She scowled. ‘You despise me for my peasant speech – that and my low birth. That’s why I must sleep on the floor.’
‘When have I mocked at your speech?’ The grey eyes glittered. ‘I merely observe that your accent is thicker when you’re angry. In truth, I like your voice – it’s not high and shrill like most maids. Quite pleasing.’
‘For a peasant.’
Shaking his head, he held out his hand. ‘Come here.’
She ignored the hand. ‘If...if you were a proper knight, you’d sleep on the floor.’
‘As you know, I’m not a knight. Be reasonable. I have much to do on the morrow, and I need sleep. This is my bed, and whilst I appreciate that you did not ask to be brought here, I would have you remember that I didn’t send for you either. I am happy to let you join me, but in the East I slept on more than my share of hard floors, and I’ll be damned before I give up my bed to you. Sleep where you choose. Good night.’
With that he turned on his side and pulled the covers over his broad shoulders.
Rosamund flounced off the bed. She went to the door and tried to open it, but it was a futile gesture and she knew it. She could feel Oliver’s gaze boring into her back, she could imagine the amused, supercilious expression on his face. She whipped round, but Oliver hadn’t moved. He lay facing the door with his eyes firmly shut. She could hear his breathing – it was deep and even. He was probably asleep already. Vile, selfish, arrogant man!
The candle sputtered. It was down to its last inch. Moving softly, so as not to attract Oliver’s attention, or waken him if he were truly asleep, Rosamund took his dagger from the coffer and trimmed the wick. She must be shakier than she had realised, for her fingers fumbled over the simple task. It was a beeswax candle – the scent was really most pleasant. They had to make do with stinking tallow candles at the mill. She noticed that the dagger hilt was bone and carved with an intricate design. Had it come from the Holy Land?
When she’d been led up here she’d been too distraught to take much heed of her surroundings. She had leisure now and she looked about. Oliver’s chamber was not as large as some she had passed on her way from the bailey, but it was all his own. Imagine having an entire bedchamber to yourself! And to sleep in such a bed. It had felt so soft. She yawned.
The floor was covered in rush matting, that would have to do for her. Choosing a spot near the door, she sank on to it and tried to get comfortable.
Oliver’s face was washed by candlelight. He had strong features. That jaw, the line of his hair. His arm lay relaxed on top of the bedclothes. As she admired the shape of it, she wondered why she had never noticed that a man’s body could be so pleasing. If she touched his shoulder and ran her fingertips down that arm, what would it feel like? Oliver’s hand rested on the edge of the bed, he was so close that she could see the blue veins on the back of it. His skin was lightly bronzed, but they’d had a dismal spring and there’d hardly been any sun. He’d mentioned a crusade. Perhaps the Eastern sun was hotter than the English sun. Rosamund thought of the sailors she’d seen in Ingerthorpe harbour – many of them had tanned skin. Had Oliver’s skin had been darkened by the wind on his voyage home?
A draught was whistling under the door and over the floor of the chamber. Goose-bumps formed on her arms. She inched away from the door. The matting was very scratchy. Itchy. She thought wistfully of the softness of Oliver’s bed. The floor was digging into her hip-bone.
Sighing, she sat up and leaned her arms on her knees. That bed was comfortable. It was out of the way of the draughts and she’d been a fool not to get in with him. Oliver had said he wouldn’t hurt her. She was freezing over here with only her stubbornness to keep her warm.
The chamber was so small she was but an arm’s length from him. His hair was tousled, damp from his hurried wash. A stray lock fell across his face. Reaching out, she delicately brushed it aside. His eyes opened and met hers.
‘Rosamund.’ His voice was low. ‘You know you’re not afraid of me, and you know you can’t sleep on the floor. Why don’t you just admit it and come to bed? That way we might both get some sleep,’
‘I...I...’
He gave a lop-sided grin and caught her hand, shifting to make room for her. She stood up slowly and let him pull her gently towards him. Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, she half-turned towards him. She felt unbearably shy.
Lightly, he flicked her nose. ‘There’s no need to look like that. You don’t have to face me if you don’t wish it.’
A gentle pressure on her shoulder urged her down. A large hand slid to her waist and was still.
‘Sleep well,’ he said, huskily.
She could feel the warmth of his large body behind her. A clean, masculine scent clung to the pillow. She closed her eyes. It was pleasant to lie here with his hand on her waist. Safe, and yet...not safe. Oliver. She sighed.
What would it be like sleeping with Alfwold? She wouldn’t feel like this. If Alfwold was next to her, she wouldn’t be lying here wondering what it would be like to have Alfwold’s hand move slowly over her skin, to have it caress her. She shuddered and Oliver’s hand lifted away. She felt a distinct pang of regret. Regret.
No, if she lay with Alfwold she would be more like to be biting her tongue to hide her dislike. Trying to prevent herself from telling him that she didn’t, couldn’t want him. Ever.
This chance would never come again.
‘Oliver?’
‘Hmm?’
She rolled onto her stomach and leaned on her elbows. Their bodies were so close, she tingled. ‘How many lovers have you had?’
A dark eyebrow lifted. His grin was crooked. ‘A few. Why?’
‘Do you find me pretty?’
‘Tease. You know I do.’ His eyes darkened. Their heads were so close that even in the weak light, she could see the soot-black ring that defined the grey in them.
‘My lowly birth doesn’t repulse you?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Who am I to cavil at someone’s birth? You at least were born in wedlock. Rosamund, where’s this leading?’
She took a deep breath and fiddled with the edge of a pillow. ‘Tonight I want you for my lover.’
He had his expression in hand, but she saw his lips twitch, just once. And in his eyes, she glimpsed an eager flare of hunger. He gave her a considering look and rolled onto his back.
She knew she was crimson. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’
He stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m thinking.’
She huffed out a breath. ‘Well, if you need to think about it...’ She pummeled the pillow and buried her head in it. The linen was cool on her cheeks. She should not have asked him. I will die of shame.
The mattress moved and she felt a light touch on her head. A caress?
He cleared his throat. ‘Rosamund?’ His hand settled on the nape of her neck. ‘Look at me. Open your eyes.’
Cringing inside at what she had proposed, dreading the scorn she must see in his eyes, she slowly obeyed.
‘Why? Why do you want a lover?’
She was curling up with shame. ‘You think it is wrong of me to ask. I have shocked you.’
‘You are...’ fleetingly, he touched her ring ‘...a newly married woman. And newly married women do not usually take landless squires as their lovers.’
The grey eyes gleamed, he was laughing at her!
‘Don’t mock me.’ Twisting in bed, she pushed angrily at his chest. ‘Don’t.’
Oliver rested his head on his hand. Never had he seen a girl look so embarrassed. She was such a novelty. And such a beauty. Mon Dieu, those huge blue eyes; that gold-streaked hair; that blush; that body...
Having her offer herself in such a way was temptation such as he had never known. He wanted her, he had from the first, but he couldn’t afford an entanglement. He had ambitions, and they didn’t include being shackled to peasant girl even if she did possess the bluest eyes he’d ever seen and the softest, most welcoming lips.
; Oliver frowned. Besides, she was married. What was she up to? Had she decided that Sir Geoffrey’s squire had more to offer than this Alfwold? She was angry now, working herself up to a fury to hide her embarrassment. He would let her rant a little, he might learn more about her motives. Those blue eyes were not made to deceive.
Rosamund saw Oliver frown and it fuelled her anger. ‘How dare you sit in judgement on me? You don’t know what it’s like to have to agree to wed someone for whom you feel nothing!’
‘Is he cruel then, this husband of yours? Will he ill-use you?’
‘Alfwold isn’t cruel. It’s my father who...’ she bit her lip.
‘You are fortunate then, in this husband of yours.’
Oliver’s face held polite, detached interest. She groaned. ‘What’s the use, someone like you can never understand.’
‘Try me.’
She searched his eyes and dropped her gaze to his chest. He was wearing a gold cross. Gold. It was yet another sign of the gulf between his world and hers. This man’s clothes are edged with gold thread; he wears a gold cross...
She moistened her lips. ‘That...that day on the beach. May Day...’ she hesitated, and caught the tail end of a smile. She took it as encouragement. ‘I liked you then, I thought you very handsome.’ She felt herself blush, but pressed on. ‘I knew it was wrong to kiss you, but my betrothal to Alfwold was only...well...I have often wondered what it would be like to kiss a man I was truly interested in – someone I had chosen. I didn’t lie when I told you I had no lover. I have never known a man. But...but if I had the choice, I would choose someone like you, someone who is tall, and strong, and proud – someone whom I desire.’
‘You flatter me.’ Oliver said. His mouth was strangely tender.
‘Is so great a sin for a woman to admit to feeling desire? Is it wrong to wish that once, just once, I might know the pleasure of making love to someone who makes my heart beat loud and the blood rush in my ears? Is that so very wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘It happens often enough. Just be sure you don’t confuse me with your dream. I am far from the paragon you seem to expect. Don’t expect me to fall in love with you.’
There was a little sputtering noise and the shadows danced up and down the walls.
‘The candle’s going out,’ she said.
Her pulse began to race. She saw in his face that he would make love to her and now that it had come upon her, she was a bundle of nerves.
Oliver slid his hand round her neck and combed his fingers through her hair. It tumbled like a cloak about her shoulders. He glanced at the wall sconce. ‘I’ll light another candle.’ His voice deepened as his hand slid to her waist. ‘I want to watch your face and see your body.’ He pressed a light kiss on her cheek.
He was only gone a moment or two. Rosamund lay perfectly still, heart pumping. The yellow glow strengthened as he lit another candle. A faint hiss told her he’d placed the new candle on the heel of the old. The shadows steadied.
Soon, she would know what it was to have a lover. She shivered.
And then he was beside her again, folding her carefully in strong arms. You’re not cold, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but I am a nervous. I’m new to this...’
‘Hush.’ His lips found hers in a kiss that was oddly chaste. It was very soft, as though he was afraid he might startle her into changing her mind.
As she warmed to the kiss, her shame melted. It was so good to lie with Oliver’s mouth moving across hers, so good to feel his arms about her. His fingers were playing in her hair, touching her ears. She gave a tiny sigh and pressed closer.
He lifted his head, gently stroking her cheek. Her face burned under his caress. Overcome with a sudden shyness, she turned her head from his.
Oliver kissed her neck. She gasped as an arrow of fire seemed to burn its way through her body. With his lips and tongue at her neck, he was making her entire body go up in flames. She gripped his shoulder, kissing it, tasting it. Tasting him. Oliver.
‘That’s better,’ he muttered, his breath warming her ear. ‘I thought for a moment you’d forgotten you chose me.’
Rosamund was beyond speech. It was bad enough trying to breathe. His lips returned to her mouth and she met him eagerly, kiss for kiss. Her fingers tugged at his hair to pull him closer and his answering groan intensified her pleasure. She moved restlessly.
Oliver’s hand was shaking as he moved it over her breast. God, he couldn’t remember when a girl had felt so responsive. He ached to possess her. He must remember that she was a virgin. He mustn’t rush at her like a callow youth and spoil it for her. He wanted her first, full loving to be filled with wonder and joy.
Rosamund placed a hand over the one which caressed her breast. ‘Can you feel what you’re doing to my heart?’
‘I can feel more than that, my angel.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m no angel. Unless I’m a fallen one. No angel would beg for love.’
‘A fallen angel,’ he repeated, his eyes on the glossy hair which framed her face. ‘Aye. Have you another kiss for me, my beautiful fallen angel?’
She wound her arms round his neck, reaching for that warm and sensuous mouth, willingly losing herself in sensation such as she had never known. There was no shame in this, only pure enchantment.
Oliver’s hand moved slowly down Rosamund’s body. Every inch of her felt perfect. That soft breast arching towards his touch, the curve of her waist, the rounded hip... He caught the hem of her gown and pulled back to ease it from her, smiling at her murmur of protest.
‘Angel, I must take this gown off. Lovely though it is, I prefer you without it. Lift up your arms. There.’
Oliver stared at the girl lying flushed and willing in his bed. His breath caught, she was even lovelier in the flesh. Beauty personified.
‘Oliver?’ Her voice was uncertain. She reached for the sheet and dragged it over herself, clutching it to her body as though it were a shield.
‘You were created for loving,’ he whispered, brushing the sheet aside. He felt her shudder as their bodies touched. Luminous blue eyes turned trustingly to his. What was it about this girl? She was irresistible. If Geoffrey but knew what he had given him this night...
Oliver buried his head in a cloud of hair – kissing her through it. Pushing the long, silky strands out of his way. All thoughts of his cousin melted from his mind as his body heated.
Rosamund could do nothing but cling to Oliver. His kisses filled her senses, her limbs felt weak. Still clad in his hose, Oliver lay half across her. His leg was heavy between hers and the impulse to press herself against that leg was as sudden as it was shocking. How unseemly! With a moan, she twisted beneath him.
He was raining soft, biting kisses on her face and neck. His head moved lower, to her breast and she held in another moan as he kissed first one breast and then the other. Her nipples tightened.
‘Oliver?’
Oliver felt Rosamund’s gasp in his groin. She was clutching his head to her breast, straining towards him, urging him on. Unashamedly, wantonly. Wriggling beneath him with such abandon that he could contain himself no longer.
His breath was coming fast. He eased himself back. In his eagerness, he fumbled at the ties of his hose. Slender fingers were there before him, swiftly untying the cord and pushing at the material. He held his breath.
‘Shocked, Oliver?’ Her husky whisper was an incitement to sin. ‘I chose you, remember?’
Oliver moved his body over hers, not entering her yet, it was too soon for that. He swallowed her gasp with a kiss. ‘Merciful Heavens, woman! Will you stop wriggling? Or I won’t be able to wait until you’re ready for me.’
Her reply was muffled. ‘I’m ready.’
He shook his head at her. ‘Not yet, you aren’t.’ His knee met no resistance and he nudged her legs apart.
Rosamund found herself holding her breath as his fingers found that secret part of her that no man had touched until now. It wa
s ecstasy and it was agony. She wanted more. She pushed against his hand and his clever fingers sent her spiralling higher and higher. She writhed beneath him, her whole being yearning for release from a torment so exquisite she must surely die.
‘Please, Oliver, please.’ And then a wild shudder took her and she was hurtling away from him, out of this chamber, away from the castle, away...
From head to toe every fibre tingled. She clung to him, stunned with pleasure.
Grey eyes were fixed steadily on hers. ‘Now?’ he whispered.
She nodded.
Oliver bent his head and his lips covered hers. He kept his control. He felt one small hand slip into his a moment before he heard the sharp intake of breath which accompanied the loss of her maidenhead. There was no cry of pain. He searched her face. No tears. Just a tiny hand in his. He felt oddly moved.
And then he lowered his head and their lips clung. And Oliver forgot the need to take care, for they were moving in perfect unison. It was as though they had made love a hundred – a thousand – times before. Their rhythms matched exactly.
Rosamund removed her hand from Oliver’s so she could run it down his back and hold his hips to her. She heard him gasp her name. He was muttering incoherently. Love-words. Foreign love-words. She was warm all over – hot in every vein. And Oliver was moving within her, building the heat. Giving his heat to her. Faster and faster. Taking her with him to a place where the world exploded into a million glittering fragments, leaving them lying weak and spent in each other’s arms.
The candle burnt down some way before Oliver made to ease away, and when he did, her sleepy protest gave him pause.
‘Stay,’ she murmured.
He rolled onto his back and settled her in his arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere, we’re locked in, remember?’
‘Oh, aye. So we are.’ She snuggled close and pressed her lips to his chest.
Oliver ruffled her long, love-tangled hair. ‘Well, my angel, I take it from your smile that you have no regrets.’
Long lashes lifted and Oliver felt a pang almost of pain at the adoration he glimpsed in them. Not adoration – affection. She likes me, that is all.
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