Medieval Rogues (77 page)

Years ago, Bram had captivated her from the first time she’d seen him: the afternoon he’d been wrestling, as part of his training, with the other squires.

Rising from a lunge against his opponent, he’d looked up and their gazes had collided. His bold stare had made her breath catch with shock and excitement. An instant later, his rival had knocked him to the dirt. When Bram had risen, laughing and dusting off his hose, he’d grinned at her, and she’d sensed the unique connection between them.

That evening, curiosity had driven her down to the bailey to look for him. The night air had smelled of sun-baked earth and the horses in the stables, where she’d spotted his tunic, hung on a split section of wood near the open doorway. Flickering torchlight from within had coaxed her to approach.

Over her footfalls, she’d heard splashing water in the stable—a sound that had made her pause, uncertain what she might be interrupting. Eager to see him, she’d walked on, only to freeze at the doorway. He’d stood in the glow of a blazing rush light, facing away from the door, boots kicked off and wearing only his woolen hose.

Water droplets had glistened on his bare back. As she’d watched, thoroughly fascinated, he’d bent to plunge soap into a bucket of water and scrubbed his face. The muscles in his back had rippled, revealing his lean strength. As he’d bent lower to wash his shoulders, his hose had stretched tight over his arse, defining the muscles so well, she’d easily imagined him naked—a thought that had made her lower belly clench in a way she’d never experienced before.

Blowing out a watery sigh, he’d straightened, eyes closed, then tipped his head back and plowed his fingers through his wet hair. The purposeful glide of his hands and flex of his shoulder muscles had made her shiver.

She must have made a small sound, for he’d spun, so fast, a shriek had burst from her, and she’d stumbled back.

A grin had curved his mouth as he’d dropped into an elegant bow. “Milady.”

“H-hello.”

Water had trickled down his chest. His skin, bronzed from the sun, had been lightly scattered with wiry hair that led her gaze down to his snug-fitting hose.

“How may I serve you?” His voice had drawn her attention from the bulge between his legs to his handsome face. “Is there something you desire from the stable?”

She’d blushed, mortified that he’d noticed her looking at his male parts. How did she say she’d come searching for him? That she’d simply
had
to see him?

He’d closed the distance between them then, teasing her with the herbal scent of his soap, and enticing her with the nearness of his bare torso. When he’d lifted his tunic from its makeshift peg, it had brushed against her hand. The light scratch of the wool had sent tingles dancing across her skin.

He’d pulled the garment on and covered the beauty of his male physique. Regret had woven through her, even as he’d looked at her, awaiting an answer.

“There is something I . . . want.” She’d gnawed her lip, unsure how to explain her longing. “I mean . . .”

He’d seemed to know what she was trying to say, because he’d swept his hand to indicate the dark interior of the stable. “Would you care to linger a while, milady? I love to entertain guests in my fine keep.”

She’d giggled, unable to deny the thrill of his invitation. “Thank you, milord. I would like very much to stay.” She’d stepped forward, and he’d caught her hand and drawn her inside, where sweet-smelling straw had rustled under their feet.

Caution had dimmed her growing anticipation. If she, the lord’s daughter, were found alone at night with a squire . . .

“The stable hands went to the kitchens to play a game of sticks. We have my entire castle to ourselves,” he’d said, as though attuned to her hesitation. “I will understand if that is good reason for you not to stay. I shall, however, die of disappointment.”

Smiling, she’d held his unwavering gaze. She’d wanted to stay, too, for he’d intrigued her more than any man she’d met. Never would she have missed this chance to learn more about him.

“My name is Bram. Bram Hawksley.”

“Miranda de Vornay,” she’d said, barely able to contain the excitement within her.

“A beautiful name.”

The admiration in his gaze had brought a flush to her cheeks, even as he’d drawn her down to sit beside him on a bale of hay. The rational voice within her had warned her to go back to her chamber without delay, but stronger than that voice was her desire to be with Bram.

They’d talked and laughed, their hands still entwined. Then, in the flickering light, his expression had turned somber. With his thumb, he’d caressed her wrist. “One day, I really will be lord of a castle.”

“I know you will.”

“How do you know? Did your father tell you that I am my sire’s heir?”

She shook her head. “I have seen your determination. You will accomplish whatever you set your mind upon.”

His gaze had narrowed with a hint of wariness. “You know me so well?”

“Somehow, I feel that I do.”

“You have more faith in me than most people.”

His bitter tone had roused a pang of sympathy within her. Before she could say a word, he’d grinned as though he didn’t care what others thought, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it. A fiery tremor had raced through her, even as she’d longed for him to kiss her again.

Reaching up with her free hand, she’d unfastened the blue silk ribbon from her hair, causing her loosened tresses to tumble down past her shoulders. She’d dangled the ribbon before him. “For you, Sir Bram of Castle Stable. A token of my faith in you.” Freeing her fingers from his, she’d tied the ribbon around his left wrist.

He’d held her gaze, a smoldering heat in his stare that hadn’t been there before. “Miranda,” he’d whispered. Her insides had quivered, and she’d watched, spellbound, as he’d slid his hand into her hair and bent his head to kiss her.

The brush of his lips had made her breath hover in her lungs. Heady, glorious elation had swirled up inside her. He’d kissed her with such tenderness, as though he cherished her, and never wanted her to leave.

As he’d kissed her again, his mouth pressing harder, her eyes had closed to shut out all but the astonishing sensations: the heat of his lips; the sigh of his breath across her skin; the curl of his fingers in her hair.

Craving had burned hotter within her with each kiss. Greedy, starved for more, she’d moved her lips against his. A clumsy effort, but he’d groaned, an expression of pleasure. Then he’d taught her, with his clever mouth, how to find the rhythm in their kisses.

Tongues tangling in a frenzied dance, she’d kissed him deeper. Deeper still. He’d urged her to lie down beside him on the straw while they’d kissed, and her whole body had felt afire with wanting. She’d squirmed, restless. How she’d ached to slide her hand under his tunic, touch his bronzed skin, and to feel his nakedness against her palm.

And then, she’d heard voices. Her dazed mind had registered the conversation of three men, nearing the stable.

“Miranda,” Bram had whispered, breaking the kiss and urging her to sit up. “You cannot be found with me.”

“I do not care what others think. Bram—”

He’d pressed his finger to her lips. “Go. Use the rear door. You must leave, if we want to see each other again.”

She’d staggered to her feet, her first taste of passion still buzzing in her veins. Leaving him was the very last thing she’d wanted. But, as her thoughts had cleared, she’d realized he was right. She certainly hadn’t wanted any misunderstandings that would cause Bram to face punishment.

“You will see me again,” he’d said with a mischievous wink. “Go!”

Pulling straw from her hair, she’d dashed for the back door and out into the night, her last glimpse of Bram being of him tugging down the sleeve of his tunic to hide the ribbon she’d tied at his wrist.

A shout, from right outside the cottage door, broke into Miranda’s memories. As a man farther away called a reply, the vision of young Bram vanished. With a shaky sigh, she reminded herself that the outlaw had offered no evidence he was the Bram she’d known.

Her heart desperately wanted—
needed
—to know for certain.

The surest way to find out was to ask him to recount what had happened between them that night long ago.

Aye. She would ask him.

With a warning creak, the cottage door opened.

***

As Bram stepped inside and pushed the door closed, his gaze fixed upon Miranda. She stood behind the table, using it as a physical barrier between them.

In her expression, however, he saw veiled yearning, as though in the time he’d been giving orders to his men outside, she’d considered what he’d told her and had begun to believe it.

Hope fired anew the raging desire he still struggled to control. After setting her free, he’d forced himself to walk out, to take calming breaths, and to recover the honor that had formed the foundation of his life. Lust had threatened to rip his gallantry to tatters, a weakness he’d never experienced before. But then again, he’d never been so tempted to make love to Miranda.

His body, aroused again, still wanted that hot, sweaty, magnificent joining.

Tearing his gaze from her, he reminded himself why he’d come back into the cottage. Crossing to his leather saddle bag propped against the wall, he turned his back to her and grabbed hold of the hem of his tunic.

Tossing the garment aside, he examined the linen bandages tied around his lower torso. If she was foolish enough to try and attack him while his back was turned, he’d easily subdue her. As he’d expected, fresh blood stained the cloth under his right ribs. He’d torn the stitches again on the slow-healing wound.

A sharp intake of breath made him glance over his shoulder. She’d moved nearer, the high table directly behind her now. He’d caught her shy gaze traveling over his back and buttocks. Her lips parted slightly. He’d known enough women to recognize sexual hunger in her expression.

“Does my body meet with your approval?” he asked. The first time they’d kissed, she’d studied his physique with such thoroughness. Was she comparing him now to what he’d looked like years ago?

Meeting his gaze, she blushed. “I did not mean to stare. I noticed you are injured. You must be in pain.”

Aye, he definitely suffered pain, and not just from the wounds cut by his deceitful brother. Bram reached into his bag for clean bandages and drew them out, along with a pot of ointment, then snatched up his tunic.

She sighed, an anxious but also excited sound, and his loins strained against the center seam of his hose. Did she know of his rock-hard arousal? A wicked part of him wanted her to see exactly what she did to him.

He faced her. Her gaze traveled over his bandaged chest as he started toward her, her inspection cautious but determined. When her attention dropped to his groin, her eyes widened.

As he neared her, she tried to step backward, but she was already against the table. He half-expected her to dash away across the room. However, as though telling herself to stand her ground, she crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and stood firm as he halted before her.

Reaching around her, Bram set the items he carried on the table. He concentrated on the task, a futile attempt to focus on something other than the intense throbbing of his manhood.

His chest slid against her folded arms as he moved, and she flinched, but didn’t scoot away. He savored the scent of her that reminded him of a summer meadow.

How curious, that she dared to remain so close. Had she decided to trust him? Or was she testing his restraint?

“There is something important I must ask you,” she blurted.

“Very well. Ask.”

As she nervously drummed her fingers on her arm, the edge of her sleeve shifted to reveal reddened skin. He caught her right arm, eased it away from her body, and drew back the silk to bare more of her creamy flesh to his view.

“Wait. W-what are you doing?”

“I am not the only one in pain.” He indicated the red marks. Anger sparked in her eyes, and he added, “I would never leave a lady in discomfort.”

“But you would tie that lady to a table.” She arched her brows.

She looked so much like the Miranda from long ago, he chuckled. Her eyes darkened with hurt—she’d clearly taken insult from his laughter—and he felt her flare of emotion like an arrow driving into his heart.

Reaching to the table, Bram took the lid off the ointment, scooped out a small portion, and then began to rub it on her skin, warming the herbal salve with his touch.

Trembling in his grasp, she said, “I can tend to my wrists.” She tried to pull away.

“I want to,” he whispered, and gently rubbed the ointment on her right wrist, and then the left. He sensed her wariness, but she didn’t try to stop him, a tiny gesture of trust.

That small trust was a beginning. Now, he’d build upon it to rekindle the passion that had once flared between them. The truth of who he was lay in that desire.

Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to the reddened skin of her left wrist. A gasp broke from her, even as he kissed her again, the herbal scent of the salve strong in his nostrils, the slickness of the ointment on his mouth. Kiss by kiss, he moved his way up her wrist by following the bluish line of a vein beneath her skin.