by Susan King
His body pulsed, waiting, at the threshold of her own. He gave her the power to resolve the moment, here and now. Never in her life had she wanted something more than the dual union be offered her now, heart and body, soul and flesh.
“I will,” she breathed. “Dear God, I will,” she whispered against the satiny crown of his hair. She knew, with clear awareness, that the words came from her heart, not just formed from the sudden need-fire that had been kindled in her body.
He raised his head when she spoke. Taking her face in one hand, he looked at her, his eyes piercing in the darkness. “You will not regret this marriage, I swear to you,” he growled. “I swear it. Do you believe me?”
She closed her eyes and nodded, lowering her head to rest against his shoulder. He smoothed the silky fall of her damp hair, holding her in an embrace, his chest moving heavily beneath her cheek. Then he pressed downward on her hips with exquisite ease. Lifting her head, she kissed him, pushing fervently with him until she gasped, a small cry of discovery and acceptance.
Her name on his lips changed to a wordless, hoarse cry as he plunged to find her deepest center. She bit her lip against the first quick objection of her inner flesh, but the pain soon dissolved into a sweet burn, soothed and heightened by each exhilarating movement. Shuddering, he wrapped his arms around her, and she wrapped around him, drawing him closer, welcoming his heat and fire and flow inside her, surging in cadence with him, like a stream of joy through her body.
He inhaled deeply, and she felt his breath ebb and flow within her, as if she breathed him and he her. As he subsided, breath and body, from her, the moment dissolved like a dream. She protested with a low moan. He kissed her, a slow caress, resting his cheek against hers for a long moment.
After a while, he nuzzled her damp temple, and drew the forgotten cloak up to cover them. “Dear saints,” he whispered, “My thoughts are like mud right now. I near forgot that we are hunted.”
She sighed, half in residual pleasure and half in dejection at his reminder, and looped her arms around his neck. “Do not go yet,” she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. He gently brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“Nay, love, not yet,” he whispered. “I will not leave you, though soon I must dress and check on our friends.”
“Thorne—” she said softly, rousing herself for a moment from the cozy temptation of sleep, pushing away the thought of the men outside, wanting no disturbance of the peace, the tranquility that she and Thorne had created between them. She lifted her head to look steadily at him, though he was but a silver-edged shadow in the darkness.
“Aye?”
“I trust you, sirrah,” she said. “ ’Tis why I have agreed to wed with you.”
“I know it well, love,” he said, soft as a drift of wind. “And I promise that you will not regret that trust.” His words blended with the noisy rush of the falls, and his lips took hers with gentle power.
He was freezing. Though the day had been mild, it was past twilight now and the air had a distinct chill. His clothing was damp and uncomfortable as he squatted on his haunches. Wriggling icy toes inside his damp boots, he blew on his fingertips and thought with strong yearning, and mild envy, of Emlyn, who slept sound and warm in the cave, dressed in the dry garments from her satchel; he had checked on her not long ago, and come back to watch again.
Squinting through the thick screen of ferns and bracken that shielded him from view, he peered across the width of the pool. The wounded guard, his arm bandaged, sat by a glowing fire in the fading light, roasting small game on a stick. The aroma wafted across the water to flare Thorne’s nostrils, and his stomach rumbled sharply.
The other guard stood by the edge of the pool. Suddenly he shouted and bent down to the water for a moment. When he went back to the fire, he waved something in his hand.
Thorne watched, intrigued. The guards talked excitedly and passed between them a dripping white cloth. Frowning as he tried to place it, he remembered: when the guard had yanked on Emlyn’s braid, her white veil had fallen into the beck. It must have floated over the falls and into the pool.
Pointing toward the cliffside and gesturing vehemently toward the pool, the wounded guard waved a hand in anger or frustration. The other guard walked over to stand looking into the pond, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw.
Apparently the guards believed that Emlyn, at least, had drowned when she went over the cliff; he had no way of guessing what they assumed about him. But he felt certain that the guards would stay the night in the gorge. Silently, hidden by the bracken, he crept back toward the falls.
He woke in the night, reclining uncomfortably against the rough stone wall. Beside him, Emlyn was curled in a small bundle, her hip against his thigh, her breathing soft and measured. Stretching his back and shoulders to ease his stiffening muscles, he was careful not to disturb her. Though the cave was miserably cold and black, the pewtery light that washed the edges of the tunnel opening heralded dawn. He sat back, his thoughts rushing quick as the steady waterfall.
Two days ago, he had received word that the barons gathered in London, and expected him to join them soon: the king had agreed, finally, to consider a new charter. He would be leaving in the next few days, but he wanted to see Emlyn safe first.
Whitehawke’s guards had been persistent in their search, and although they might believe she was dead, a risk still existed. Even cloistered in an abbey, she could be found. He had little faith in her plan to retreat to a convent, knowing Whitehawke would haul her out of any place, short of the sanctity of a church, if he found her—unless she was no longer his betrothed.
Sighing, he glanced at the sleeping, peaceful girl, and his heartbeat surged. He would not tolerate knowing her wed to another, or shut away in a religious house. She belonged with him, and always had, since she had been a child. The pull he felt toward her had strengthened to an irresistible force, an inexorable destiny; reluctantly, finally, he admitted its power.
Eight years ago, when he had held and protected a trembling and brave child from danger, he had felt for the first time a selfless concern for another. For that one pure moment, he had known true honor, not the haughty idealism spouted by men like his father. Honor in its finest form, he had come to realize later, was close to love.
Somehow, beginning long ago, she had invaded the crevices that led to his inner self. This marriage to her would inevitably lay open his previous closed life; where he had always shielded himself from others, she had found access. She was in his life now, curled comfortably in his heart just as she curled beside him at this moment. But there was danger in allowing her into his life, and even more so into his heart.
Today, he thought, watching the dawn light begin to shine at the edges of the cave, there would be no time for a priest, no time for a proper wedding. The marriage must be made as swiftly as possible. A quick private vow could provide her legal protection from Whitehawke, could ensure some security for her when he left the York shire. Having bound himself to her and her family eight years ago, he would not fail them now. The children were safe at Hawksmoor, and he would see Emlyn safe as well.
Consequences would come of this marriage, surely, but he felt certain that he and Emlyn could last out the storm together. The gift was surely worth the price of the risk.
Since his conflict with Whitehawke seemed fated to continue, why not over this as any other matter?
He rubbed his hand over his face and shoved his hair back impatiently. Marrying his father’s betrothed secretly was no honorable deed. Once again, honor seemed to confront and confound him. But he reminded himself that he had a full right to do this: as Thorne or as Nicholas, she was his by prior claim.
Years ago, as Nicholas, he had negotiated with Rogier de Ashbourne to marry Emlyn, never telling Baron Rogier that the offer was made in payment for the rescue of the Black Thorne one summer night. The arrangement had never reached final agreement because of Rogier’s death. Then, when the king had promis
ed Emlyn to Whitehawke, Nicholas had submitted an immediate formal protest, but had no written document to prove his claim. The word of a baron was not enough for King John.
At first, he had not thought overmuch about it, accepting custody of the children instead, and intending to keep a protective eye on his father’s new wife. After he had seen Emlyn, and come to recognize her kindness and her pure spirit, the nature of the debt had been unexpectedly transformed.
Lately, wading in his mind through a morass of feelings, fear and yearning among them, and dread mixed with joy, he had suddenly discovered that he was as much in love, in his own reserved manner, as any fawning troubadour before his lady.
His hand, softly stroking, found the curve of her shoulder beside him in the dark, and he rested his fingers there as he thought. In finding his buried, innate ability to love, he had found his greatest cowardice: he could not endure her contempt for him, and so he held back the full truth from her. Had he possessed true courage, he would have already told her who he was, and would have patiently borne through her anger waiting for her understanding.
But he was afraid. He needed to win her heart before he revealed more about himself—may God forgive his deceit. If Emlyn knew the whole truth, she would not marry him. He was certain that she would despise him. And this marriage, if it were to be made, had to be done quickly.
God’s teeth, he thought, as the discomforts of his rocky bed interrupted his thoughts, ’tis bitter damp in this cursed black cave. Best to be gone from here than to freeze our bones longer. Soon the guards will wake, and search anew.
Sliding down, he pressed closer to the inviting warmth of Emlyn’s back. Resting one hand on her arm, he absently rubbed his fingers in small circles.
“If we could but have a fire, even a tiny one,” she murmured. Her voice was husky as smoke in the dark.
“Are you very cold?” he asked quietly.
“Aye so,” she said. “My fingers and toes feel like icicles. And you?” She sat up and turned to face him.
“Chilled through,” he answered. Her face, just below his in the darkness, gave off a little shield of warmth. He inched his head toward hers, their foreheads nearly touching.
Her voice was glazed with sleepy laughter in the dark. “We sorely need a fire in this chimney-hole.”
“ ’Tis not much larger than a hearth space, much as I like the closeness. ’Tis best we leave soon, my lady.”
“How, with the guards outside?” she whispered, her breath brushing his cheek. God, that sweet, soft face so close to his. He closed his eyes to revel a little in that dulcet warmth.
“With great caution,” he murmured. Gently he laid a hand on the side of her head, sliding his fingertips over thick smooth hair, stroking his thumb along the slender line of her jaw. She felt soft and yielding. He suddenly yearned to gather that deep comfort around him, take succor from her as well as offer it.
He touched his lips to hers. More familiar with each other now, their lips withdrew and met, and again, stronger, until a kind of blissful tension grew in him. He tipped his head to kiss her more deeply, edging her lips with his tongue, wanting fiercely to dive into her warm wetness. When her mouth parted for him, he cupped her head in his hands and delved.
Her cloak was like a woolen cocoon scented with her sleepiness. Slipping her arms up around his neck, she sighed against his lips and snuggled against his still-damp tunic, wearing a dry gown that she had taken from her satchel. A web of blessed heat was spun wherever their bodies touched.
He leaned back with her against the cold stone wall, stroking the tangled gossamer strands of her hair. The comforting warmth lingered between them as she rested her head over his heart.
After a few moments she rose up to kneel before him, and he immediately missed her body as cool air filled the space between them. She touched slender fingers to his bearded cheek, her tousled hair silhouetted against the pale light of the tunnel opening, forming a silvery halo around her head.
“Thorne,” she said softly. “You would wed with me to protect me against Whitehawke?”
“Aye, in part.”
Her voice was husky, the barest whisper. “Why?”
He caught her fingers. “If we were wed, you would be mine to defend by right. No harm could come to you.”
“You are a forester, yet you speak as if you have a fortress in which to keep me. I will not be the cause of any further war between you and Lord Whitehawke.” She squeezed his hand. “I am sorry for what I said yesterday, that you would wed me to strike at him,” she whispered.
He smiled ruefully. “Forgiven. Heed me, Emlyn,” he said earnestly. “Think you a forester has so little to offer? I have land and a house of my own, away from here. You would be content as my wife. You would be safe.”
“I had thought to be safe as a daughter of God,” she said.
“By the rood, you are made for something more lightsome than dry prayers. You are not one for a convent—or for Whitehawke’s cold keep.” He gripped her hand in his. “Regrets so soon, lady? I have sworn my truth on this.”
She was silent, furrowing her brow, looking down. He had seen her quick temper and her impulsiveness and her deep capacity for loving. Now he learned that she was a thinker as well. He had not known a woman to ponder so, like a man. He waited. Outside, the halo of light at the tunnel entrance began to glow.
“In my heart I feel that this is wholly right, though I cannot say why,” she said finally.
In the shadows, he smiled, a lopsided grin that ignored the trained, severe inner voice reprimanding his foolishness, his lack of honor in this. He was pleased by her courage and intelligence. He knew no other woman so brave as to jump off a cliff and climb down a gorge, or one who would run in protest from an unjust betrothal, or wed a mere forester. But he knew that she thought herself to be timid and chaotic.
“No need to understand the urgings of your heart,” he told her. “Remember, the Church patriarchs say the heart is the seat of our greatest wisdom.” He tilted her chin up with his thumb.
She nodded again, and he kissed her forehead gently, then her lips, their mouths clinging for a long, breathless moment. Fierce and intense, a burning need for her nearly burst in his chest; to be with her, to know her safe and well by him always. The sensation overwhelmed him, swamping his reason like a wash.
“My uncle could marry us,” she suggested.
“Your uncle would want to annul your betrothal to Whitehawke, or at least demand our banns be posted for three Sundays. There is a faster way.” God, what a hurry he was in.
“What is that?” she asked softly.
“We will pledge in privacy,” he said.
“Make vows without a priest?”
“God makes marriages, not man. If two people pledge with body and soul, that bond is as strong as a priest could make. The Church regards clandestine marriages as valid.”
“We declare ourselves wed, and we are,” she said, frowning.
“If we mean it in our hearts and consummate it, ’tis done.”
She looked up quickly. “Has the marriage been made, then?”
He shook his head and caught both her hands, cold and small, in his. “Not yet. We must pronounce words.”
“I will not pledge with you in this dark, wet cave,” she declared.
“Fair enough.” He thought for a moment. “There is a place, east toward the river.”
“Is it safe to leave?” she asked.
“Aye, if neither of us hollers like a drunken sot, or falls headlong into the guard’s fire. They are sleeping sound, and I trow we can climb the path unseen. Gather your things, my lady.” He pulled on his boots and stood to belt his cold leather hauberk.
Emlyn folded the damp things that had been spread out to dry, shoving them into her bag. She stood in the cave as he could not, with his greater height, and put on her cloak.
“I am ready, Thorne,” she said.
“Aye, then, come with me.” He knew the words to be true
for his lifetime. Hope and fear and excitement rolled in his solar plexus, and he inhaled sharply. Sweet rood, what have I asked of her, he thought. She trusts me, yet knows not the whole man.
He stepped into the tunnel with Emlyn just behind him.
Chapter Twelve
Thousands of lilies, pale ivory-white, swayed on slender green stalks in the gentle breeze, the edges of their fragile petals tinted golden-pink by early sunlight. Feathering the meadow, the wild lilies spread across the field and clustered around the birches and oak trees that edged a small grove.
As Emlyn walked through the midst of the flowers, delicate leaves and petals caught at her hem, releasing their fragrance as she passed through. Heaven must be like this place, she thought.
A few steps ahead, Thorne stepped into the small, shaded grove, and Emlyn followed. Shafts of cool green light poured through the high arches of the trees, as if it were a graceful cathedral filled with green glass, filled with the musical twitter of birds and the gentle burble of water nearby.
A little spring emerged from an ivy-covered rock and tumbled into a shallow stream. Beside the water lay a broad, pale stone, fallen long ago. Lilies were everywhere, scattered across the sun-dappled grass, clustered under the trees, and clinging to the stream bank, their airy scent tracing through the grove.
Sunlight sliced through the trees in glittering beams, gilding Emlyn’s hair and shoulders as she turned to place her leather pack on the ground. She watched Thorne lean his quiver and bow against a tree.
She felt shy now, here with him in this place, knowing what they meant to do. In the past hour or so as they had walked, each silent in their thoughts, she had mulled and worried this decision from every angle. A clandestine wedding was not as safe a choice as entering a convent, she thought, but it was perhaps a practical, even a wise path. More, she wanted it.
Convent life was cool and sacred, without the fire of touch, of lives merging. She knew that a kind of poverty of the heart threatened with Whitehawke. But to be in the forest with Thorne would be richer than any life she could imagine. In the past few days, and most especially since their passionate moments in the waterfall’s cave, she had realized that she truly loved Thorne.