by Joy Nash
“That is true. But I will just have to find a way around it.”
“Even if Gerlois was inclined to give his permission, he might very well insist on accompanying you and Igraine.”
Breena frowned. “I had not thought of that.”
“Neither, apparently, has the noble Sir Gareth. He has also not considered what would happen were he to fail in his quest to become your betrothed. If that happens, there will be no opportunity for escape.”
“That is my fear as well,” Breena confessed. “Gareth insists he will win, but…”
“I saw him during the exhibition. And in the feasting hall. He rides well, but he is very young. Some of his opponents will be far more battle hardened.” He gave his head a shake. “Nay. We cannot risk waiting for the end of the contest. We had best make our move earlier. We will steal Igraine away during the tournament.”
Breena’s brows shot up. “You cannot be serious!”
He met her gaze and held it. “I assure you, I am.”
“But…how?”
“I will weave an illusion around the duke’s box. You and Igraine will simply slip away. Gerlois will not notice.”
“Perhaps Gerlois will not, but Dafyd certainly will! He felt my magic, Rhys, when I scried for Myrddin. He will certainly feel yours.”
Rhys rubbed his chin. “He felt the deep magic you touched. There is no sign that he is aware of my presence. I believe I can cast Light magic, at least, without his knowledge. Tomorrow, at the tournament, when I cast my illusion on the duke’s booth, you and Igraine flee. The duke and his party will not discover the deception until the end of the contest. By that time, we will be well gone.”
“Where?”
“We will ride to intercept the high king’s army. Your knight can ride ahead, and inform Uther of our approach.”
Breena turned Rhys’s plan over in her mind. “It could work,” she said slowly. “You will have to talk to Gareth, of course, and tell him to withdraw from the contest. Thank the gods he will not have to fight on my behalf. I’ve been sick with worry.”
Rhys flexed his fist. His restless energy was back, in full force. Breena could almost see it, pouring off his body in waves.
He rose, and paced to the small window, as if seeking escape. “What is that knight to you, Breena?”
“Why, nothing! He is Myrddin’s assistant. A friend.”
“You allow his kiss. He speaks of marriage—real marriage, not a sham. Tell me, would you be willing? If you could not find your way home, would you take him as your husband?” He turned suddenly. Every muscle in his body was drawn taut. “Would you lie on your back for the noble Sir Gareth? Would you spread your legs for him?”
She gasped. “Rhys! That is crude.”
“Aye, perhaps, but your knight is a man, like any other. That is what he wants from you.” His voice pitched low. “That is what I want from you.”
He did? She stared, stunned past words.
With two strides, he loomed over her. He placed one hand on the wall above her head and bent close, not touching, but filling her senses completely nonetheless. His scent—a heady mix of sweat, anger, and lust—stabbed at her nostrils.
The tips of her breasts tightened. Heat pulled at her belly. She became aware of slick moisture bathing her thighs. The sweet, twisting yearning of her girlish fantasies of Rhys sharpened on an edge that stole her breath.
She licked her lips. “Do you really want that from me, Rhys?”
Emotion stormed in his gray eyes. “That,” he said, “is only the beginning of what I want from you, Breena.”
Blood pounded in her ears. His hunger, stark in his expression, consumed her utterly. But what drove his passion? Breena wasn’t completely sure. Not love. At least, not love in the way she had always thought of it.
She sensed the emotion driving Rhys was far more primitive than love. And far more dangerous to her heart. It scared her. The girl she’d once been wanted desperately to shrink back. But the woman she’d begun to be—the one who accepted the gravest risks, despite her fears—she would not turn away.
“Show me, Rhys. Show me what you want from me.”
His nostrils flared. His eyes were hard, and hungry. “Do not tempt me.”
She came up on her knees, facing him, so close that her breasts brushed his chest. He sucked in a harsh breath, and the arm he’d braced against the wall trembled. His free hand came up as if to embrace her. But he did not. It formed a fist instead, and dropped back to his side.
But he did not step away.
She met his gaze steadily as she unclasped the girdle about her waist. The bands of silver fell to the floor. Her silk stola loosened, her breasts no longer confined.
Rhys’s throat worked. “Breena—”
She unclasped the pins at her sleeves and shoulders, dropping them one by one. The stola, freed from its constraints, slithered down her torso to puddle on the bed. She knelt amid the rumple of silk, clad only in her fine linen tunic.
Some feminine instinct prompted her to raise her arms above her head and clasp her elbows, in the pose she’d taken in the steward’s office. The movement lifted her breasts. The tips were tight, and so sensitive that the slight friction of the cloth shot a flash of raw lust straight to her loins.
Her head tilted back; her eyes closed. She bit her lower lip to keep from moaning.
Rhys made a strangled sound. “Breena. Do not do this…”
She opened her eyes. “You want me to do it, Rhys. You do not have the courage to do it yourself.”
A tremor ran through his body.
“Gods help me,” he said.
Their gazes locked in the flickering lamplight. For a moment, neither of them moved. Breena’s arms remained crossed over her head; Rhys’s hands remained fisted at his sides.
And then, slowly, Breena uncrossed her arms, and began plucking the pins from her hair. The heavy braids unwound, falling almost to her waist. She went to work combing out the fiery plaits with her fingers. Rhys did not move, did not speak. But by the time she was done, his chest was heaving.
Her hands went next to the neckline of her tunic.
Rhys’s eyes followed the movement. His throat worked as he swallowed. There were three ties securing the linen; Breena’s trembling fingers went to work on the first one. He drew in a harsh breath as the tiny bow disintegrated.
“Breena—”
She plucked at the second tie.
He shot a glance at the door. “Breena, stop this. Lady Bertrice—”
“Is snoring,” she whispered. “You are right. She is a very heavy sleeper.”
The second knot opened. Her right sleeve slid off her shoulder. Her fingers slipped to the third tie.
Rhys shoved off the wall. “This is madness.”
“Then step back. Go to the other side of the room and turn your back. I will lie down on the bed and spread my legs. Then, if you wish, you may leave.”
He cursed. Anger clashed with lust in his eyes. The dark energy radiating from his lean body made Breena shiver. She was frightened—there was no sense denying it. She was also unbearably aroused.
The tunic’s last bow fell open. Her left sleeve slipped over her shoulder. The garment whispered down her arms to her waist, baring her breasts.
She knelt motionless, the meager lamplight flickering across her skin. Rhys’s eyes devoured her; his hands trembled. And she knew—knew—with feminine certainty, that this time, he would not turn away.
A sudden rush of feminine power made her head feel light. A scant moment later, when Rhys touched her, all thoughts of advantage evaporated. His gaze had gone so dark she thought she might drown in it, like a swimmer lost in a night sea.
Jaw clenched, he lifted a shaking hand and touched his forefinger to the tip of her left breast. The pad of his finger was calloused. It scraped across her tender skin; a hot knife of pleasure sliced through her body. Her stomach clenched. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.
Rhys’s hand slid under her
breast, weighing it in his palm. He did not watch her face, but his own hands. He rubbed her nipple again, with his thumb this time. His left hand soon began the same ruthless torture on her other breast. Fire flashed over her skin, heated her face. She did moan then, shamelessly. The expression on his face hardened into something like pain.
He urged her back. “Lie down.”
The mattress seemed to rise to meet her. With swift efficiency, Rhys tilted her hips and stripped off her tunic. He rose up, looking down at her. Not at her face. At her breasts, and at the juncture of her thighs.
“Open them.”
His command was low and hoarse. The abrupt order caused Breena’s womb to convulse. Wet heat flooded her thighs. She stared up at him. Rhys was almost a stranger to her now, so foreign and hard was his expression. She was trembling, newly aware of an aching emptiness inside her.
“Spread your legs, Breena. As you said you would.”
She swallowed hard, and obeyed.
He moved his weight to the bed, kneeling between her open thighs, but not touching them. The dark place between her legs throbbed. His gaze was fixed there. His face was flushed, and his breathing had gone shallow. The ache grew. She flexed her hips, more by instinct than by design.
Rhys made a sound low in his throat. He leaned forward, bracing one arm beside her head. His free hand covered her breast. His thumb and forefinger gently pinched her nipple. Breena’s breath hitched. The throbbing between her legs transformed to a deep, empty longing. A moan rose in her throat and escaped before she could strangle it.
Dear gods. She could hear Lady Bertrice’s snores on the other side of the door! “This…this is madness.”
Rhys sat back on his heels, studying her with hooded eyes. “I have known that, Breena, for a good many years. And yet, you did not have the good sense to believe it.”
“That is not what I meant,” she whispered.
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Yes, the good sense has been mine all along, in this as in everything else. I am sick to death of good sense. Of right. Of duty. Tonight, I find I do not care. I am beginning to believe there are some things well worth an eternity of Dafyd’s hellfire.” He paused, his lips twisting. His beautiful eyes had turned bleak. Her heart hurt for him. Suddenly, she understood that, in a way, he was as frightened as she.
“Raise your arms, Breena.”
He was not using magic, but he’d captured her in a dark spell nonetheless. She did not hesitate to do as he asked.
He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the misty gray of his irises had turned to iron. Wordlessly, he swiped her discarded tunic from the floor, and ripped a strip of linen from the hem. Before she quite realized what he was about, he’d looped the narrow length of cloth around her wrists. The backs of her hands brushed the carving on the bed’s raised end.
She felt the linen go taut. She tugged, and understood with a shock that he’d tied her to the bed frame. There was almost no slack in her bonds.
“What—?”
The heat of his mouth absorbed her confusion. His kiss was bold and deep. He leaned over her, his body blanketing her with heat, though only their lips were touching. His tongue invaded her mouth. Claiming. Tasting. Taking.
The effect was that of a spark set to dry tinder. Her body burst into flames. Waves of desire rolled through her, melting her muscles, her bones, her will—and even her fear.
Perhaps she should have been afraid. This aroused male animal kneeling over her was hardly the Rhys she thought she knew. That Rhys was gentle, kind, and possessed of a wry humor. Not angry, and consumed with a kind of violent passion she had not even dreamed could exist between lovers. It was a dangerous force. Like deep magic, she sensed it was a power Rhys could not fully control.
The rough wool of his breeches scraped the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs. He was fully dressed, while she was completely naked, open, and vulnerable. There was a seductive eroticism to that. She felt herself surrender to it.
His tongue plunged in and out of her mouth with sinuous rhythm. She imitated the movement, plunging forward when he retreated. She wanted desperately to reach for him with her hands. Paradoxically, the fact that she could not—the knowledge that he’d rendered her captive—made her shudder with desire.
His breath whispered in her ear. “Lie very still. Try not to move until the pleasure becomes unbearable. And do not make a sound. Remember Lady Bertrice.”
“But—”
He stopped the word with a press of his finger. His eyes pleaded. “Please, Breena. Do this for me. Otherwise…I cannot be certain what I will do.”
She didn’t understand. Not completely. She nodded anyway. He kissed her again, more tenderly this time. His lips trailed from her lips to her neck, across her collarbone, down her chest.
His mouth closed, hot and urgent, on her breast. She stifled a gasp, and tried to control her trembling. His teeth and tongue, relentless, tightened the coil in her chest and belly. When his hands joined the blissful torture, she couldn’t help moving. Her head tossed from side to side, scrubbing the mattress. She pressed her lips together, and only just managed to stop herself from crying out.
The effort to be passive, when every nerve in her body screamed for movement, made the heat inside her flash hotter and darker. Her hips rose; she tried to still them. Rhys’s tongue lashed at her nipple; she stifled a moan.
His mouth traveled to her belly, his tongue tracing a wet line around her navel. His hands slid up the inside of her legs, pausing high on her inner thighs.
“Wider,” he said hoarsely.
It sounded more like a plea than a command. A shudder passed through her. Wordlessly, she did as he asked, then gasped as his fingers threaded through her curls and touched the wet, tender nub hidden within them. Dear gods! Her hips rose off the bed. She couldn’t stifle a cry.
“Quiet,” he whispered.
Fear of discovery honed the edge of her blissful torment. She nodded, and forced her body to go limp. Rhys’s head dipped, and his tongue found the spot that his fingers had teased only moments before. Waves of exquisite sensation washed over her.
Her fingers tangled in her linen shackles. She clung to the cloth strips, and somehow did not cry out. But she could no longer lie still—that was impossible. Her hips bucked in Rhys’s hands. His fingers dug into her buttocks. He lifted her toward his mouth, and she arched shamelessly, helping him.
His breath was hot. It seared her, branded her as his willing slave. He slid one finger inside her. Then two. She twisted, panting. Her skin flashed cool, then hot. His lips left her sated, then stoked her hunger anew. She needed…something.
He seemed to know just what it was. But he would not give it to her. He lifted his head, and took his hands from her body. She felt the loss in her heart.
He stood beside the bed. She lay dazed, bound, legs sprawled rudely, looking up at him. She longed to erase the sudden bleakness in his eyes.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I do not think, Breena, that this is precisely what you’ve dreamed of all these years.”
“I might have,” she confessed, “if I had only known what to dream.”
She thought for a moment he would turn away. He did not. With precise movements, and shaking hands, he stripped off his shirt. His boots came next. He reached for the closure of his breeches.
She watched him greedily. She wanted to touch him; wanted to strip him as he’d stripped her. To open her mouth on his skin. She could have done it. She’d tugged so hard on her bindings that the linen had stretched. She could pull free with little effort. But she sensed he would not welcome that. Not yet. And so she waited.
He shoved his breeches over his lean hips. Her eyes went round at the sight of his phallus, thick and red and angry. Naked, he crawled over her on all fours. The blunt tip of his erection prodded her intimate flesh. Her belly spasmed. Instinctively, she arched her hips in welcome.
“Rhys…please…”
H
e did not immediately respond to her plea. With his torso supported on rigid arms, he stared down at her.
“Breena…” he whispered. “Tell me…tell me to stop.”
The light was dim; his face in shadow. She could not read his expression. Heat radiated from his body. His breath was heavy, and his chest damp with sweat. She sensed his deep yearning, and an even deeper reluctance.
“I do not want you to stop, Rhys.”
His head dropped, his forehead almost touching hers. His hair fell forward, brushing her temple. She wanted to slide her fingers through it. She wanted to scrape her palms on the heavy bristle covering his jaw. She wanted to tell him how very much she loved him. All of him. The dark as well as the light.
But she did not say it. She was afraid words of love would cause his misplaced guilt to surface, as it always had in the past. So she did not move, and did not speak. Neither did he. As the moments spun out, she thought she would go mad with wanting. How long could Rhys hold himself just…there…at the entrance to her body?
“I have tried to stay away,” he said at last.
“Why?”
“You were…” He hesitated.
“I was too young. I know that. And far too bold. But Rhys, I have not been too young for some years now.”
“Then perhaps…perhaps I am too old.”
“You are not yet thirty.”
“Old in spirit, then. I have seen more than a man four times my age. Cruelty, injustice, bigotry, perversion. And I cannot turn away from any of it, no matter how much I wish to.”
She bit her lip. “You are alone far too much.”
“Aye,” he said simply.
“Rhys…look at me.”
After a long moment, he raised his head.
“You don’t have to be alone any longer. Not ever. You have me.”
Turbulent emotion trembled through his long, lean body. A drop of water splashed on Breena’s shoulder; with a sudden shock, she realized it was a tear. Rhys was crying.
Her heart turned over. He buried his head in the crook of her neck. A sob shook his shoulders. She let her wrists slip free of the linen strips and, hesitantly, touched his crown. When he did not flinch away, she threaded her fingers through his hair. She nuzzled him until he turned his head. His mouth found hers. Their lips met, and clung, in an achingly tender kiss.