He tugged on her lower lip, pulled it into his mouth and suckled gently as he trailed his fingers under her bunched chemise up over one nipple and then the other. The frustration built for her as her hips rocked, for him as he wished his other limb to be unbound so he could anchor them together. To feel, not only see, the tension in her body grow. Groaning against her lips, he shifted his own weight so that his body was there for her to rock against, to ease the ache he created.
And she did, stopping and shuddering as she realised what he had done. He hissed out a breath as he ripped his mouth from hers and kissed everywhere the chemise didn’t cover, his hand roaming and caressing her breasts, pebbling her flesh.
‘Balthus!’ she cried, her hands caressing his shoulders, her nails scraping across his linen tunic.
He cursed as his hips went forward, and he lost his balance. Until he had no choice but to go forward or pull back. Needing her permission for either choice. It was her choice. His choice was hers.
‘Séverine, tell me.’ He bit and swiped his tongue along the curve of her ear.
With a knowing gleam in her eyes, she shifted until she was completely under him. His reason scattered; his need increased. Dropping his head into the angle of her neck and shoulder, he helplessly thrust once, twice. Unable, unwilling, to stop the instinct that she yield to him. Raising himself up on one arm, he gazed down at the woman who’d captured his imagination. His heart sprawled beneath him, and he murmured words of her strength, her beauty, and his frustration at her chemise that thwarted his touch. But he shook his head when she gripped his tunic.
‘Not yet,’ he murmured. Not ever. As much as he wanted her, he didn’t deserve her. This time was for her.
He sat up, and gradually, achingly, let his eyes roam down her body where her legs were sprawled around him, where she was wet and wanting.
‘So beautiful,’ he said. ‘Whenever you blushed, I wondered about the colour of your flesh here.’ He circled his thumbs around her plump lips. ‘Never in my imagination did I imagine how exquisite you’d be.’
Letting his hand wander, he stroked along her inner thighs around her hips, a pattern he repeated with no shape or purpose other than to touch, to feel. Her own hands suddenly sneaked under his short tunic and swept across his stomach, causing the muscles to contract, his balls to tighten, and on a strangled moan he stopped her questing touch. Shifting his weight away from her hands, he cupped one knee and raised it to her hip, opening her up even more. Her breath hitched, her hands dropped to the blanket and clutched there.
Then he smiled.
Séverine both feared and exulted in Balthus’s burning grey gaze. Wicked, tender touches. Callused gentle caresses. Her body didn’t know how to react. To stay still and beckon or move to demand more. All she knew was that she could deny this man nothing. For to deny him would be to deny herself, too. Never could she have expected this from him. Never this night near horse stalls on rough wool blankets as he released her leg and smiled more. Then, with more light than darkness, he cupped her other knee and bent it towards her chest, too.
When he released that leg, she kept it still and his predatory smile grew. ‘So good,’ he whispered. ‘So perfect.’
His gaze fell heavy between her legs and everything around her sharpened. The stars seen just through the loose slats along the back wall were brighter, the colours on the draped blankets more vivid. Never had she felt like this, never had she been touched so that her body reacted. Only with this man with his every touch telling her of his searing need and deep ache.
He shifted down, dropped his weight.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he rasped. The shocking need in his voice kept her still as he feverishly kissed her belly, his hand caressing her splayed legs. Wide circles on her heated skin, until his touches turned lighter, his kisses slower, languishing. Lower. Tender presses of his mouth, beckoning flicks of his tongue.
She tugged at the blanket, pulled at his tunic. Yanked on his hair. He lifted, his eyes narrowing on her, his lips slick from kissing her, his cheeks flushed. He looked as if she had ravished him.
She swallowed audibly, unsure what she meant to say. To tell him to stop or to continue? Keeping his eyes on hers, he dipped his hand between her legs and pressed his palm against her mons. A needy whimper crossed her lips and a wicked look gleamed in his eyes.
‘I’ll stop if you mean it, Séverine. Do you?’
Partly. The act was unbearably intimate, then he flicked one finger against her slick folds.
‘That’s unfair.’ She huffed a shaken breath.
A wicked, knowing smile as he did it again. ‘Yes or no?’
A frisson of unease went through her. He wanted her to make a decision feeling like this, wanting this? And knowing she—? No. She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t need to, it had never been like this. Eyes searching hers, his smile dropped; his hand stilled.
She grabbed his wrist. ‘I want this, I want—’
With a gentleness and strength that was entirely Balthus, he lifted her to his mouth, and began again. Lengthened caresses, vibrations from his words, his thumb circling, pressing. The feeling—She moaned. ‘It’s too much, no, I want—’
‘Your pleasure.’ He licked, licked again. ‘Yours. nothing more.’
‘I want you.’
He grunted against her flesh, sawed his tongue, her words seemingly setting him off, spiralling and tightening her body until she only wanted release. ‘Give me this,’ he demanded.
This wasn’t right, this wasn’t all she wanted. She wanted to see...utter joy in his eyes. That look they shared, that touch when she didn’t push him away. That communion when he rested his... Then there was no room for argument, no voice for words. No thought except Balthus and his demand, his pleas against her thighs, against the fold of her skin, against—She released on a keening cry that he swallowed up with his kisses, with his words of adoration.
Each easing of the tremors and shudders in Séverine’s glorious body Balthus felt to his very marrow. Her eyes tightly closed, her breaths stuttering out of plump, damp, kissable lips. Her entire body was radiant with sated desire. He memorised the patterns of freckles against her cheeks, the fan of her lashes sun-tipped honey-blonde on the ends, the wings of her eyebrows that mimicked the fine lines framing eyes that darkened to unfathomable depths the longer he kissed her.
When she opened her eyes, they sparked like stars, her lips gently curved; she was a woman loved, and he hoped she felt it. In silence they continued to touch, her with a hand on his cheeks, him with circles around her hip. The angle was awkward, with his bound arm preventing him from fully holding her. But he didn’t regret it, not when it was she who wrapped him in the linen.
With her, he didn’t feel disfigured. He felt...
‘What are you thinking?’ She playfully swiped a finger between his brows, and he eased himself up.
He didn’t want to think at all. Thinking meant he’d remember that he was still lying to her...as he lay against her, like a husband with his wife. Like he’d always wanted.
Like he was sure Ian never had. If he had, and had basked in the soft wonder on her face, how could his brother have ever left her? If there had been moments like these, why would she have run? He knew he wondered not out of anything spiteful or jealous but because...because it frightened him. Because if Ian and Séverine had touched, kissed...if it had felt like this between them and still it had fallen apart, then what hope for him? He had no wealth, no children, he lacked a hand and a way to touch her as any other man could.
And there were times when Séverine hinted that even six years ago Ian’s madness had plagued him, that perhaps he’d been cruel. The servants left at Forgotten Keep hadn’t said much, which had told him they were still loyal to its mistress, but what he did know was that Ian had raced to the location and left the next day. He’d lef
t his wife in a keep needing work, in a place away from anyone she’d known. And she still needed to run?
‘Tell me of my brother. What he did to you, what happened to make you escape.’
She gasped, sat up abruptly, her eyes stricken.
Too late.
For him, he knew his brother was dead and gone. That what they had shared, while unsanctioned by vows, was not wrong. But she didn’t, and he might as well have slapped her. He should have been spouting tender words, more tender touches. Finding some way to prolong this encapsulated warmth in this shored-up stable.
Instead, he’d hurt her.
Pulling her legs out from under his body, she scrambled for her clothes. Her breath in pants.
‘Séverine—’ he began.
She sliced her hand through the air. ‘Don’t say my name as if it’s an answer or a question. Don’t say anything.’
He stood with her, gathered up the blankets while she dressed.
There was no warmth in those green eyes, no pliable rest in her body. Her shoulders were tense, her hands curling as if she wanted to strike him. He deserved it.
‘We’ll travel in a few days to the abbey, which is also in France.’
‘The abbey?’
‘The one by Forgotten Keep. It’s where I left all the books and parchments and scrolls. They should still be safe there.’
He folded the blankets on the rack. ‘I’ll tell Henry to travel ahead. To scout for danger.’
‘He’s not to go to the abbey.’
‘No, just the keep.’
‘I’ll give him a token, so they know he’s from me.’
He wanted to say so much, but this generous woman was closed to him once again. And that had nothing to do with being Warstone or an enemy and everything to do with his own failings.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘One of us didn’t return to their bed last night,’ Henry said.
‘Could you say that in a more resounding voice? The children didn’t hear it.’
Henry raised a brow. ‘Do you want them to?’
No. He pulled Henry away from the village and out near the woods in the cold morning to keep as much of this conversation private as possible. It would be noted he hadn’t returned until late, and everyone would see he was now having a private conversation with his butcher. There was nothing to be done about that.
‘I have some matters to discuss with you.’
Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘All those weeks on the road where you were begging me to talk so you didn’t have to have conversations with trees and now you want quiet?’
Henry crossed his arms. With his considerable size and girth, it just pushed his stomach out. The man was like an ox; Balthus was glad he didn’t have to train him.
‘I want quiet because I like it here. There’s this widow who has the veriest set of—’
Balthus held his hand up. ‘That has nothing to do with—’
‘It has everything to do with it. I should never have got tied up with the Warstones.’
‘You were raised at Ian’s fortress.’
‘I was too young to know any better. I do now. If you tell me what you want, it’ll all be about some task that’ll take me away, and I’m not interested. I was better off when I was simply your butcher who tied your boots,’ Henry said.
When Henry’s face darkened, probably in an apology he didn’t want, Balthus said, ‘I was better off when you weren’t a man who tied my boots because your pay was double.’
Henry let out a bark of laughter.
Balthus did, too. Of all the certainties in life, having this man as a friend would never have been conceivable until now. Therefore, it made what he had to say next all the more difficult, but it was necessary. ‘I have to tell you for their sake.’
At Henry’s reluctant nod, he began the tale of the Jewell of Kings, the parchment, the mission, and what needed to be done to obtain them. That he had to travel with Séverine and her boys, when at any moment his parents could seize them.
When he was done, he gave Henry a moment as he paced, rubbed his face, let out growls that were expressions of frustration, disbelief. Until the wide man stood before him again.
‘I’ll never understand matters like this,’ Henry said. ‘The certainty of our foolishness makes nothing better.’
The insolence! But Balthus welcomed it. It felt better than the reserve and fear he’d been treated with all his life.
‘At least I know where you stand,’ he said.
‘Why are you telling me any of this?’ Henry said.
Balthus had asked himself that a dozen times. Henry was still a servant. He had no compunction in using his skill as a butcher. He wasn’t the mercenary Louve, who wanted to save the world. Henry, out of all of them, could be free.
‘I’m telling this because we can’t travel like you. You can get there far quicker than any of us.’
‘And I need to arrive at the keep before you to see if it’s safe.’
‘I can’t blindly travel to a place without knowing if I put them in jeopardy.’
‘Ah, you care...and you trust.’
He wouldn’t deny it. ‘If there was any other way...’
‘I know you don’t feel comfortable sending me on ahead, not because you feel I can’t do it but because you fear something would happen to me. And yet you can’t go ahead yourself because you’d put the woman and boys in danger.’ Henry chuckled. ‘You risk me because you more than care for them. I see how you look at each other. Know that when your back is turned she watches you like a woman in love. I know she wasn’t near her home either last night. Which brings us back to the fact you’re a fool because I’m guessing you still haven’t told her about Ian.’
Balthus couldn’t. If he did, he’d lose her. The only time he could have... No, at any time he told her it would be the end. She’d fled from Warstones, and when she knew she was released from her marriage vows, she wouldn’t have anything to do with them again. He was selfish, and a coward. She shouldn’t have anything to do with him.
‘It’s none of your concern what I have and haven’t said to my sister-in-law,’ he said.
Henry snorted. ‘Since I’m about to die for some task you’ve given me, I say it is my concern.’
This was the hell he’d brought on himself by bringing a servant from whom he had no secrets.
‘She loves you, but you’ll ruin everything when she finds out you’ve been withholding the truth.’ Henry stepped back, exhaled slowly. ‘You don’t plan to tell her.’
‘Again, what I tell her has nothing to do with you, butcher. We need to ride to the keep; she needs to go the abbey to find something my brother needs. I’ll be on my way then.’
‘Do you intend to send her a letter afterward and have a messenger report it?’
He hadn’t thought that far ahead, but what other choice did he have? He didn’t think he could face telling her now. After he’d seen how she looked at him with warmth and curiosity in a way she usually reserved for beautiful things. To know what kissing her, touching her was like, and to see it fade. To see it disappear and change to something like disgust. He wasn’t ready to let her go.
Henry crossed his beefy arms. ‘You’re worse than a fool.’
Balthus narrowed his eyes. ‘Will you do what I’ve asked?’
‘Why, yes, my lord. I’m a servant and have been ordered to—’
‘Don’t say it.’
For once Henry didn’t.
‘Don’t jest. I told you more than most because I don’t want you underestimating them. You do need to fear them.’
‘Them? You’re no longer a Warstone?’
He didn’t know what he was anymore. The longer he stayed with Séverine, the more time he spent with her boys...he didn’t recognise hi
mself.
But he should for her sake because she was running from Ian and from all Warstones. She didn’t want her boys to turn out like them, and she was right to protect them. The crux was...he was one. And he was still lying to her. Now too cowardly to tell her after what they’d shared. He didn’t deserve her, no matter how much he longed to be someone else. Someone who had beauty she wanted to find.
No matter how much he longed for her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Séverine no longer questioned riding beside Balthus, the boys weaving between Imbert and Sarah, all on the way to return to a place she’d sworn she’d never go to again. Her life wasn’t a question of whether something was wise, or safe or correct. She’d passed those barriers long ago when she’d run away with her children, run from her husband and hidden from the rest of the family.
She could never pretend she was simply weak or distressed or a victim to fate because during those six years of running she’d set up havens and traps to protect herself and her children.
If Balthus was correct, she was also creating small forces who would defend her and the children. Her! So far she come from that fateful day when she’d been snatched from dreams of living in the abbey near her home.
Even if she wanted to return to that life, she’d lived too much to sequester herself now, and her children still needed her.
She needed... Balthus.
She’d never been kissed or touched like that. Wanted. She’d been taken from her life and then forced into Ian’s, only then to be set aside again. She’d never felt married while she’d lived under Ian’s roof. Now she’d been away six years, running, hiding from a man who scared her. A powerful, wealthy man...who hadn’t found her. Had he even looked for her? From the moment that Lady Warstone had clutched her wrist, she’d felt like a possession tossed between Ian and his parents. In fairness, she’d felt safer with Ian, but only because he’d kept her locked away, even from himself. With few visits and even fewer times he had lain with her.
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 61