by Karen Ranney
When he turned, her scrutiny revealed an even more amazing sight. He was aroused, full and heavy and thickly. A man in his prime. When he walked closer to the bed, she raised herself up on her knees and reached out her hand.
Did she startle him with her action? She didn’t know. Fascinated, she touched him. He was so hard he felt like iron and so heated he felt like fire. The tip of him was flanged. She traced her finger around the head delicately and watched him jerk beneath her hand.
He pushed her gently to her back, joined her on the bed, and raised himself up over her on one elbow. “Are you sure you’re not a sorceress?” he asked, his smile lending wickedness to the words.
I am a witch, aren’t I? Words she’d uttered as a child. A great fear then. She smiled at him. “No,” she said. “I am not sure.”
He bent and kissed her, an enchanted enough journey through the spiral of desire. The night was cool, but she did not feel it. His fingers acted as fire, his palms braziers.
Her breasts were measured with fingers and hands and lips. “Mamillae,” he said softly, as he trailed his fingers over the curve of them. “Papilla” was mouthed against a nipple.
“Latin?” she asked, the passion she felt augmented by a fierce tenderness.
He nodded, smiling. “Bracchium,” he said, trailing a line from elbow to wrist.
Her fingers traced the edge of his smile. He reached up and removed her hand. “Digitus,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Digitus pollex,” he murmured against her thumb.
She began to smile, charmed by his seduction. Latin and lust, it was a powerful combination.
Remember this. An admonition to herself to keep this moment in her mind. How could she not?
“Armus.” An annointing kiss to her shoulder. “Umerus.” A word spoken against her upper arm. A tingle followed his kisses, a shiver of awareness as he trailed his fingers over her body.
He bestowed a necklace of kisses around her neck. “Collum,” he murmured as he did so.
“Basiatio,” he said against her lips. “A kiss.”
Her foot, ankle, calf, knee were all named in order. Pes, talus, sura, genu.
He made her repeat them softly, and she did so, the Latin words taking on a carnal lure when spoken in candlelight and whispers.
His fingers brushed over the apex of her thighs. “Cirrus,” he murmured against her lips. “Softly curling hair.” Her legs widened, an effortless invitation. Or plea.
“Osculum. A little mouth,” he said, his fingers softly discovering her. He stroked languidly, seeming not to notice that her breath had stilled or her fingers clutched his shoulders. It was an intimacy of touch that startled her.
Desire. The hunger of it surprised her.
“Flosculus. A little flower.” His fingers opened her, stroked softly, tenderly. “Delicatus,” he said, his lips at her temple, his breath on her closed lids. “Delicate. Sweet.”
His finger slid inside her with infinite tenderness. Her fingers clutched his shoulder, her breath halting and then starting again.
“Caelum,” he whispered. “The vault of heaven.” He withdrew his finger slowly, inserted it again. The slick friction of it made her tremble.
She turned her head, burrowed against him. An instinctive wish for protection in the most vulnerable of poses.
He kissed her, his tongue as gentle as his fingers, exploring her mouth with intent and languid strokes even as his fingers urged her to a place she’d never been before. Thoughts of him had made her feel achy, and dreams had sometimes awakened her with her breasts sensitive and her body restless. Now she knew why. Her mind had proposed their joining, and her body now urged completion. It was no longer something to be desired. It was an act of necessity. If that was passion, then she was adrift in it.
The sound she made was almost a moan, but it had a note of demand in it. The kiss she returned was no longer passive or exploratory. It nipped at his lips and dueled with intrusive tongue.
Her hand reached down and touched him. Her eyes opened as she fisted him gently.
“What do you call this?”
There was a soft smile on his face as he reached down and moved her hand. Not away but over the length of him. She followed his lead, fascinated by the half-lidded expression in his eyes. As if the rapture she felt was mirrored in him.
“Penis.”
“And here?” She stroked the curve of his buttocks, flattened her hand over his hip, trailing her nails over his skin.
“Clunis, nates, puga.”
He bent and sucked a nipple, then used the barest edge of his teeth to scrape against it.
Her eyes closed as she fisted him. His finger slid inside her and her hips rose. They played at this and tormented each other. It was an exquisite, trembling delight.
Desire was no longer a black ribbon. It was a fiery red string that tensed her muscles and spread along her skin. Her teeth bit at his lip and he laughed into their kiss.
She wanted to be taken. To be finished with this. And never to have it end. She was wild with it. She pulled at him, slapped at his chest. Heard him speak but was done with Latin.
He entered her slowly, an ancient act of possession. She widened for him, welcomed him in silence and eagerness. In his eyes was passion, not calm, not restrained.
She closed her eyes, suddenly wanted to change her mind. Her hands clutched at his back even as her hips jerked upward.
Her mind centered on the sensation of being stretched and invaded inch by inch. She wanted to cry out for help. To be severed from this terrible bond. It was too much. Not pain but almost so. He was so large within her that her body gripped him tightly. An act of possession at least as demanding as his.
He stilled, his weight balanced on his right forearm. His left hand brushed the tendrils of hair back from her face. He placed a tender kiss upon her lips, breathed against her cheek. A fine tremor marked his breath and the touch of his fingers upon her ear.
She opened her eyes, placed her palm upon his cheek. He turned his head, kissed the center of her palm. Silence, stillness, restraint while he waited for her to welcome him.
Remember this. How could she ever forget?
It was at that moment she felt her most defenseless. She had wanted this and in doing so had counted the cost of it. But she had not known how completely she would be required to surrender herself. Not simply body but will. And dominion, per haps, over what she’d always known as hers. The pounding of her heart, the measure of her breaths. Even the emotions her body might own and know. At this moment, she understood what he had warned her against with his cautions.
Sharing this would change her forever. She would no longer be only herself, but a part of a greater whole. Her memories of herself would be entwined with those of him. She would never be as naive in body and never as innocent in mind.
He rolled over, slowly, carrying her with him. She understood when he winced at the movement. His arm.
He reached up and gripped her hands, pulled her down to him. She sank like a stone onto his chest, a tiny cry her only protest. His hands plotted her skin from the curve of her hips to her shoulder, encouraging strokes of soft fingers, even as his breath rasped in her ear.
She inhaled the scent of him, her lips pressed against the skin of his shoulder, tasted him. He turned her face up to meet his kiss, and she welcomed it. A mindless darkness. A swift return to desire.
His hands gripped her upper arms, pushed her up so that he could kiss her breasts, tease her nipples. His hips thrust up again, a final, insistent act of dominion. Her head arched back, her lips pressed tight to hold the cry within.
His fingers brushed her lips as if in praise, then traced a line from chin to throat to breasts. Learning her with his fingers. Starting little fires where he stroked.
She closed her eyes, adrift in the feelings he evoked. Between her thighs not simple pain but an ache. A feeling of being conquered, invaded. Possessed.
He placed his palms gently against her
stomach, his thumbs pressing into her softly, intrusively, until they met where they joined. A surge upward sent him deeper. One of her hands covered her mouth, the other splayed on her stomach, the tips of her fingers brushing his. A provocative touch, one that hinted at delicacy and restraint even as he surged within her.
His thumbs slid over her flesh into heated parts that were swollen and tender. Sensitive to the circling touch.
She was enveloped in the feeling that so separated them and joined them at the same time. His thumbs rotated against her, in her, pressed against where he entered her. The ache became greater, changed in nature. Slowly subsided and faded beneath the hunger.
She blinked her eyes open, stared down at him. His hair was strewn against the mattress, his face flushed with passion. His eyes blazed at her even as his fingers stroked her flesh. He smiled then, such a soft and tender smile.
She was startled to feel so many emotions in that moment. Not regret. Wonder and tenderness, delight and desire. But the most powerful of all the emotions she felt was joy.
At Dunniwerth, she’d been protected, carefully cordoned off from single men. She’d been an object of affection and respect. The laird’s daughter who walked among them in safety as if she had been somehow elevated not only by her rank but by her maidenhood. Yet on this night she was a woman who was capable of passion. Not daughter, not visionary, not friend or survivor. Only a woman. His.
It seemed to be a memory recalled, a feeling that they’d come together before in laughter and ecstasy. A dream of those moments surged into this one. A recollection of what had been a thousand years ago. A promise of what could be, if circumstance were different and fate did not have greedy claws.
She raised herself, pressing up on her knees so that the ache of his possession was eased. His hands gripped her hips, restrained her. But she was in throes of something more powerful than his wishes or her desires. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation of him sliding out of her slowly. It maddened her. She sank down again as deliberately.
He made a sound something like a startled laugh as she did it again. Her head fell back as she concentrated on the feeling, the exquisite torture of it, the slow, languorous delight of feeling him deep within her.
It speared her heart.
Her fingers trailed along his stomach, her nails scraped against his skin gently. She felt his muscles contract. His hips rose even as he pulled her to him.
She shook her head, the sensations unbearable. Her hands tingled, her tongue felt cold, her breasts heated and flushed. She was sensuous and womanly and feral.
He surged within her; at the same time he pressed his hand on her hips and forced her down. A look of intense pleasure crossed his face. Again he raised his hips, demand inherent in the gesture.
She’d thought the act one of physical joining, never realizing that it could involve her soul. That she might splinter into a thousand pieces and all of them chained each to the other. A bit of moonlight attached to a string of stars. But more than that. A breath of joy, so pure and sweet that it chilled her with its perfection.
Her breath caught and then expanded. A gasp turned into an inarticulate plea. A moan, a sigh. A prayer.
“Remember me,” he whispered even as she soared.
He was chided by the sound of God. The mutterings of the Almighty, who was not pleased with his actions. He frowned at the voice, then retreated willfully into recollections of Anne. The curve of her waist and the line of her hip. The soft, surprised moan when he’d loved her the second time. She’d beaten her fists against him in time to her release. He smiled in his sleep.
God, however, was continuing to complain. He uttered a stern warning in a voice that growled with the sound of poetry. Stephen turned in his bed, the ropes creaking beneath him as God spoke. Was he doomed to some celestial punishment, then, for the joy he’d felt last night?
He reached out for Anne, then remembered she had left him a few hours ago. Draped in candlelight and kisses, she had slipped through the hallway to her chamber.
The rumble of angel voices chastised him. God was not content to deliver him a silent rebuke, evidently. He had summoned the seraphim to quote poetry to him. Male angels?
Sleep vanished in an instant. He blinked open his eyes, listening to the drone of voices. Thousands of voices. He’d faced that sound too many times. Parliamentary soldiers had a penchant for marching into battle chanting psalms. A ploy, he’d long suspected, not only to demonstrate that God was on the side of the Parliamentarians but to give the poor foot soldiers something to think about other than the cannon bearing down on them.
He rolled from his bed and rushed to the window. This side of the house faced Langlinais. It was not until he reached the other side of his suite that he saw what he’d feared. There before him were thousands of soldiers marching on Harrington Court. He recognized the banner immediately. General Thomas Penroth.
He had not been fast enough in returning to battle, it seemed. The war had come to him.
Chapter 18
Stephen turned as William entered the room.
“Have you assembled the men?”
“Yes, my lord,” William said.
“Then let’s begin,” he said. William followed him down the hallway to the ballroom.
He’d never played host in this room, but his youthful memories supplied him with details of stuffy air and the overpowering fragrance of thousands of beeswax candles, the pungent aroma of ladies’ perfume, and the odor from velvet, lace, and silk needing a good airing. He’d been six the last time he’d been required to attend one of his father’s parties. On that occasion he’d been paraded about with much fanfare, his attire a duplication of his father’s favorite suit of clothes, his hair styled in the same fashion. The night had not ended well, he remembered. He’d been feted as only an heir might be in a sea of indolent and hedonistic nobles. He’d been fed so many sweetmeats and wine that he’d been sick over a dowager duchess’s new yellow kid shoes.
At least his father had never summoned him here again.
He looked at the sixty men who comprised the Langlinais regiment. He knew these men well, had grown up with most of them, had come to depend on all of them.
The plan to ride for Oxford could not have been worse timed. The Parliamentarians had trapped them here as ably as the other inhabitants of Harrington Court.
“I need a volunteer,” he said without preamble. “Someone to ride for Colonel Blagge.”
“I will go, my lord.” James stood. He’d originally come from Kent and was one of the best cavalry officers.
“I’ve a brother with Penroth, my lord,” Samuel said, standing and joining James. In another war that news might have brought on some reaction. At the very least, angry muttering. But there was only silence at his announcement. Families had been torn apart over this conflict, even as the ideas and causes once deemed worth fighting for became dross as the war lingered on.
“It might be easier if you choose me, my lord. That is, if I’m caught.”
“I can only spare one of you,” Stephen said. He nodded at Samuel, the decision made. “Let’s just hope you don’t see your brother any time soon,” he said and proceeded to outline the fastest way to reach Blagge’s troops.
He left them then, intent on only one thing, to determine for how many days they could withstand Penroth.
Instead, he was lured by the sound of laughter. He followed the sound to the kitchen, a labyrinthine journey that wound through storage hallways where barrels of their sand were stored. It was used for cleaning, but would be moved to the hallways soon to help put out fires if Penroth began to bombard them.
He pushed the door ajar. Betty, Ned, and what looked to be the majority of the staff stood watching Anne. She sat at the head of the long table, intent upon her drawing. Her fingers flew over the page.
A burst of laughter accompanied each successive viewing of a drawing being passed from one to the other. It was not difficult to deduce that the subject
of the amusement was one of young maids, whose cheeks were a lively red. But she looked as if she enjoyed the attention. He stepped forward, held out his hand, and the drawing was placed in it by one of the younger downstairs maids. She giggled without turning, passing on a bit of fun, unknowing that she did so to her employer.
It was only then that he realized the room had grown quiet. The one person who was patently ignoring his presence was Anne, and she was intent upon her drawing. When one of the maids would have slipped away, he shook his head, a gesture to induce her to stay.
Anne finished the drawing with a flourish and held it out to Betty. Betty covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle her laughter, but it rolled forth anyway. She handed it to Ned, who took one look at it and began to laugh. But what surprised Stephen the most is that his taciturn servant reached over and grabbed Anne’s hand and raised it to his mouth for a smacking kiss.
Stephen smiled, which seemed to release them from their silence. He was absurdly grateful to her at that moment for bringing laughter to them at a time that was neither amusing nor lighthearted.
She glanced over at him then, and they shared a look. Too intimate for strangers, too warm for friends. He moved aside, motioned to Betty.
He gave her the instructions he’d meant to impart, left word for Ned, and slipped out of the room.
Stephen called out to her knock, and Anne pushed open the door. He looked up and smiled as she entered. He had not lit a candle, and the soft light from the windows cast the room in a pewter glow. An almost intimate setting.
She did not speak when she entered, merely turned and closed the door behind her. It shut with a small click.
Propriety was shut outside the room with her action. They both knew it. Codes of behavior were passed down equally well to Scottish as well as English women. They were each aware that she should not have closed the door, just as neither remarked that it was too late to worry about proprieties. She had sobbed in his arms, and he had lured her to taste passion.