She took Mary to her breast next, and her daughter latched on, nursing for comfort until exhaustion overcame her. Warrick sat behind her while she fed the baby, and she could feel the iron strength of his chest against her back. He kissed her neck, and her skin erupted in gooseflesh. Even after all this time, he held the power to arouse her with a single touch.
‘Call your maid to stay with the children,’ he murmured. ‘There is something I want to show you.’
‘Let me put the baby down,’ she murmured, rising from their bed. Then she opened the door and called out to her maid, ordering the young woman to watch over the babies.
Warrick held out a cloak to her and offered his arm. ‘Where are we going?’ Rosamund asked.
‘Wait and see.’ He led her down the hall and towards the stairs of the donjon, until they were outside. She was surprised to find that he had already prepared a horse for them to share. Warrick helped her mount the animal and swung up behind her. Several of their people cast glances in their direction, and there seemed to be conspiratorial smiles.
‘Will we be gone for very long?’ she asked, risking a glance back at the castle.
He guided the horse to begin walking. ‘A few hours, no more.’ Then he led her through the gates and outside into the darkness.
The weather was warmer than she had imagined for a clear night in May, and the moon illuminated their path. In the distance, she saw lights flickering in the forest and could not tell what it was.
When they reached the edge of the woods, she caught her breath at the beauty. There were flower petals and greenery scattered along the path. And when Warrick drew her deeper into the forest, she saw thick candles buried in the ground, the soft light gleaming.
‘This reminds me of our wedding,’ she said quietly.
He tightened his grip around her waist, nuzzling her neck. ‘I hoped it would. And perhaps you would think of the first day we met in the forest.’
The candlelit path led towards a small stone dwelling with a wooden door. Smoke rose from a tiny chimney, and she had never before seen this place. ‘What is this, Warrick?’
Her husband dismounted and tethered the horse, lifting her down. ‘I had our men build it as a gift for you.’
Such a gift was far more costly than she’d ever imagined. ‘You went to a great deal of trouble for me.’ But she could not deny her excitement as she opened the door. Inside, a fire was lit in the stone hearth. There were candles set in sconces all around the room, and she saw her mother’s embroidery hanging upon a wall. In one corner, he had given her a table filled with dozens of coloured threads, lengths of linen, and a set of sharp needles.
Rosamund exclaimed at the sight of them, hugging her husband with such joy. ‘Warrick, this is wonderful!’
On the other side of the room, she saw a narrow bed and a wooden tub filled with steaming water. More flower petals were scattered upon the surface, and the thought of a hot bath was a craving she had not dared to imagine.
She realised then, that this was a place for the two of them, a retreat from the castle where they could steal away together.
‘Is the bath for you or for me?’ she asked softly. ‘Or both?’
‘I want to tend you,’ he said. His voice was husky with desire, and she was already aching for this man, needing his touch.
She let her cloak fall to the floor as he closed the door behind them. In this small space, she could smell the aroma of the flower petals. Slowly, she drew the laces of her gown, and Warrick watched her undress. His eyes were hungry upon her, and she peeled away the silk, revealing her body to him.
He helped her into the tub, and the water was blissfully hot. Though it was small, she drew her knees up and revelled in the heat. The flower petals grazed her skin, and Warrick picked up a cake of soap. He dipped his hands in the water and lathered it between his palms. ‘Shall I wash you?’
She leaned forward, her nipples tight with arousal as he soaped her back and drew his hand around to the curve of her breasts. A moan escaped her as he caressed her with his soapy hands.
‘Remove your clothing,’ she ordered him.
Warrick obeyed, and she saw his heavy erection as he removed his chausses and braies. She reached out to touch him with her wet hands, and he countered by taking her breast into his mouth. She shuddered at the delicious pleasure that coursed through her body. Her hands threaded through his dark hair, and she drew his mouth to hers, kissing him hard. His tongue slid into her mouth in a foreshadowing of what would come later.
Warrick dipped his hands beneath the water, down her stomach to her legs. Then he slid his palm between her thighs, stroking her intimately. She leaned her head back on the wooden tub, arching as he started a gentle rhythm.
He knew just how to arouse her, how to drive her mindless with need. The tremors rose up within her, the water sloshing against her skin, and she was startled when a sudden release cascaded over her without warning. She gripped the edge of the tub, riding out the storm as his fingers slid inside her.
‘Warrick, I need you,’ she pleaded.
He brought over several linen cloths, and she stood in the tub with shaking knees. Gently, he dried the water from her skin, and she inhaled sharply when he moved the towel between her legs.
He lifted her out of the water and brought her to the narrow bed. The warmth of the fire kept the chill from her skin and she lay upon her stomach, pulling her hair over one shoulder.
With his warm hands, Warrick slid his palms over her spine to the slope of her bottom. He replaced his hands with his mouth, tracing a path down her bare back.
‘I remember when I touched you like this the first time,’ he murmured. ‘I could not believe you were mine.’
She parted her legs in invitation, loving the feel of his hands upon her. ‘Touch me again.’
He obeyed, following the curve of her backslide. She arched against him, shuddering as she imagined his body joining with hers. His fingers drifted against her wetness, and she gasped at the sensation. He held such command over her, she wanted him with a force that staggered her.
But he kept it slow, teasing her as his shaft pressed against her backside. He was like heated velvet, and she craved the intimacy. She lifted her hips, keeping her face pressed to the sheets even as she offered herself. ‘I want you to fill me, Warrick.’
He rewarded her by stroking her with his wicked fingers, sliding two of them inside her. ‘Like this?’ His thumb brushed her cleft, and she moaned. A ripple of need struck hard, and she reached behind her to grasp his erection in her palm. He hissed as she began to slide her fist around his length. Then she guided him into her wet opening, and he sheathed himself to the hilt. For a moment, he remained buried inside her, but he lifted her hips, reaching beneath her to fondle her nipples. She was sensitive there, and the jolt of feeling made her press back against him.
He began to thrust slowly, making her feel every inch of him. Warrick knew just how to suspend the moment, to draw out the heavy arousal that she craved. He experimented with the angle of her hips, until she cried out. ‘There. Yes.’
His breathing mirrored hers, heavy and rhythmic as he sank and withdrew. She clenched around him, welcoming his deep, arousing thrusts. Her body was utterly wet for him, and he pressed his finger against her hooded flesh, until she felt a growing spasm inside her.
‘I love you, Rosamund,’ he breathed, circling his fingers as he went deep. His words were an inner caress, and it took only a few more strokes to send her over the edge. A violent shimmer released inside her, and she backed against him, welcoming his body into hers. She could feel his iron length thrusting, and she tried to meet him though he withheld his own release.
‘Take what you need from me,’ she urged him, but he would not. Instead, he withdrew and rolled her to her back.
She wrapped her legs aro
und his waist, but he kissed her lips. ‘You know what I want from you, Rosamund.’
She did. There was another position that drove him into madness, and that was what he craved just now. She moved beneath him so that her legs were closed together with his erection still buried inside her. He thrust again, hissing with pleasure as she tightened her grip around him. The shallow penetration surrounded him with her essence, and he ground himself against her until his fingers dug into the mattress and he shuddered with his own release. She felt the spasm of her body and he pulled her legs around him, stroking deeply a few more times.
He kissed her softly. ‘If you keep doing that, we will have many children, Rosamund.’
‘I hope so.’ She drew him to her, their bodies damp with perspiration and desire. Their limbs were tangled together, and he drew a blanket over them.
‘Rhys wants us to come to Scotland,’ he said, kissing her lightly. ‘Lianna has asked us to visit.’
She knew him too well and heard the tension in his voice. ‘Something troubles you.’
He caressed her skin. ‘My father will be there. He has asked to make peace between us.’
‘Are you not pleased by this?’
‘I am not the true Lord of Pevensham,’ he admitted. ‘Only the guardian of the heirs. It’s not the same.’
‘You are the guardian of this castle and all who dwell within it,’ she corrected. ‘Over a hundred people rely on you to protect them and to keep Pevensham prosperous. You are Lord Pevensham, whether you mean to be or not.’ It was true. Even the lowest serf called him by the title, and no one denied the fealty owed to him.
‘None of it is mine by right.’
‘I am yours by right,’ she corrected. ‘By conquest and by love.’ She framed his face with her hands, kissing him again. ‘And Pevensham is also yours. Never doubt that you are worthy of this land. The king himself has proclaimed it, while he burned the castles of his enemies.’
He was quiet, but he answered the kiss. ‘I will guard it always, Rosamund.’
She nestled her body against his. ‘I know you will. Just as you will guard our family.’
In this narrow bed, she lay with the man she adored with all her heart. He continued to touch her, as if learning her body by candlelight. It would indeed be several hours before they returned to the castle, and she held no regrets.
Their children slept within their cradles, safe in the knowledge that they were loved. Their lands were safe, and no one would threaten them again.
Just as it was meant to be.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story
you won’t want to miss these other
great reads from Michelle Willingham
THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCE
TO SIN WITH A VIKING
TO TEMPT A VIKING
WARRIOR OF ICE
WARRIOR OF FIRE
And to receive an email when Book 2 in
Michelle Willingham’s
WARRIORS OF THE NIGHT miniseries
is available, sign up for the
author’s newsletter here:
www.michellewillingham.com/contact
You’ll also receive a free story!
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE FOUNDLING BRIDE by Helen Dickson.
Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!
Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.
You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.
Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Join Harlequin My Rewards & Instantly earn a FREE ebook of your choice.
Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever & whenever you shop.
Turn your points into FREE BOOKS.
Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!
Register Today & Earn a FREE BOOK*
*New members who join before December 31st, 2017 will receive 2000 points redeemable for eligible titles.
Click here to register
Or visit us online to register at
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001
The Foundling Bride
by Helen Dickson
Prologue
1761
Beresford House was a large, rambling old place. It stood away from a small Devon village, perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea. It was the home of the old and distinguished Beresford family, and until twelve months ago it had housed three members of the family, until Sir Frederick Beresford had died of a fever, leaving his wife and only child Meredith alone.
Twenty-year-old Nessa Borlase stood in the cold, dim light of the house, which smelled of death, and looked with great sadness at her young mistress. She was in her white nightdress, and at the side of the bed was her four-day-old daughter in her crib. The fever that had taken this girl’s father had spared her, only for death to take her in childbirth. Her labour had been an interminable agony. When she had finally thrust the babe out into the world she had lived just three days before breathing her last.
When her labour had started, her mistress’s mother, Lady Margaret, had retired to her room, leaving Nessa to minister to Meredith, her pregnant daughter. When Nessa had gone to her and begged her to send for the physician she had coldly refused.
Suddenly the door was thrust open and Lady Margaret stood there. As her gaze passed over her dead daughter there was no change in her self-righteous, steely-eyed expression. It was as cold an expression as Nessa had ever seen on a woman who had just lost her only child.
‘So, she’s dead, then.’ Her voice was as cold as her eyes.
Nessa swallowed audibly and nodded. ‘Yes—just now. I—I was just coming to tell you.’
Lady Margaret nodded, her eyes settling on her granddaughter in the crib. Her eyes were wide open, but the child was too young to comprehend what was happening, that her mother had just died. However, seeming to sense the malevolence in the woman—her grandmother—she began to whimper softly.
Something cold and heavy descended over her heart as Nessa went to the motherless babe and swept her up into her arms and held her close. ‘The babe is hungry. I must feed her.’
‘I don’t want her here. Take her away—anywhere, I don’t care, as long as she is out of my sight.’
Bewildered, Nessa stared at her. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Take her away? Forgive me, my lady—I don’t understand. Where...?’
‘To Castle Creek. Where else would she go if not to that libertine of a father of hers? And do not insult my intelligence and pretend you don’t know who I mean. Don’t play the innocent.’
She was so certain of herself, so dreadfully intimidating as she stood beside the bed.
‘You played your part in the wretched affair when they were carrying on behind my back.’
Nessa was feeling colder by the minute, and Lady Margaret’s words hammered on her nerves. ‘But Sir Robert is still in Mexico. There will be no one at Castle Creek.’
‘There are servants. Let them deal with her. It’s not my concern. It’s either that or the orphanage.’
Nessa remained silent
, but inside her anger stirred. Suddenly this embittered woman put her in mind of a witch—and she even seemed to hiss. It was the only way to describe the low-pitched, hate-filled words. If Nessa had hoped for compassion in her for her dead daughter, she knew better now. There wasn’t an ounce of compassion in this woman.
In her grief at losing Meredith, her beloved mistress, Nessa wanted to shout her anger, to remind her that if she hadn’t been so against her daughter seeing Robert Wesley there would have been no need for them to carry on behind her back. She took a deep breath to calm her jangling nerves, telling herself not to sound desperate, not to plead for the babe in her arms, but to be reasonable.
Lady Margaret’s hatred was deeply rooted in the past. Robert Wesley’s father, whose family had been greatly involved with the mining of silver and lead in that part of Devon for decades, had been her first love, and she had never forgiven him for throwing her over in favour of Robert’s mother. Nothing would have persuaded her to allow her daughter to form a liaison with his son.
As young as she had been, Meredith had been possessed of a passion for Robert Wesley she hadn’t been able to control. Lady Margaret had seen it—lust, she had called it. Lust, not love. And in her opinion lust was wicked—a sin that destroyed.
In the beginning Meredith had concealed her condition from her mother and the other servants, but it could not be concealed for ever. When she had told her mother she was to bear Robert’s child, her mother had railed and stormed unendingly, her face twisted with fury, accusing her of behaving no better than a peasant girl and calling her a whore.
Had it been anyone else who had fathered the child she would not have objected so strongly and merely forced a marriage, but she had not allowed her daughter to marry Robert Wesley. It had been too appalling for her to contemplate—and Nessa’s young mistress had been too young and too weak to disobey. Lady Margaret had not even allowed her to write and tell him of her predicament, and had kept her confined to the house, allowing her to see no one but her maid.
Forbidden Night with the Warrior Page 24