by Sara Bennett
Tonight Rose was subdued, lost deep in her thoughts. Not a good sign, as Constance knew from past experience. ’Twas better if Rose did not think too hard when it came to her own happiness; she was constantly finding excuses not to do those things that pleased her most. It was almost as if she did not believe she deserved pleasure, did not deserve happiness, when everyone at Somerford—from the oldest to the youngest—wished her all the happiness in the world.
Constance wielded the brush again. “Gunnar Olafson is a fine man,” she said, treading carefully.
Rose frowned.
Inside Constance sighed, but she refused to be daunted. “He has much to offer.”
“He is certainly handsome,” Rose replied bitterly. “I am shallow enough to notice that, Constance. Perhaps that is all that matters to me, his beauty. I thought I was better than the other women, but in truth I fear I am no different.”
Constance assumed a somber look, her eyes lowered. “Are you certain, lady? Is he not different from other men? I ask this because, although Gunnar Olafson might be handsome, and all the women may stare, he has not used the situation to his advantage, has he? He has not gone from one bed to another, has he? It is you he favors above all others, and only you.”
Rose rubbed her temples as if they ached. “I offered him money to come to my bed,” she admitted, and there was shame in her voice.
Constance almost groaned out loud.
“He did not take it,” Rose went on miserably. “He said it was…it was all part of his service. And he…he did it three times, Constance.” Her eyes were dark and enormous, as she met the old woman’s startled gaze. “I thought he would only do it but once, and then he woke me and did it again, and then come dawn he did it again. And each time was just as wonderful as the first…I did not know until then, I did not understand what you meant when you said it would be different with a young and lusty man. A man I wanted.”
Constance choked back laughter as she listened to her lady’s artless confessions, but her voice trembled only slightly when she replied. “It sounds to me, lady, as if Gunnar Olafson came to you because it pleased him to do so, and not because you coerced him into it. A man, being what he is, may take a woman once, even if he does not like her particularly, but three times.” She shook her head with certainty. “Nay, lady, that could only be for his own pleasure, because he craved her as a thirsty man craves water.”
The rigidity went out of Rose’s shoulders, hope filled her unhappy eyes. “Do you think so, Constance?”
“I do, lady.”
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Rose jumped as though it were the devil calling, but Constance did not hesitate. She went swiftly to open it.
“Constance!” her lady gasped behind her, starting to her feet, but it was too late. The door had been swung open and Gunnar Olafson was in the room. His gaze met hers above Constance’s head, and then took in her loose hair and thin robe. When his eyes returned to hers, the blue was afire with passion.
The old woman reached out to touch his arm, gently, speaking in a voice too soft for Rose to hear, and then she slipped out behind him and closed the door. They were alone, and the chamber was suddenly much smaller and more airless than Rose had imagined.
“I don’t—” she began.
“I find I am hungry, lady,” he said.
“Oh.” Rose hesitated, her thoughts skittering all over the place. “Are you…are you very hungry, Captain?” Why did she always sound so breathless when she wished to sound sensible?
“Aye, very hungry,” he mocked. One step and he had her in his arms, his mouth covering hers as if he really were ravenous for her. His hands tangled in her long dark hair, twisting through the silken strands, gently pulling her closer against him.
Her breasts were aching, her nipples were tight and hard, and she wondered if he could feel them against his chest. Probably. Her legs trembled, her head spun, and that treacherous warmth was building between her thighs. Wanting him, willing to do anything to have him again.
His thick arousal dug into her belly, and she remembered what Constance had said. A man must desire a woman to take her as many times as he had taken Rose last night. Gunnar Olafson desired her, at least there was no doubting that.
She touched him, rubbing the hard shape of him through his breeches. Gunnar groaned, arching against her hand, and then kissing her again as if he were drowning in her. Rose stretched up on her toes, trying to get closer, and he reached down and lifted her, giving her the contact she craved.
Pleasure speared through her, making her twist and gasp. But it wasn’t enough. After last night simply touching would never be enough again. She wanted him inside her and she knew—he had raised his head, those so-blue eyes gazing deep into hers—that he wanted that, too.
Gunnar carried her toward the bed and laid her down upon the soft covers. Her robe slipped across her skin, opening enough to show one dark pink nipple, the curve of her stomach, the long length of one thigh, and the shadow at the apex of her legs. He was watching her, his face hard and tense, as he began to untie the laces of his breeches.
Rose held her breath, wanting him so much, and yet spellbound by the picture he made. Gunnar was a beautiful man, and yet there was something savage about him, something untamed. Surely no woman could hold him for long. Certainly Rose did not expect to. Her warrior, her man, her lover.
The laces came undone, and he pushed his breeches down over his hips and thighs. His manhood sprang forth, big and bold. Rose started to sit up, needing to touch him, to kiss him, but he was already on top of her. One hard leg pushing hers apart, his hands thrusting aside her robe, and his mouth hot on her breasts. His hair was tickling her skin, and she slid her hands through it, anchoring him there as he tasted her, drew her into his mouth. Rose moved her hips, pressing to the hard muscle of his thigh, enjoying the friction.
Still it wasn’t enough.
“Gunnar,” she whispered, “please,” reaching down, closing her fingers around him.
He groaned a laugh. “I cannot think, lady, when you do that.”
“You do not need to think.”
He moved so that he was poised above her and, when he had her full attention, began to slide into her, slowly, oh so slowly. Rose could not take her eyes away, shocked and fascinated by the sight of all that rigid flesh joining with hers.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” she breathed, growing tense.
But he pushed in a little further, stopping only to allow her to adjust to his size. “’Twas possible last night,” he reminded her in a strained voice. He clasped her bottom and tilted her hips, so that she was even more open to him, and began the same slow, inexorable entry.
Rose grasped his forearms tightly, the simmer inside her growing to a burn. She wanted him, and suddenly his consideration was driving her wild. Rose took matters into her own hands. Her hips moved against him, thrusting up, taking all of him inside her. And he was right, she could do it, and the sensation was beyond pleasure.
Gunnar caught and held his breath, trying to recapture his prized control. Watching him through her lashes, Rose moved again, pushing herself onto him as he tried to withdraw, silently urging him to hurry. His big body shuddered, and he began to thrust in earnest.
Already the first tremors were rippling through her, her gasps turning to soft moans. He drove hard, cupping her bottom, rising above her like some pagan god. Rose knew herself to be beyond thought, beyond caring, knowing only that here, now, with him, she was complete.
Gunnar reached down between their bodies, finding that throbbing bud, and Rose surged up against him, crying out, dissolving around him. With an answering shout, Gunnar too was lost.
For a long time Gunnar did not move, simply allowing his breath to return to normal, his heart to slow, just enjoying lying against her. If this was lust…if? He searched his mind uneasily. What else could it be? Rose was the widow of an old husband, and suddenly she had discovered desire. He just happened to be t
he man in the right place at the right time. She might want him now, and he was pleased to oblige her for his own reasons, but that was all.
Your own reasons being?
A need that was consuming him. So that when he was away from her, all he thought of was getting back to her. And when he was with her, all he wanted to do was stay right there.
His rod was still inside her; he felt it growing and hardening again, filling her. She was still swollen from his rough lovemaking of moments ago—he had tried to be gentle, but she had driven him mad and he had lost control…Great Odin, he never lost control. At least, he never had until he laid eyes on Lady Rose of Somerford Manor.
She moved beneath him, drawing in a shaky breath, and he realized with surprise that she was laughing. Her dark lashes lifted, and she stared up at him with teasing dark eyes.
“Are you hungry again, Gunnar?”
There was a new certainty about her, a new confidence. Had he done that? He couldn’t help it, he smiled back, and felt as if his heart were dissolving in his chest. “Aye, lady,” he breathed. “Starving.”
She stretched her arms above her head, and then reached up to encircle them about his neck. Her body was pressed to his, soft and warm, and oh so willing. “Then if you are hungry you must sup,” she told him with that wanton tremble in her voice. “I insist.”
“Then, lady, if you insist…”
Gunnar did as she bade him.
Chapter 14
“Lady?”
Constance stood before her. Rose looked up from her seat in the great hall, eyes wide and blurred with her own thoughts. She had been remembering the expression in Gunnar’s eyes when he joined his body to hers, hot and yet determined, as if he were marking her in some way. Making her his. And she had wanted him to, more than anything. Wanted to be his…
Rose blinked, glancing about her and then back to Constance.
“Lady?” the old woman repeated patiently, a humorous gleam in her own eyes. “You remember Olwan the peddler? He is come.”
Olwan? wondered Rose. And then, abruptly, memory returned. Olwan the peddler. Of course. Edric had been fond of the little man and made certain to ply him with food and drink whenever he came to Somerford. His visit occurred once a year, when Olwan would trade with the Somerford people during the late summertime, the prosperous time. Although—Rose blinked herself further awake—it was usually much later, after the harvest, when money was more abundant.
This year the harvest was yet to be brought in, and there was little to barter or spend. Still, even if she couldn’t buy, Rose thought, it would be pleasant to cast her eye over Olwan’s wares. A distraction for them all.
The peddler soon had his trinkets spread upon a trestle table, and the women were gathered about, enjoying themselves immensely.
“I have a brooch, and I have been saving it for you, lady,” Olwan said in his Welsh lilt, his dark eyes full of a sincerity Rose did not believe for a moment.
But it was all part of the pull and tug between buyer and seller, and Rose smiled, saying, “I doubt I can afford it, Olwan,” as she bent to examine the treasure.
The brooch looked old. It was made of bone, and the markings on it were a little like the carvings on the Somerford chair. Rapacious vines and tendrils mingled with the curling tresses of a woman’s hair. She was shown in profile, and was holding up an apple with one hand. Surprised, Rose recognized Idun. Was this a coincidence, or were Gunnar’s savage gods giving her their blessing? Mayhap they were handing her the apple to eternal life…or love.
Love?
The soft word acted on her like the most violent of curses. Rose’s throat closed up and her hands began to shake. The brooch almost slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor.
“Lady?”
Olwan’s voice was soft and very near her ear. Rose started and drew back, suddenly conscious of the sour, unwashed smell of the peddler’s body. It was a moment before she heard what he was saying.
“Lady, I have come here as quickly as I could from Lord Fitzmorton’s lands, and I have news you need to hear.”
Rose frowned, both the brooch and the peddler’s reek forgotten. “What is this news, Olwan? Why do I need to hear it?”
“There is a knight called Miles de Vessey. Do you know him?”
Her dreaminess vanished. “To my cost, aye, I know him.”
“Then you will not be pleased to hear he is on his way here, to Somerford, to keep watch when you sit in judgment at the manor court upon one of your people.”
No, Rose wasn’t pleased. The chatter of the women around her faded, and she felt queasy with a combination of fear and anger. Miles de Vessey was returning to Somerford. Had Fitzmorton sent him? But why did he come so soon? Whatever the reasons, he would be unlikely to stand silently by while she freed Harold for murdering Gilbert the Norman. Could she order her gates closed and hold Miles and his men out? Even with the addition of the mercenaries, the Somerford garrison was weak. Would Radulf get there first? He must have her message now—why had he not come?
“Is he far behind you?” she asked Olwan in a calm voice that did not show the hurried thudding of her heart.
“If he has rested, then a day or two, no more. I came as quickly as I could.”
Rose met the dark eyes of the peddler—Edric had always trusted him, and she had no reason not to. “Thank you, Olwan. I will not forget this. When you are finished here, be certain you eat and drink your fill. We are most grateful.”
Olwan bowed deeply, but still he hesitated. “Lady.” He sighed. “There is more. Miles de Vessey spoke of you in my hearing. He was not…respectful. He means to hurt you, though it will be pleasure for him.”
He looked afraid and worried, and Rose did not need to ask what Miles had said. Somehow she managed to maintain her composure, but her thoughts were running wild. What had Ivo said in the bailey, Do not trust him, ever? She remembered Miles’s cold gray eyes the day by the Mere with an involuntary shudder.
Olwan was still watching her.
“My gratitude, Olwan. I am well warned, thanks to you.”
Olwan bowed again. “Keep the brooch, lady, in remembrance of your husband, who was always kind to a poor peddler. Besides, it is said to be good luck, and you need it more than me, I think.” He smiled regretfully, and this time left her to her thoughts.
Rose closed her fingers on the bone brooch and felt it mark her flesh. Where was Radulf? she asked herself again. Had he received her message? Mayhap the babe had delayed him, but he should be here soon, striding about, glowering at her, demanding to know exactly what was happening. If Miles came first he would insist on the judgment being made at once. He would want to see Harold hanged as soon as possible, and when Rose set him free…Miles would hurt her, and without Arno’s support she would be powerless to stop him.
No!
Rose took a breath. Her mind collected itself and centered.
One word.
Gunnar.
It was like a balm, smoothing her jagged edges. What good luck had been smiling on her the day she decided she needed mercenaries at Somerford Manor? What happy coincidence had chosen these mercenaries over all those who might have come to her aid? Aye, Gunnar. He would know what to do; he would help her to decide on her course of action. She desperately needed his calm good sense, his unshakable strength.
Gunnar was more than a match for Miles de Vessey.
Rose hurried out of the hall, leaving behind her the women and Olwan’s patter. Any gladness she had felt only moments before at this unexpected treat had drained from her now, leaving her feeling alone and frightened. The blue sky and warm sun in the bailey seemed incongruous. Danger was everywhere—she could smell the scent of it on the breeze, as foul as the peddler’s unwashed body.
Old Edward, standing proudly on guard at the gate in his ancient tunic and helmet, had seen Gunnar Olafson go to the stable.
“Now there be a man who can take care of himself! He won’t let anything happen to S
omerford Manor, lady. We should all feel safer now Captain Olafson be here.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly, Edward,” Rose said, and knew it for the truth.
The stable was on the far side of the bailey. To get to it she must pass the exercise yard, where Arno was busy training the young boys of Somerford Manor. She would have preferred not to encounter Arno just now. Mayhap, she thought hopefully, he would not be in a talkative mood. Mayhap he was still sullen from their encounter at the village.
As she drew closer, Rose glanced surreptitiously at her knight, noting that his fleshy face was puffy from drink and his eyes were circled. Her steps slowed. His body looked lax and portly, no longer fit and hard for battle, as he had boasted to her so often. Arno had been overindulging lately, and the excesses were beginning to stamp their mark on him.
Arno overindulged when he had a guilty conscience. But what could Arno feel guilty about? What had he done?
And suddenly the pieces fit together, and Rose thought she knew.
Lord Fitzmorton was sending Miles de Vessey to Somerford because Arno had betrayed her. He had sent to warn them that she meant to free Harold. Aye, Arno had betrayed her. Again! Gunnar had been right, as she had feared. Arno was in league with Fitzmorton.
Anger began to burn slowly through her, and she no longer wanted to avoid Arno. He looked up as she approached, and to her surprise his expression was dejected and miserable. Did his conscience trouble him? Did he dream of Edric’s accusing finger pointing at him from the grave? If his perfidy gave him no joy, Rose thought coldly, she would not pity him. Suddenly it seemed important to let Arno know she was not the soft and gullible fool he had constantly thought her.
“I have heard word that Miles de Vessey will be present at the miller’s trial,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “What say you to that, Sir Arno?”
To her surprise, Arno did not demur. Instead he nodded, and his misery gave way to a weak sort of bluff self-assurance. “Aye, that’s so, lady. It was I who suggested he come.”