Besieged Heart (No Ordinary Lovers Collection) (5 page)

Rayne closed his eyes and gave his head a quick shake to dislodge his raging inclinations. Releasing Mara, he pushed away from her and surged to one knee. Reaching to take her hands, he drew her up beside him.

She came, but there was a frown between her eyes. Curling her fingers around his, she clung to him when he would have let her go. In a strained voice, she said, “What is it? What is wrong?”

“If you value your virtue,” he said with contained force, “you will take yourself well away from me.”

Her lips parted on a soft sound that might have been surprise or distress. Wide-eyed, she searched his face, studying every feature in turn until her gaze caught and held his own.

Her pupils were dark and reflective, the surrounding gray irises silver-edged and shimmering with some inner light. Her face was flushed, her features were composed—if she despised him now, she hid it well.

She was everything that was good and fine, bright and beautiful and unobtainable. She was proud, but then she had nothing for which to be humble. She could be autocratic but was never unfair. If she was arrogant on occasion, it was for self-protection. Also because there were those who would deny her worth, being without value within themselves.

She was his princess and his only love, and if he could not save her as he’d planned, he could still serve her. If she would permit it.

“Forgive me,” he said, lowering his eyes, inclining his head as he had been so strictly taught by his father. “I meant you no harm.”

She drew a short, sudden breath. For long seconds, there was not another sound. The sunshine falling through the window caught the spilled coffee with a bronze gleam and threw its reflection upon their faces in dazzling lozenges of light.

Then she reached to touch his cheek, trailing her fingers down it, along the turn of his jaw, and over his lips to their center as if memorizing the lines. “It is possible,” she said quietly, “that I will obey you in that…if you will kiss me a second time.”

He did not breathe, could not even blink. “If I should dare,” he answered in a constricted whisper, “I may not be able to stop.”

She hesitated. He saw also the glimmer of tears along her lashes, also the slight upward tilt of her chin as she made her decision. Her voice was soft, so soft it could barely be heard, as she replied. “Then don’t, I pray you.”

She knew him. She must, for how else could his princess come so near to offering herself to him? She would never extend that grace to a stranger, one who had done nothing except thwart her and attempt to dominate her. She was intelligent beyond most; she knew what he was doing, knew why and accepted it. He had done what he had intended when he swept them from Carreg Cennen. He had won.

They would go from here soon. Then he would fight for her. He would fight because he must—because surrender or defeat were both unthinkable. She would return to her rightful place, and so would he; it was inevitable. These next few hours would be all they could ever have as mere man and woman.

Yet how could he take advantage of the power he had used to bring Mara to this point? It would not be right or honorable. Moreover, she might not be inclined to forgive that betrayal so easily when they regained their proper stations.

On the other hand how could he refuse? To injure her pride by spurning her invitation would be just as unforgivable.

He wondered with grim honesty if this last was merely an excuse that would allow him to obey the clamor of his blood. Was he searching for a reason to reach out and take hold of a secret dream before it slipped away, before the ceaseless passage of time left him with only regret?

No. The answer was there before him. Had she seen it, too? Did she know it was the only course? Did she recognize that as long as they could each pretend she did not know who he was then this moment could be taken, whole and clear, from their past and their present? It would be theirs, without apologies or consequences, something to preserve in timeless amber and keep against the long, cold years that lay ahead.

And if all else failed, he thought in despair, it was within his power to insure that she did not remember this short time to come, would never recall that he had loved her.

Yes, it could be better that way.

Being a wizard was good for that much, if nothing else.

Chapter Four

Mara had known he would not fail her. He never had and never would.

As Rayne reached out to take her into the strong circle of his arms, she moved to meet him, pressing close against the hard strength of him, then closer still. She wanted him, needed him, could not bear in that moment to be denied the comfort and solace of him.

He was her wizard, her support, the other half of her heart and mind. She had known it well for long years, though she had lacked the courage to acknowledge it.

She knew it now, just as she knew him beyond doubting. No one else could bend his head to her with such a precise degree of consideration and deference that yet lacked even the shadow of humility. No one else had ever sought so diligently to protect her—even when it was from himself. If he had revealed to her the hard edge of his nature, it was for a purpose. If she was surprised, the fault was her own, for she had known there was steel inside him but never ventured to test the tempered strength of it.

In his wisdom and power, Rayne had taken her prisoner to show her how intolerable being at the command of the baron would be to her, how much she would hate being mere chattel won in war. He had thought to make her see that submitting under force to the will of another person would be an endless humiliation fit to shrivel the spirit and bring death to joy and pride. In this, he had succeeded.

But he had also erred, for he had shown her how it would be to surrender to his will. He had, whether he intended it or not, shown her the face of love.

“Come,” he said, and lifted her in his arms. She turned her face into his neck, brushing her lips against the pulse which throbbed there, as he carried her along the hall and into his sleeping chamber. She was placed on the great, low bed with its silken-smooth sheets of celestial blue.

Or was she?

As he settled beside her, he pressed his lips to her eyelids, first one and then the other, to close them. Suddenly, she was in a bluebell wood with the fresh scent of May around her and the warm sun on her skin. She was blissfully naked, and the cool blossoms and stems of bluebells tickled and caressed and cushioned her. His hands were as delicate as the grass, brushing over her, leaving the shivering, beaded skin of gooseflesh in their wake.

A soft breeze stirred her hair, lifting a strand so it made a satin curtain over her breast. He leaned to find the taut rose nipple through the tresses, laving it with his tongue, taking it delicately between his teeth, then gently, gently into his mouth. All the while, he stroked her thighs, the slender turn of her waist, and smoothed in questing circles over the flat, white surface of her abdomen.

Languor, rich and sweet, rose inside her. She lifted her hand to clasp his shoulder and found the skin firm and sun-warmed, with the muscles underneath as unyielding as a statue of bronze. She pressed her palms to him, as if she could feel more fully that way, and followed the ridges and planes of his body. Diligently memorizing, she skimmed over his chest, sensing his heart beating under his ribs and the strong lift of his breathing. She brushed over the inflexible, heated surface of his belly, and then trailed her fingertips to where the firm length of his maleness sprang. Turgid, expectant, it stirred under her fingers, fitted into her hand.

He was naked also. She might have been embarrassed had it not seemed no natural, and so wondrous. Where had their clothes gone, and how? Oh, but what did it matter? She drew a long, slow breath of infinite pleasure.

“Magic,” she whispered, and felt him stiffen as if in he were surprised she could sense it. Abruptly, there was only a room and a bed with turned back sheets, and too many confining pieces of fabric covering their bodies once more. Disappointment touched her and she made a soft sound of loss.

The sweet vision flooded back with even greater intensity. She could smell bluebells and eglantine roses mixed with woodbine, honeysuckle, and warm, warm clover. The sunlight gilded their skins, flooding them with its heat.

“Disregard whatever you don’t care for, and it will fade from your sight,” he said in quiet explanation. “Embrace what gives you pleasure, and it will be yours.”

Laughing a little in wonder and wild exuberance, she rolled against him, twining her legs with his while she flicked her tongue over the hollow at the base of his throat. Never had she felt so free or so alive. Here, no duty awaited her; there was no position to maintain, no dignity to preserve. For this brief interval, she could be truly herself.

There was glory in that realization, and also an undercurrent of pain for the knowledge that it could not last. She knew a deep need to share the miracle of it, as Rayne had shared with her the warm beauty of his fantasy.

“Shall I embrace you then?” Still smiling, she lifted her lips for his kiss.

He gave it, molding his mouth to hers, and sliding his tongue around hers in sinuous play. She took the silken strokes, letting them fuel her languid delight, and returned them with half-shy, half-bold explorations of her own. The swell of his chest against her was her reward—that and the delicate touch of his hand between her thighs. His eased a finger into her, gently teasing, stretching, while his palm closed over the center of her being in firm possession.

A ripple moved over her, like the billowing of a curtain in a soft wind. Abruptly, she felt voluptuous, abandoned—while the purest sensual glory flowed molten in her veins. In the same instant, she recognized the lap of warm water around her, sensed the nudging drift of rose petals like a thousand tiny kisses upon every inch of her exposed skin.

Slick—her body was slick with warm, rose-scented oil. She was immersed in a shallow pool lined with marble and filled with aqua-blue water from which drifted pale white wraiths of steam. Overhead arched a great corbelled roof set with thick panes of glass against which rain spattered in a drowsy cadence.

Rayne, his skin burnished to bronze magnificence by oil and water, trailed a line of kisses from her lips to the point of her chin and down the smooth white line of her throat. He brushed his face against the gentle curves of her breasts and tasted their crests with his tongue. Marking the path with the heat of his mouth, he continued lower. He licked across the wetness of her abdomen and threaded through the soft, golden-brown down adorning the juncture of her thighs, then sought delectable rose-scented petals of flesh.

Moving against each other in an oiled ecstasy of delicious friction, they were as sybaritic as any denizen of the ancient Roman Empire. Time drifted past them, unnoticed. Rayne was tireless in his invention, leaving no part of her untouched. There was no modesty; they held nothing back. If they retreated, it was for the pleasure of being pursued. If they faltered, it was because flesh and bone could stand only so much.

And then it could stand no more. Rayne, holding her close, opened her thighs and let her feel the firm, hot probe of his maleness. She moved against it, accepting, needing the penetration, feeling desolate and empty without it. Prepared by care and kisses and warm oil, she took him into her tightness, stretching to receive him—took too, the soul-jolting wonder of the joining.

Completion.

It was perfect, inescapable. It was hers and nothing could ever take it away. She closed her hands over the rigid muscles of his shoulders and pressed her forehead to his chest with her eyes squeezed shut. She wanted the moment to last forever.

Then he moved in slow, experimental searching for greater depth. She caught her breath with the abrupt escalation of rapture. Greatly daring, she eased upon him. He made a soft sound of half-strangled awe. Probing farther, removing carefully, he caught and established a rhythm with the rich and steady tempo of beating hearts.

Soaring, caught in a state of grace, they rode the magic. The warm water surged and splashed, washing around them while its heated perfume rose to invade their senses. Rising, falling, sloshing, plunging, they clung together while euphoria shook their minds and expanded the inner walls of their hearts.

Holding her tight to his upper body, Rayne meshed his legs with hers and rolled her over so she was above him. She thought for an instant that he was sinking under the water while, astride him, she rode him down. But in a moment, the Roman bath was gone. The water became silver-blue fur, the deep, soft pelts of far-North fox. It shimmered with the orange-gold of firelight that was reflected from a roaring blaze on the hearth of the great Gothic fireplace that towered above them as they lay before it. Over the fireplace mantel was an enormous set of crossed deer antlers. Fiery mulled drinks sat steaming in tankards beside them. Outside, a blizzard assaulted the stone walls with snow and ice.

Resplendent in her nakedness, heated by internal fires, Mara was lit by the leaping flames as she hovered above Rayne. His eyes glowed with something that burned even brighter than the fire. Pressing his hard, strong fingers into her hips to support her, he began once more to move within her.

This was loving with a barbaric edge, a fragile balance between soul-shifting abandon and fierce desperation. Mara felt the rhythmic internal pulsing of its splendor. Her skin glowed with it. Her breath came in hard gasps, and her heart pounded in her ears. Still they contended.

He was elemental, a force unto himself. She had thought she had felt his strength before, but she had been mistaken. It was bountiful, unceasing, and yet dedicated to this one stupendous service. He was taking from her as he willed, yes, but he gave ten-fold in return. Prodigal of his power, he loved with his entire being, as if to stop would be a defeat, or a disaster.

Sweet, sweet disaster, erupting inside with the hot, liquid fury of a volcano. It roared through her, a piercing consummation so strong she cried out and was still, stunned into immobility.

He caught her, tumbling her to her back into the deep, soft pile of the furs. With her hair wrapped around him like a silken shawl, he pressed deep in a final, shuddering paroxysm. It flowed through them, vital and violent, the molten, red-hot rapture of human existence. Limitless, uncontainable, it had no beginning and no end.

It was magic of the highest order. But it was not without cost. They had used the sorcery, and now the price must be paid.

Their skins cooled. They could breathe again. The leaping fire died to glowing coals. The barbaric scene darkened, slowly fading, became once more only a large low bed in a sleeping chamber of the woodland cottage. Beyond the windows, the sunlight was slanting as the earth turned toward the west. They had loved the day away, and now it was nearly done.

Out of the long silence, Mara sighed, reaching to place her palm over Rayne’s heart while she lay against his side. Her voice low and as even as she could make it, she said, “I have need of a small boon. Can you possibly grant it?

“Only ask.”

The response was deep-toned and immediate, but she felt the jolt of his heartbeat. He knew what was coming—how could he not?

She moistened lips that were suddenly dry. It was a moment before she could force words through her throat. “I once thought I could bend in submission to my foe, that it was my duty to abandon all hope of love and to marry for reasons of state. I find I have no taste for that martyrdom, after all.”

“Few would ever consider it,” he said.

She went on, heartened. “I will take that course if I must, but only as a last resort. There is, perhaps, another way.”

“Yes, Princess?” he said when she halted.

“A great wizard once suggested that I choose a champion, someone strong and true to fight in ritual combat for my sake, defending me to the confusion of my enemy.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes before she went on. “You are the man I choose. If I ask it most politely, will you extend me this honor?”

Wind rose in the space of a heartbeat, whirling into the room. The cottage and the deep forest were whipped away with the dark expansion of time and distance. They whirled into nothingness.

In thunderous transformation, Mara and Rayne returned to the castle battlements. They stood once again where they had been in the beginning, with the light of the setting sun in their faces. Beyond its walls, the baron advanced, confident upon his charger, displaying the might of his men behind him in order to awe the castle into surrender. The men of the garrison, tired and fearful, eyed each other, while women stood in whispering groups with hungry children clinging to their skirts.

Crowned with a simple gold fillet, dressed in fine linen in rich colors, and with a sumptuous cape of fine red cashmere wool around her, Mara gripped the stone in front of her. Her eyes were dark, and her hair shifted around her stiff shoulders in the spring wind. There was a bloom on her high cheekbones, however, and mystery in her eyes.

Rayne did not wear the brown robe and cowl of the wizard, but stood tall behind her in a knight’s tunic and cloak, and with the molded steel of a breastplate armoring his broad chest.

Beyond these minor changes in dress, the moment was the same as when they had left it such a short time—and yet such an eternity—before. Rayne’s voice was deep and not quite steady as he spoke exactly as he had then.