty shadows.

  “ ’Tis beautiful,” she said, spinning slowly around. The broad, flat crag was a checkerboard of stone and grasses, nearly as large as a small courtyard. Clouds sailed across the wide, darkening sky as the silver moon rose.

  Thorne, behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder. “Up here,” he said softly, “on foggy mornings, the mist covers the forest and dale like clouds come to earth. There is peace here, and power.” He squeezed her shoulder and pointed. “Look.”

  A sinuous trail of light, the small sparks of distant torches, moved through the forest. “They gather branches and flowers for the May celebration.” His fingers still rested on her shoulder, warm through her cloak.

  She laughed. “If these girls and youths are like those near Ashbourne, they stay out the whole night of May Eve, and down a good deal of ale.”

  He smiled; she heard it in his voice. “And the groups break into couples, and more than flower-weaving takes place in the forest. Many a hasty marriage has been made in the weeks following the first of May.”

  Emlyn blushed furiousl
y, remembering Maisry’s words, and stepped away from the sheltering heat of his body. “Ah, there, hear it? They are singing again. And someone is playing a pipe.” Gently she swayed to the melody formed by pipes and drums and dozens of bright, laughing voices, wafting up through the trees to the upper slopes.

  Caught by the simple joy of the sound and the glorious wildness of the crag, she was also keenly aware of Thorne’s steadfast presence behind her. Humming quietly, moving to the floating rhythms, her pale braids undulating softly, she knew when he stepped closer.

  His fingers on her shoulder lightly turned her to face him.

  The moon was higher now, a full globe behind him, and his tall silhouette loomed as he drew her forward until the tips of her shoes met his boots.

  “Lady,” he said softly, “do you dare to be about at night, on May Eve?”

  Her breath quickened as he lightly stroked her upper back, his body a warm shield from the cool breezes. “I am not frightened,” she replied.

  He lowered his head, his mouth scant inches from hers. “Some enchantment might befall you,” he murmured.

  Her gaze was drawn to his mouth. An enthralling, delicious power began to awaken within her, as if she had discovered some deep, easy magic. “Ah, but I could weave a spell myself, if I had a maypole, with bright ribbons and flowers.”

  “You weave a spell now,” he said, but Emlyn felt like she was the one caught fast. Raising a hand to her head, he traced along her silk-smooth hair until his fingers slid in to cradle the back of her head. With his other hand, he glided her toward him.

  At the first feathery brush of his lips on her cheek, she tilted her mouth toward his, yearning to feel his lips on hers again. Tentatively, his lips touched hers and lifted, then touched again. Deep inside, her blood pulsed. She closed her eyes and parted her lips, and when his mouth covered hers once more, she thought she would melt like butter over flame.

  Learning quickly, answering the pressure of his lips and the strong wrap of his arms around her, she slid her hands up to his shoulders and moved her lips softly, instinctively, beneath his.

  His mouth met hers again and again, with growing strength and insistence. He crushed her against his body, his arms a strong, warm band around her. The silken dampness of the inner side of his lips sent strong rhythmic quivers cascading through her. A tremble began in her lower belly, and she pressed against the length of him, wanting the hard contours of his body to meld and fit to the softer recesses of hers, even through multiple layers of silk and wool and leather.

  Breathless, she pulled back, then inhaled and plunged at him again, pulling his face down to hers. He laughed softly and lightly touched his tongue to her lower lip. Her mouth opened readily to the warm, wet caress of his tongue. As she closed her lips tentatively around him, he explored her mouth with exquisite gentleness, holding her head between his hands.

  Vaguely, she thought what a blessed relief this was, how easy. She felt odd, but somehow more focused than ever in her life, as if these breathless kisses brought her to a profoundly familiar place, to home, to where she belonged: with him.

  One hand slipped down to trail along her throat until his fingers found the split at the collar of her cloak. His hand slid inside, feathering touches circling skin, brushing over silken fabric until his hand closed over her breast. Kneading gently, pressing against the hardened nipple that pushed against his palm, he kissed her deeply, arousing in the center of her body a sensation that was wholly new, wholly exhilarating.

  She pressed closer to him, bending back her head and arching her torso toward him. Quick, light fingertips slid over her until her breasts began to ache. She only wanted more of his touch, of him, and felt no fear or wariness, only trust, and comfort, and a deep sense of ease and rightfulness.

  Suddenly he moved his hands to grasp her shoulders. Silently they gazed at each other, breathing quickly. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, the sensitive tips pinched slightly by the metal rings of his leather hauberk. With one hand, he tilted her head down into his shoulder, holding it there. She heard the heavy, solid rhythm of his heart.

  “Sweet rood,” he breathed. He stroked her head lightly, smoothing the wayward strands of hair. “I had best get you gone from here before something happens.”

  “Something has happened.” She lifted her head to look at him.

  “Aye,” he said softly, “aye, and it should stop here. I am not one to tumble a maid on May Eve. Especially not a child-maid, betrothed already, who vows to be a nun.”

  She wanted to protest, to remind him again that she was not promised to any man or to any convent just yet, but her thoughts were hazy and utterly confused.

  “We stand on an open crag in bright moonlight,” he went on. “If the villagers are out, then Chavant’s guard may be as well. I know not what entered my thoughts, to take you up here on such a night. Or to let this happen.” He let out a long breath, and stared down at her, frowning.

  “Thorne—” She was halted by his stormy expression, apparent even in the darkness. Where she had enjoyed, even reveled in the wonder of their heated touching, he seemed to regret it.

  In the moonlight, his eyes glistened, reawakening in her the same sweet, urgent burn she had felt when he kissed her. But that joy was overpowered by this sudden, unexplained rejection. The burn turned to a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

  He dropped his arms and turned, and she followed. Wordlessly, they made their way down the slope to the cave.

  “Lady Emlyn.” When he spoke, she stopped with her hand on the black cloth that covered the entrance opening and waited. “My debt to your family is genuine. I will not dishonor that promise.” She turned to look at him, all her hurt welling in her eyes. With a soft, wordless exclamation, he reached out to touch her face gently, almost sorrowfully.

  “I will see you safely to your uncle. We will leave on the morrow,” he said. “ ’Tis best, I think.”

  She tilted her face into his hand for an instant, then pulled away. Tears swelled her throat, and she could not answer. He did not want her in his life. Perhaps, for a moment, he had surrendered to the physical urges that she, too, had felt so keenly. But she realized now his feelings for her were based on an obligation from the past. Naught more than a debt to be honored.

  Turning, she ran into the cave.

  Chapter Nine

  Standing in the shade of an old knotted oak, Emlyn watched the wreath of dancers spinning in the sun around the beribboned may tree, a tall sapling set in the center of the village green.

  With crisscrossed hands, their feet tracing a circle dance, the girls were urged to quick and quicker footsteps by the breathy trill of wooden flutes and the staccato of the tabors. Beyond the village, the constant burbling rush of a wide, calm river lent a soft background to the music and raucous laughter and happy shouts that filled the sun-splashed green.

  Laughing, Emlyn watched the girls make dizzy grabs at the long fluttering ribbons that dangled from the treetop. The dancers stepped around each other, weaving bright plaits with the red, blue, purple, and yellow ribbons. A little dog, excited by the music and the whirling dancers, ran into the group, barking and leaping, and had to be chased away.

  Just after dawn that morning, Maisry had come to the cave, insisting that Emlyn join the festivities for May Day. Knowing that Thorne wanted her to leave for the abbey that day, Emlyn agreed. Maisry had lent her a linen wimple and an old homespun brown kirtle and apron to wear. She intended to claim Emlyn as her cousin, reassuring Emlyn that, once wimpled, she would look like any other married woman should Chavant’s men be about.

  The simple, snug headwrapping, worn beneath a coarse linen veil, even enveloped her brow and chin. “Some would hardly recognize ye,” Maisry had commented. “Well, I would, but I am cleverer than most. The guards who seek ye would not know ye now. Men never notice details,” she had said, laughing.

  Now, watching the dancers, Emlyn’s interest was caught by something at the far end of
the village green. A crowd of children gathered there, laughing and shouting.

  “The Green Man is here!” they called. “Jack o’ the Green!”

  A tall, green-clad figure moved slowly through the village in the midst of a bouncing mass of children. Small arms reached up to him and waving little fingers spread for the treats they knew he carried under his leafy costume.

  Emlyn narrowed her eyes, and nearly laughed out loud. An attempt had been made to disguise him, but Aelric was too big, too red-headed, and too graceless to pass as a mystical forest creature. Loping through the crowd with leaves stuck all over him, grinning merrily, his face was coated with what could only be Maisry’s greeny ointment. On his head was a conical hat stuck with oak leaves, acorns, and buttercups, and his torso was hidden beneath a green basketwork tent.

  Leaves and blossoms fell as he walked, exposing bits of the crude twig frame entwined with grasses, leaves, and flowers. With large green-coated hands, he gave out chunks of honeycomb and crisp little buttercakes to the children, who threw themselves on him, crushing the wickerwork mercilessly.

  Smiling to herself, Emlyn turned to find Maisry. Tables had been set up under the trees along the riverbank, and Emlyn walked over, her mouth watering at the mingled smells. Trestle boards were filled with meat and vegetable pies, kettles of beans and onions, steaming loaves of crusty bread, wheels of golden cheeses, and jugs of ale and mead. Roasted chickens and geese were ready on wooden platters, and marinated pigs and a huge ox were being turned over fire pits.

  As she joined Maisry and the other women near the tables beneath the spreading shade of the oak trees, Emlyn heard a rumbling, thundering noise. She thought, at first, that it emanated from the rushing river. Then a chill formed along her spine. She slowly turned her head toward the village green.

  Burst as if from nowhere, four armored riders rode full force down the length of the earthen street, russet cloaks flying. Amid the fading squeal of pipes, they slowed and walked their horses across the green. Girls dropped their ribbons and fled, and the village men backed away from the horses’ path as the riders reached the group of children clustered around Aelric.