The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  A feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced washed over Rosalynde. It was hot and yet she shivered. It felt natural and, oh, so right, and yet there was something in her that said it was wicked and forbidden. She knew she should fight the all-encompassing lure of it, and yet she could not. She could not.

  When his hand found the bare skin of her thigh, she shuddered with ever-increasing delight. Then, when he rolled her over and pressed his full weight against her, she gasped at the dizzying rapture. His hands pulled at her gown, tearing her girdle away and loosening the ties at her waist. But all the while he kissed her, deeper and deeper, striking a chord somewhere inside her, awakening feelings in her that she’d never dreamed could exist. She was lost in the physical splendor of their mutual passion. It was only when he tugged her gown free and slid her kirtle from her shoulders that he pulled a little away from her.

  As she gazed up at him, her eyes dazed by the maelstrom of emotions he roused, he removed his tunic and chainse in one swift motion. His boots and hose were hastily followed by his braies, and only when her eyes swept over his magnificently naked body did the enormity of what they were doing strike her.

  “No—”

  Her cry was stifled before it properly escaped. As if he anticipated her sudden reversal, Blacksword covered her near-naked body with his own. His skin was firm and warm and heavy with possession. His lips were adamant, almost fierce as he plundered her mouth.

  With only the feeblest of protests her words died unsaid. Her hands fluttered a moment at his hard chest, then slid up to circle his neck. Her kirtle was only a crushed bit of linen between them, pulled down to her waist, lifted up beyond her hips. Beneath his heavy form she melted against his hardness. Everything that was feminine in her responded to that which was masculine in him. Even the heated press of his rigid male flesh was met by the soft concave of her belly.

  Then he nudged her legs apart and she complied.

  “Be my wife,” she heard him whisper hoarsely against her lips. “Be mine,” he murmured as one of his hands slid down to her secret triangle of curls, then slipped even further to stroke the very center of her being.

  At once she felt a quickening, like lightning striking a dry tree, sending it immediately into flames. Hot and slick, his fingers played against her with devastating results. She could hardly catch her breath, and though she squirmed away from the fiery delight, she wanted it so badly. Then his hand was replaced by another probing heat and she arched up to him in a mindless plea.

  “Blacksword …” she entreated, tossing her head back and forth, then reaching up once more for his mind-drugging kiss. “Blacksword.”

  “Aric,” he whispered against her lips. “My name is Aric.”

  “Aric.” She panted as he pressed a little farther into her, beginning to fill her with fire and fury and a primitive sort of power.

  “You are wife to Aric of Wycliffe.” His teeth pulled at her lower lip, refusing her the deep kiss she was pleading for. “Say it,” he insisted breathlessly, as he rocked his hips back and forth against her, torturing her with a deliberateness that was driving her mad. “You are wife to Aric …”

  “I am your wife,” she whispered in a voice that shook with passion. “I am …”

  With a groan he finally let his weight come down upon her. His mouth met hers with an explosion of passion; his chest and hard-ridged belly crushed her into the soft green earth; and the full length and strength of his male flesh slid with unerring accuracy into her.

  She wanted to cry out, to pull away in fear and pain at the sudden tearing she felt. As he found her virgin’s barrier, then pushed beyond it, passion fled and an abrupt and horrible reality startled her.

  But he would not let her go and he would not end their kiss. Though she struggled, he held her firmly beneath him. When she sobbed he seemed to absorb all her fear and pain into himself, and only deepened the kiss. Though no less fiery and demanding, his lips nonetheless moved to please her. His tongue stroked her inner lips; they forced her to respond. And when her own tongue moved out to meet his, she was rewarded by a renewed leap of the same passionate fire. He still filled her with a heat and pressure completely foreign to her, but the pain was gone. And when he shifted his hips slightly, she let out a gasp of unexpected pleasure.

  It seemed the signal he waited for. As he raised his face from hers, he began a slow and rhythmic motion, pressing his hips to hers then rocking back, pushing deeper then lifting away, sliding his full length into her, then pulling almost completely out. Exquisite waves of undiluted pleasure rippled through her as he steadily increased his tempo, filling her then pulling back. Rosalynde’s eyes widened with wonder as she stared up into his passion-filled eyes. She arched up in unthinking response, accepting him fully into the feminine warmth of her body, urging him on as she innocently responded to his expert caress. Their movements increased and the fire flamed higher. A rush that was wet and hot and filled with light swept over her, and in a moment of near panic she clung desperately to him. Then she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of passion and she cried out at the very ferocity of their lovemaking. Wave after wave shook her. Like a storm she was battered by its very violence. She heard his cry buried deep against her neck. It seemed to have been wrenched from deep inside him, and it filled her with awe. Yet the one emotion she did not feel was fear. She was not afraid.

  He shuddered over her as if he too shared in the same cataclysm of emotions. Then his weight came fully, heavily against her and she released a huge sigh.

  Her breath was short, matched by his own ragged breathing. With hearts pounding in unison, their bodies melded together, still intimately joined, their breathing almost a shared effort, Rosalynde felt absurdly as if they were no longer separate beings but part of the same whole. He lay above her, absorbing her into himself, it seemed, and though she felt nearly crushed by his massive weight, she did not care.

  Then he moved a little to the side, sliding from her sweat-slicked body. She let out a faint groan of dismay, but he quickly stilled it with a stirring kiss as he gathered her close to him. Legs tangled, arms still wrapped about one another, they lay in the dappled shade. Rosalynde’s exhaustion was complete: Her mind, body, and emotions had been taxed beyond previous comprehension. She could not think about the wondrous things that had just happened to her. She could not be logical or dwell on what was to come. She only relaxed in his heated embrace and listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart beneath her ear. Steady and reliable, the sound gave her a sense of security she could not quite understand. In the past days she’d had enough of death and sorrow and fear to last her a lifetime. But this—this was the sound of life and of hope.

  With a faint smile she sighed again and moved a little nearer to his comforting bulk. She was safe. She knew that without a doubt. Then she gave herself over to sleep and the watchful observance of the man who still held her.

  10

  This time Rosalynde awoke in one sudden jolt. Blacksword had shifted slightly and his hand had, even in his sleep, moved unerringly to her breast. It was this that brought her slumber to an end, and for a few seconds she simply lay there, reliving in growing horror the full extent of her degradation.

  There was no denying what had passed between her and the man whose body curved now so intimately around hers. She could not believe it, and yet every portion of her body gave vivid proof. Her lips were sensitive and swollen from his fierce kisses. Her breasts were full and even now her nipples peaked and tightened at the remembered passion they had shared. But it was the lingering warmth down there …

  A flush of heat and color crept up her chest and face as she recalled the way he had touched her and entered her down there.

  “Sweet Mary, what have I done?” she whispered, truly appalled at her unpardonable behavior. She had lain with him—a man she hardly knew and whom she hoped soon to be rid of—and to add to her shame, she had then quite obviously fallen asleep still clasped in the rogue’s embrace! If she spen
t the remainder of her life on her knees in fervent prayer, she could not hope to be forgiven for such a reprehensible act!

  In desperation she glanced around, searching for a way out of her predicament. They lay in a bed of thick grasses, sheltered by a half circle of willows. Somewhere behind them must be their camp. And Cleve, she realized with a start. She must get away from this man—this Blacksword—before Cleve found out, she thought wildly. They must slip away while he slept and somehow—somehow!—make their way to Stanwood before he caught up with them.

  Even as she made her plans, she knew it was madness. There was no chance they could escape him, and even less chance that he would not follow. But she could not pause to consider that. If she had to confront him—when she had to—she would decide then how to handle him. She would lie if he told anything to her father. She would! But first she must make good her escape.

  She edged slightly away from him, as if only in her sleep, and managed to free her leg of the weight of his thigh. For a few seconds she rested, listening to his steady breathing to ascertain whether she’d awakened him at all. Then with ultimate care, she lifted his arm and moved it from where it draped over her, and laid it on his own hip. His wrist was wide and sturdy, she noted during the endless seconds it took to accomplish this move. Her hand could not even span its brawny width. He was possessed of such strength, she despaired. If he caught her he could easily crush her in his hands.

  Yet it was these same hands that had caressed her so provocatively, she unwillingly recalled. He had used his hands in tenderness and passion. Was it possible he could use them in violence against her? She paused as she carefully let go of his wrist, confused by the many facets of his personality. Yes, he could use violence against her, she told herself vehemently. If he had to he would. She was sure of it. Only she was not going to give him the chance.

  With that thought uppermost in her mind, she inched with infinite slowness away from the warm curve of his body. A shiver raced through her when she was finally free of his touch. She told herself it was fear, but there was a tiny doubting voice in her head that denied it. She had enjoyed the towering passion they’d shared, the voice said, despite her every wish to pretend she had not. She had enjoyed it and now it was over.

  But Rosalynde refused to listen to the voice. She refused to look back at the man sleeping so quietly, so unconcerned by his own nakedness. And she adamantly refused to think about the repercussions of what she was doing. She only rose to her feet, clutched her kirtle up to her breasts, and scurried behind the slender trunk of one of the willows.

  Once she had her kirtle back on, she glanced around wildly for her gown. To her chagrin she saw it lying just behind Blacksword, a pitiful heap of dark-green wool abandoned during their wanton episode. Terrifed at any moment that he might awaken, she circled warily behind the protection of the trees. Once he stirred, and she froze, holding her breath as her heart slammed furiously against her chest. But then he stilled, and after only a moment’s hesitation she crept forward again.

  It seemed to take forever. Every sound from the cry of a hunting kerlew to the scolding of a pair of squirrels magnified in her ears, rolling like thunder across the silent glade. Surely he would awaken! But he slept on as if he were drugged, and when she finally reached her gown she could have cried with relief.

  His back was to her, marked with lingering bruises and scrapes—probably from his imprisonment, she thought. It rose and fell lightly, signaling his continuing slumber, and despite her fear, she scrutinized him one last time. His shoulders were wide and tan, as if he often went without either tunic or chainse. But for all its muscled width, his back tapered gracefully to a trim waist and then further to lean, hard-muscled buttocks. She stared wide-eyed at him, hardly able to believe what she and this man had done together. Yet as her eyes moved down to his iron-hewn thighs, the feel of his lightly furred leg slipping between hers came vividly back to mind.

  “Oh!” She gasped softly into the scratchy wool of the gown she held clutched in her hands. Then, humiliated by the perversity of her own thoughts, she turned away. Her hands trembled as she struggled with the gown. It was twisted and knotted, and she thought she would smother before she pulled it down past her head and shoulders, and then shoved her arms hurriedly into the sleeves. She fought the difficult fabric down to her waist then turned to flee, but three unexpected words stopped her.

  “Don’t leave yet.”

  In horror Rosalynde turned her head to see Blacksword staring at her. He was propped up on one elbow, smiling at her, and completely unfazed by his lack of clothing.

  “You don’t have to run away in such a panic,” he continued in the same husky tone. “It’s hours till dark. There’s no rush.”

  “I-I …” Words failed Rosalynde as she stared at him. He appeared so relaxed. His tone was so beguiling. And that smile …

  She compressed her lips tightly together and forced herself to look away from him. That smile of his was far too confident, far too gloating, she fretted. But she knew that was to be expected. In his eyes he’d won. He had gotten what he wanted, and that was the right to claim her as his wife. To make things worse, she quite obviously had cooperated with him every step of the way. Like a complete wanton, she had let him do what he would, and cried out with the pleasure of it!

  For a moment she stood still, consumed with guilt and horror and too many other emotions to understand. Then from the corner of her eye she saw him move, and she swiftly turned to face him, prepared now for the worst. But he only stood up, stretched his arms wide, and let out a huge yawn.

  Rosalynde’s eyes widened in shock as she stared at him, revealed as he was now in his full masculine glory. This unrestrained view she had of him showed a man of pure muscle, without an ounce of excess flesh. She had determined that before, but now the fact was driven home. In the filtered light of midday every part of him was clearly displayed to her, and despite her unwillingness to appear in the least affected, she stared at him with mouth slightly agape and eyes wide with surprise, quite transfixed by what she saw.

  A pale scar contrasted against the darker skin of his side, a neat slice near his belly. Another puckered crescent marred the smooth flesh of one side of his chest. A mottled purple bruise still showed angrily against his ribs, and a raw scrape was just beginning to heal on one of his forearms. But those lingering marks of the harsh life he’d lived did nothing to mar the masculine beauty of his virile body. If anything they enhanced it, giving him a disturbing aura of power, of confidence, and especially of danger. It was this last that should have terrified her the most, but somehow it also attracted her most unwisely to him. Only with the sternest exercise of willpower was she able to force her gaze away.

  “Must you be so … so … so shameless?” she muttered as hot color suffused her cheeks.

  “Must you be so prudish?” he countered with a rakish grin. But to her enormous relief, he reached for his braies and pulled them up to cover his loins.

  Rosalynde was poised between stupefaction and an overwhelming urge to run away. As she watched him knot his braies securely at the waist then roll the fabric over twice, she searched her mind desperately for some remedy to her newly worsened predicament. But her mind was an uncooperative blank; no solution presented itself at all. If she ran he would catch her. If he took her all the way to Stanwood he would reveal the handfast vow to her father. And if she tried to deny it he could now reveal what had passed between them this day. She was caught in an intolerable situation, trapped no matter which direction she turned. Oh, if only he would just go away!

  “Come now, sweet wife. Come greet your husband with something other than this timid expression and shy reserve.” His eyes slid possessively over her, and his faint smile seemed nonetheless filled with an enormous amount of satisfaction. “Come here, Rose, and give me a kiss.”

  It was this last—both gloating and insulting to her ears—which finally goaded her into action.

  “Don’t you touch
me,” she warned, jerking her skirt all the way down, then eyeing him as if he were the lowest form of life. “Don’t you ever presume to touch me again!”

  His expression altered slightly at that, as if he had not quite expected such a rebuff from her. Not anymore, at least. What an arrogant oaf he was! she fumed. But he seemed to reconsider his approach, and this time when he smiled it seemed almost genuine. But she knew better than to trust him. She knew.

  “If you’ll just hear me out, Rose.” He spread his arms placatingly and took a step toward her. “You’ll find things not so black as they appear.”

  “Not so black!” A sudden tremble crept into her voice and she swallowed hard to hide it. More than anything she did not want to cry before him. That would be the final humiliating admission of defeat. She swallowed again. “You have ruined me.”

  “It is not ruinous for a wife to lie with her husband—”

  “I’m not your wife!” she shrieked as she finally lost all control. “I’m not your wife!” Then she whirled away from him and ran as fast as she could from the still-undeniable pull of his masculine presence.

  “Rose!”

  She heard his call but only ran the faster. She wasn’t sure where she was going, only that she must get away. Even though she knew he could catch her if he wanted to, she could not stay a moment longer in his presence. The knowledge of how he had so easily seduced her, so effortlessly convinced her to throw away everything she’d been taught, everything she believed, fueled her flight with improbable speed.