The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  William touched her shoulder and turned her around firmly. "Let me do that," he said. "You will tear the ribbons and my mother will have to repair the gown. She will think I tore it off of you to ravish you. And then what will we tell her, hey, my lass?"

  His voice was mellow, soothing her when she preferred to rant. His long fingers were at her waist, nimbly undoing the laces. Her heart quickened and she felt the curious melting sensation that he had awakened in her before. Each time, it seemed more intense.

  She scowled at him. "You wouldna want to ravish me."

  "Aye, I would," he said mildly. She stared at his head, at the dark waves that fell, thick and silky, over his brow.

  "What?" she asked breathily, as if he had knocked the air, and the anger, out of her with those gentle words.

  His fingers eased up the side of the bodice. Her breath returned as the busk was loosened, but faltered again with the movement of his hands. "I said," he murmured, "that I would like to ravish you. Very much."

  She stared at him. He looked up, the spark in his gaze so direct that she felt, suddenly, as if she flared, head to toe. Surely he heard the thunder of her heart.

  "What if I wanted it too?" she asked, scarcely a whisper.

  His gaze slid down, up. Without answer, he bent to loosen the other side of the confining busk. In his silence, Tamsin thought that she had made a fool of herself again.

  Men were more direct about their physical passions, she knew, from listening to her father's comrades and to Romany men. The lessons of modesty and obedience, taught to her by the Romany even more than the Scots, struggled with her own natural need for freedom, again fed by both cultures, in different ways. Tamsin felt caught between both worlds.

  A slow, hot blush flowed up her throat into her face. She had always suffered from uncertainty, thinking herself undesirable, but she had a natural streak of boldness too, when she needed it. The strength of that streamed through her now, overtaking the rest.

  Too much wine in her, she thought, then realized she felt the unaccustomed sensation, warm and expansive, of desire. The urge insisted that she discover what passion with this man would be like.

  "What if I wanted it?" she asked again, more forcefully.

  Still he did not answer. He released the last ties of the busk and tossed it aside. Freed from the flattening confines, veiled by her chemise, her breasts seemed to blossom. William's gaze slid there, and rose to meet hers. His body glided against hers, his fingers slid along her waist. His touch was aching hot through the thin chemise.

  Still he did not speak. He sought the ties of her underskirt and freed it. She slid it off, stepping out of the hooped linen, now wearing only the opened black kirtle and the chemise. She wondered if his continued silence, his slow, chaste hands on her gown, meant that he intended to help her undress and no more.

  That thought saddened her. But her throbbing heart, and the sultry heat emanating from him, told her that he did want her. And she wanted him.

  She looked up at him, standing in the pool of the underskirt, her gown hanging open from her shoulders. Their gazes seemed to touch, sending shivers through her. She leaned in.

  With a low growl, he pulled her to him and dipped his head. His mouth slanted hard over hers, taking her breath. She looped her arms around his neck and felt his solid chest against her breasts, linen and lawn between them. His lips were tender over hers, coaxing her to open her mouth to his.

  An exquisite craving streamed through her. The first touch of his tongue upon her lips was a luscious astonishment, and she let him dip inside her parted lips, let him taste her, as she tasted him. She sipped at his lips again, drinking in the deepening pleasure of his kisses.

  Unsure what would come next, she did not shy from him, but responded to his mouth, loving the warm, sure glide of his hands. She yearned for more of the taste and feel of him, the comfort that his arms, his lips, his body offered her.

  His hands plunged into the mass of her hair, his fingers shaping her head as he shaped his mouth to hers. She tilted back, leaned against the bed, half seated now. Her arms circled him, her left hand fisted, her right exploring as she traced the width of his shoulders and the powerful muscles of his back.

  When he rested a knee on the bed, she sank down into the luxury of the thick feather mattress and damask coverlet, and lay back. He went with her, and she turned into his arms, feeling as if she had been released from a prison she had not known existed. Hungry for his touch, she opened her lips to him and declared her desires silently, laying her feelings out like jewel-toned cards upon a table, revealing her heart.

  He touched the neck of her chemise, where the band fastened with a hook and a thread loop, and undid it deftly. His hand slid inside the generous opening, fingertips gliding over her collarbone and down to graze the upper swell of her breast. Shivers slipped through her, delicate, consuming.

  His lips found her throat, his breath warm there, his fingers skimming lower until he cupped her breast in the palm of his hand. She gasped, a quick intake, and arched into his touch, never hesitant, suddenly knowing in the deepest part of her soul that she wanted this, with him, only him.

  As his warm palm eased over her breast, her breath suspended. The exquisite sensation echoed in her lower body. When his fingers touched the warm pearl of her breast, brushing, coaxing, she released a soft cry of pleasure and glided her body closer to his, fitting against him through layers of fabric and texture.

  He placed small, shivery kisses along her throat and over the swell of her breast, until his mouth took her nipple, drew upon it gently. She uttered a dulcet sound and pulled him closer, shifting to roll toward him, raising her knee, foot upon the mattress. Her chemise slid down her thigh to pool at her hip, and his arm rested warm against her bare leg.

  Emboldened by passion, beyond the effects of the wine that only made her languid, she felt as if she grew brighter and more beautiful in his arms. She pressed against him, letting the firm curves of her body plead with the harder planes of his. He growled low in his throat, a deep, raw sound. His hand circled her waist, slipped downward, and touched the most intimate part of her body.

  She jumped a little, startled by the suddenness, startled more by the fervor of her own hunger, the fearlessness of it. Moving as if in a dream, floating in a warm sea of exquisite sensations, she arched into the palm of his hovering hand. His touch caressed, dipped, discovered. She gasped, low, breathy, full of longing. She welcomed his fingers, seeking him as he sought her.

  He shifted his mouth upon her breast, found its twin, tasted her there, while he explored her with tender fingertips. She moaned in her throat and pulled his head up to capture his mouth for herself. One hand cupped his face, the other slid over his lean, muscled back, her touch thwarted by clothing, searching for an opening, craving the warmth of his skin. She found the heated, hard bulge of him beneath heavy black serge, where he wore no codpiece. Her hand paused there, trembling, and she boldly let it stay.

  His breath caught. She gasped a little, for his fingers slipped within her, and encouraged her body to find a rhythm that matched her quickening breath. Pulsing and hot, a light burst suddenly, somehow, within her, in the rich darkness of pure sensation. She lost all sense of where or what. She only felt, and floated, and succumbed. Joy streamed through her, body and soul, and settled to burn in the core of her being, clarified into love. She felt it form, in that moment, and nearly spoke the word aloud.

  Her body slowed, weak and fulfilled. She became aware of his lips on hers, his tongue tracing her mouth, gentle, hot. Her hand still cupped over his hardness, and he shifted away, letting out a long breath.

  "If you want more of this with me," he murmured, sliding his mouth along her cheek, touching his lips to her ear, while she softened, expanded in her craving for him, "as I want more of this with you, then we have a dilemma indeed," he finished against her ear.

  His voice melted her, heat to honey, and she flowed inside for him. Desire, newly felt, ha
d pounded to fullness within moments, dissolving the confines of her body, molding her to him. She wanted more. His body was a strong, hard complement to hers, and she felt as if she were his twin, as if she blended to him like image touching image in a mirror.

  "Why," she whispered, sinking into another of his kisses, savoring him, "would that be a dilemma?"

  "We would be lost to our fate," he murmured.

  "And what is our fate?" she returned, soft, with a kiss.

  He pulled back, his hands stilling where they touched her. He rested his brow against hers.

  "I dinna know," he finally said. "But 'tis strong. God, so strong. And I canna give in to it. I willna do that to you. Not now." He slipped his hand free of her chemise and sat up.

  Tamsin lay back, the black gown shimmering around her. She stared at him and came slowly to her elbows. William kept his back to her, head bowed, hands gripping the edge of the bed.

  Her body still throbbed, breathless and wanting. She could not bear the small distance between them. She saw that he preferred that, for he held up a hand when she sat up further.

  "Pray pardon, Tamsin," he said, low and soft. "I promised you that I wouldna offend your chastity, and I have. God. You are a temptation to me." He turned away. "No more, I swear it."

  She said nothing, just stared at his rigid back, his bowed head. She felt as if she swirled and sank, and somehow ceased to thrive. But she sat upright, her back as straight and unyielding as his. She made no sound, gave no hint that she had just taken a killing blow.

  Too many refusals, from too many men. But not one of those rejections—brusque, mocking, disinterested, or polite—had wounded her like this. Not one of those men had more than grazed her fingers in greeting. None of them had touched her heart, and no one had ever breached her soul. Until now.

  She had forgotten her fear of his rejection in the bravery of passion. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  He reached out a hand to touch her ankle, a tender gesture of apology. But she could not bear it. Quickly, so that he could not touch her again, she got up and walked to the hearth. The beautiful black gown hung open on her, and her hair billowed around her shoulders. She folded her arms over her breasts, over the chemise he had opened and had abandoned.

  "Tamsin." William walked toward her. "Let me explain."

  She gave a little laugh, turned away. "What need is there for that?" she asked in a flat voice. "'Tis obvious. You dinna want to take me, as a man takes a woman, though I would have been foolish enough to give myself to you." She drew in a breath. "But if I had, you might have felt obliged to wed me. Why should you take a gypsy, a poor reiver's daughter to your bed, when you can be free to love noblewomen, beautiful women—perfect women—whensoever you choose, and yet have a wife to your name!"

  He was beside her in two strides, his fingers like iron around her upper arms. He spun her and held her in his grip, looking down at her, his eyes brilliant even in the dimness.

  "Stop," he said. "Those are not my thoughts. I tell you, I canna be so harsh a judge over you as you are over yourself."

  She gazed up at him, her chin high, her shoulders tense. "I am accustomed to hearing that men dinna want me."

  "You have learned to hear naught else," he growled.

  She looked away. "But now, when I gave something of my heart to you, I find that you dinna want me either. That... hurts." Her voice dissolved, recovered.

  He swore, a low rumble, and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her against him, though she kept stiff. "I want you," he said. "Oh, God. I want you so much it frightens me." He pulled back, framed her face in his palms, gazed intently at her. "And I am not accustomed to that. I want you so much that I am half mad with it."

  "That much?" she asked, a breathless whisper.

  His rueful chuckle rang in the core of her body. "I have known you for days only, and yet you are already like a fire in my soul."

  She blinked, hearing him utter thoughts that could be her own, feeling as if her life had shifted on its axis and now spun in a new direction. To be desired so intensely by this man, whether from lust or something more, thrilled her beyond measure, took her back to the glow of love that she had felt only moments before.

  And then she realized the danger of it, as he had already done. She saw where this could lead, and she bowed her head. "I feel that too," she whispered. "What are we to do?"

  He sank his brow against hers and closed his eyes briefly. "We each flame like a brand when the other is near. That brings happiness to some, but it destroys others. The fire between us is fast and hot." He paused.

  "And you think 'twill burn out," she finished.

  He sighed, pulled back. Though he kept his hands around her upper arms, he put a layer of air between them deliberately. "I have learned to be wary of passion like this," he said. "I have felt it before, and I have been... consumed."

  She glanced down. "I see," she said. "You loved Jean. You loved Katharine's mother. Naught else will compare to that. I... I pray your pardon." She stepped back, and he let go.

  That release, and his silence, seemed to her an affirmation that he kept the memory of another close. He had given his love to another woman, and she had borne his child. Tamsin's heart cringed with anguish.

  She wanted to ask about Jean, and yet did not want to hear his answer. She had endured enough hurt for now. Nothing would change the love he had for the mother of his child. She felt a stab of jealousy.

  "Tamsin," he said, and sighed. "The vow we made was of loyalty and friendship. I willna dishonor that."

  She gazed into the fire, where embers glowed red beneath the ashes. "Is it dishonor," she asked, "or honor, to obey this feeling between us?"

  He stood behind her. "A good question, my lass, and one I canna answer."

  "You desired me, just now," she said in a flat voice.

  "I still do." His hand rested on her back. "But I willna give in to it further. For your sake, and for mine."

  "And because we have agreed to dissolve our false marriage."

  He was silent for a long moment, his hand still and warm on her back. "Too much, too fast, can hurt us both, and hurt others. We dinna know the nature of this fire between us, or what fate has planned for us. 'Tisna always a good thing, to be pulled by fate."

  "So you think it best to resist that fate," she said.

  "Aye," he answered quietly. "For now. Until we know what fate wants of us. I dinna want to hurt you," he said, his voice dropping to a heartfelt rumble. "I dinna want that."

  But he had hurt her already. She only nodded. He had wisdom and patience, taming his passion rather than surrendering to it. Her own impulses were hot and quick, her passion impatient. He was her mirror in some ways, her teacher in other ways. She had learned much from him this day.

  She sighed, realizing how exhausted she was, in body as well as emotions. Her life, her feelings, had changed since she had met William Scott. She felt new emotions burgeon within her, like flower buds straining to come forth. She yearned for sleep, hours of it, even days of it, to absorb all that had happened.

  She pushed her hair back in a weary gesture. "I am grateful to you," she murmured.

  "Grateful?" A breathy, skeptical laugh. "For what?"

  "I thank you for wanting me, even if only in lust," she said quietly. "And I thank you for your kindness and your patience regarding my... my imperfections." She turned and went toward the bed. "And I bid you good night."

  She began to fold the clothing and items that lay strewn on the coverlet. William crossed the room and paused by the narrow door to the antechamber to look over at her. She sensed his glance, heard his sigh, and felt the pull between them. But she did not look up.

  The room seemed empty and cold after he had gone. She felt a hollowness within, and knew that a space had opened in her heart that only he could fill.

  Chapter 22

  O well I love to ride in a mist

  And shoot in a northern wind,

&
nbsp; And far better a lady to steal

  That's come of a noble kind.

  —"Hind Etin"

  Led by thin bands of moonlight, silent and swift as ravens, they rode over hills and moorland until they reached a wide, flat river. William halted on the grassy bank in the cover of some birches, his horse quiet but for a breathy snort. Sandie and Jock stopped beside him. The three men waited without speaking in the moonlit screen of the trees.

  Across the rippling water, a slight figure emerged from the darkened forestland beyond the riverbank. A girl, in a gown and hooded cloak, strolled to the bank. She stopped, looked around, then tossed three stones into the water. Each one made a distinct, soft splash in the quiet.

  At that agreed-upon signal, Jock turned to his cousins, tipped his helmet in silent salute, and urged his mount forward into the river. The horse waded swiftly, parting the calm surface in arrowed, shining waves. Jock guided the horse up onto the opposite bank.

  The girl ran forward, cloak billowing back, hood slipping down to reveal red hair bound in a coronet of braids. Jock dismounted and took off his helmet, his blond hair silvery in the moonlight. He stepped toward her and opened his arms, and she seemed to melt into his embrace. They formed one gently swaying silhouette, as if they had never been two separate beings.

  William glanced away, felt his heart turn at the sight. His own emptiness, his own loneliness, seemed more keen than ever before.

  "Hark you," Sandie murmured. "He is lost, that lad. Lost."

  "'Tisna lost," William murmured. "'Tis found."

  "Aye, found an English lass, he has, and we'll all suffer for it." Sandie, like William, looked out over the dark moor. Then shook his head beneath his sloping steel bonnet. "She's an English Forster, betrothed to Arthur Musgrave," he muttered. "That wedding is set for tomorrow, Jock says. We will all have trouble o' this, I tell you."

  William watched the darkness with a wary gaze. He rested his gloved hand around the thick wood of the lance that jutted up from his saddle loop. "We will weather the trouble, man," he reassured his cousin. "Jock loves the lass. That alone is worth any amount of bother. Few have what they have found—be they English, Scots, or Egyptian." The last slipped out, and he frowned to himself as he looked out over the dark moor.