Rexanne Becnel (22 page)

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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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But how many of those other women had he asked to wed with him?
That stopped Rhonwen in her tracks. She stood just beyond the kitchen door, next to the barrels and the deeply shadowed crevice that hid the postern gate. He’d asked her to marry him, and she knew with sudden clarity that he’d put that question to no other woman before her. If he had, he would have long ago been wed. No woman of Rosecliffe or Carreg Du would have turned down so magnificent and high-placed a man. None of them was that foolish.
She alone claimed that title: fool among women.
She pressed her aching brow against one of the empty barrels. The wooden staves were rough and cool. Was she making a terrible mistake? Should she marry him?
But what of Rhys and his plan to attack the castle? What of his unholy alliance with Simon LaMonthe? She could not abandon Rhys.
Perhaps, however, she could reason with him.
She discarded that idea as soon as it occurred. Rhys was far beyond reasoning when it pertained to the English presence in Wales—especially to Rosecliffe and either of the two FitzHugh brothers. There was no way for her to have Jasper or to appease Rhys. She had no choice but to leave them to their battling and carve out a new life for herself in some other place, far from either of them.
Resolved, she took a shaky breath, then froze when she heard a new voice. Jasper’s voice. “Have you any scraps left here to feed a hungry man?”
Rhonwen stifled her gasp and shrank back against the barrel. He’d found her!
But though his silhouette loomed tall and familiar just beyond her reach, he must not have seen her in the deep shadows.
For it was not to her he spoke, but to the maids inside the kitchen.
“Oh, Sir Jasper. La, but you give us a start, milord!”
“We’ve plenty to give you, milord. Anything you’d like.”
He entered the kitchen but Rhonwen did not stir from her place against the barrels. She hardly dared to breathe. He hadn’t seen her.
No doubt he’d been too distracted by the clear offer in the voice of that Gert woman. Anything you like! Was he already after another taste of “quim,” as they termed it?
“A hunk of yellow cheese will do, and a crust of bread.” Jasper seemed to answer her silent question.
“Such plain fare. I’d happily fetch you a trencher of meat and gravy from the hall, milord.”
“No.”
When he said no more, Rhonwen strained forward. Why would he not go to the hall or send a maid to fetch food for him? Because she might be there? Did he so despise the sight of her—or fear it?
A rush of desire overwhelmed her, a longing so intense it stole the breath from her chest. One last time, it pleaded with her. One last time go to him. Share that ultimate intimacy with him. Leave him at least with the knowledge that you care for him in a way you have cared for no one else before, and never will again. At the least you can then take with you memories of the closeness of that final joining—and perhaps the enduring proof of it.
She pressed a hand to her belly, aghast at her own thoughts. Could she be that bold? Could she take such a chance?
The better question was, could she go on if she did not do it?
A knife came down on the heavy wooden table. Someone moved a bench. “Will you remain alone in the kitchen, my lord?” Gert again, with the same seduction in her voice.
“I’ve rounds to make.”
Rhonwen heard the rattle of keys. Of course! He would be the one to lock the postern gate. Had he already locked it?
Slowly she backed around the barrel. She had to know if escape was possible.
It was. Feeling the way down the pitch-dark passage, she found the door barred with a heavy iron rod—but the lock was not fastened. She could still leave.
She should do so now.
But Jasper was so near …
Her hands rested, one on the bar, the other on the ring latch. But her face turned back to stare wistfully down the passageway. She could see absolutely nothing in the darkness. But in her mind’s eye she saw so much. Jasper, handsome of face, virile and strong. Would he lay her down if she came to him? She thought he would. She wanted him to.
“
Ffwl
,” she cursed her own perversity.
But wasn’t she entitled to some measure of joy in her life? Even if it was only a brief hour in his arms, couldn’t she at least take that much with her? It was the most she would ever have of joy.
She started down the passageway, and as she came into the alley she spied the two women departing the kitchen. It was a sign, she told herself. She was right to do this.
The women left. Jasper stood in the doorway and bade them a good night. Then he returned to his plain meal. This was her moment. She could flee and put him forever from her mind—or at least try to. Or she could go to him of her free will this time.
And if he turned her away? After all, she’d declined his honorable offer of marriage. He would be justified in scorning her advances now.
She crept nearer the kitchen door. If he spurned her, then she would do as he had done to her. She would use every device, every talent, every bit of her imagination and allure to fire his ardor. She would kiss his resisting lips and caress his resisting body.
In short, she would seduce him.
 
 
Jasper stared into the empty well of his pewter cup. Gert had been willing. She’d made that perfectly clear. Surely under her eager ministrations he would have been distracted from his miserable thoughts. At least for an hour or so. Then he would probably have fallen asleep—another several hours of blessed oblivion.
But the morning would eventually come and with it the inability to avoid the bitter truth. Rhonwen would not have him.
No. He could not stomach the thought of lying with Gert tonight. Nor any other night.
Nor with any other woman. Save one.
He exhaled, a long, heavy sigh. Bad enough he wanted her. Bad enough she’d turned down his offer of marriage.
His offer had surprised her—as it had surprised him. He had not planned it, but once the words had come out, he’d felt a huge relief. All things considered, a marriage between them was the most practical solution to their situation. But she had turned him down and now, it seemed, she’d ruined him for any other woman.
How in God’s name could that be?
He sprawled back in the heavy chair, let his head fall against the headrest, and stared blankly at the ceiling. The oak beams
had long ago gone from golden to a smoky black, and even though nothing turned upon the spit, the place was forever scented of roasted meats.
He’d been at Rosecliffe too long, he decided. This kitchen had been new, the walls still oozing sap, when he’d arrived. It was new no longer.
He raised his head and reached for the corner of bread. But he had no appetite to eat. He put the bread down. He would have to face Rhonwen. He could not avoid her forever. And he would have to decide what to do with her. Holding her at Rosecliffe made less sense with every passing day. Holding a hostage as a guarantee to peace only worked so long as the captor was willing to punish the hostage for the transgressions of her comrades. If he could not bring himself to punish her, however …
The door hinges creaked.
“Go away,” he ordered, not even looking up. He did not want company, especially if it was Gert.
“Jasper?”
His head jerked up. But he remained seated. He maintained an outward calm. Inside, however, all his senses had come alive. As if in a headlong rush into battle, his entire being came quiveringly alert. Tensed. Expectant.
Fearful.
The blood roared in his ears, but he only reached for his mug and lifted it to his lips. His hand did not shake, he noticed with strange detachment. Amazing. He would not credit such control to his legs, though. So he remained in the chair.
“Jasper,” she said again in a voice that was soft and breathy.
“What?”
He heard the quick inhalation of her breath. She was as jittery as he and that gave him a small comfort. It allowed him also to shield himself with anger.
“What do you want, Rhonwen? For I warn you, there’s little I wish to hear from you.”
Rhonwen looked at Jasper’s back, so stiff and unrelenting. She’d hurt him cruelly and he hated her for it. She fell back
a step, before halting her retreat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry things cannot be different between us.”
He set his cup down and she moved to pick up the ewer at the end of the table. She filled his cup again, then found another and filled it for herself. Should she sit beside him? Across from him?
Maybe she should just leave. Maybe this was simply a wretched idea.
She was poised to run when he slowly turned his head toward her. His face was impassive.
He hated her!
Then she met his eyes and saw the sharp glint of pain. It was brief. It could have been but the accidental flicker of the single lantern in his eyes. But she thought it was more, and if it was …
“I could not end this day without seeing you once more,” she said. She put the unwanted wine cup down and tentatively moved nearer him.
His gaze followed her. “Why?”
She wanted to be honest. She needed to be. But there was only so much of the truth she could reveal. “I … I have been thinking about … the offer you made me.” That was true enough. She could think of little else.
His eyes narrowed. “Have you come here to change your answer?”
The word yes rose in her throat. Emotions like floodwaters battered her resolve. She swallowed hard. “I have come here to see how strong is this bond we share.”
He was silent a long while before he spoke. “It is strong,” he said, his voice husky, his gaze fixed with hers.
His right hand lay on the table, tanned and square-palmed, missing the little finger. Who could have predicted on that awful day so long ago that they would come to this? She placed her hand over his, her heart pounding with both fear and a desperate longing. Then his hand turned, and their fingers wove together, and she knew he loved her as she loved him.
“It is strong,” he repeated.
Rhonwen lifted their clasped hands, too consumed with the power of her feelings to speak. She kissed his knuckles one by one. His fingers tightened around hers, almost to the point of pain.
Then he groaned and pulled her into his lap, and the dam gave way.
Like a flood it broke over them, every repressed emotion, every secret longing. Every burning desire. The past was washed away and the future did not yet exist. Only the present mattered.
“Rhonwen. Rhonwen …” He murmured her name over and over between a rain of kisses. She lay in his arms, her own arms tight about his neck as she rose into the kiss. He would be hers this night and she would not think beyond that fact. He wanted to marry her; she wished to marry him. That they could not do so was pushed into the background. This was as perfect a moment as she would ever have and she refused to waste it.
He rose to his feet, sweeping her up in his arms. The chair crashed backward. They ignored it. He kicked the door open and when he strode across the dark bailey, carrying her high against his chest with her skirts streaming behind them and her hair fanning loose across his shoulder, the rest of the world faded away. She saw no one but him. She heard nothing but the heavy thudding of his heart and the determined tread of his boots on the gravel yard.
He took the back stairs two at a time, and when they reached his private chamber—when he closed the door with his heel and just stood there, holding her close in the dark—she felt like she’d arrived at last in heaven.
“I dared not hope—” he began, then broke off and buried his face in her hair.
Tears stung Rhonwen’s eyes. She was lying to him. With every kiss and every caress she was lying. He thought she’d changed her mind. He did not know that this was her goodbye.
Before she could confess her cruelty, she kissed him. She caught his face in her hands and kissed him. His lips were
hers to devour. His mouth was hers to explore. He was hers. Just hers!
But her hungry seduction worked like a goad upon him, for he swiftly overpowered her aggression with his own. He laid her down upon his bed and himself over her. His weight pressed onto her, into her, marking her as his.
“You are mine,” she whispered between the erotic play of their lips and tongues.
“And you are mine.” One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other swept slowly down her side. Slowly. “You are mine,” he repeated, and gradually eased his entire weight onto her. It was a hard, hot, wholly erotic movement. A claiming. He could do with her whatever he wished, and she would not object.
But she would do the same to him, and to prove it, she clutched at his tunic. As he slid down along the length of her, she drew the soft wool garment over his shoulders and head.
He unfastened her girdle with his teeth.
She slid one hand down his back, inside his chainse, so that her fingers explored his bare skin.
He raised her kirtle up, and her chemise as well, and let his palm glide up her leg. His fingers traced the curve of her ankle, the swell of her calf, the smooth indentation behind her knee.
With a bit of cooperative wriggling he pushed the garments up past her hips. She pulled his chainse off.
“We’ve got this all wrong,” he murmured, kissing her navel, then pressing the side of his face against her belly. His jaw was scratchy with the day’s growth of his beard, but it felt wonderful to her.
“All wrong?”
“Your lower half is naked.” He rubbed his jaw against her and she clenched her hands around his shoulders.
She laughed when she understood. “And your upper half is naked. There’s a remedy for that,” she added, growing serious once more.
“There are several remedies,” he replied. Then he slid down farther, trailing kisses past her belly to her thighs. She trembled with anticipation.
“Jasper,” she begged, though for what, precisely, she could not say. No matter which portion of her body played recipient to his magic, the whole of her was thrilled.
But what of thrilling him?
“Let me kiss you that way,” she said, reaching down to cup his face. “Let me give pleasure to you, Jasper. I want to.”
He looked up from his task and his eyes burned with the fever of the moment. “Soon enough, Rhonwen. Soon enough.” As he spoke, one of his fingers began to tease her. With her own dewiness he moistened his fingertip and began with the easiest of movements to caress her.
She sucked in a breath at the exquisite pleasure of it, then could not breathe at all as he increased the pressure. Their gazes were locked, and between them no emotion could be hidden. In his eyes she saw desire, and possession, and love. And hers … surely he saw how she loved him. But did he see that she meant to leave?
She closed her eyes and, as if it were a signal, he turned his attention wholly to her pleasure. With his clever lips he burned away her guilt. With his strong, yet gentle hands, he branded her flesh with his touch. And when her panting turned to helpless cries of capitulation, he urged her on. He cupped her derriere and she raised her hips in supplication.
She wanted to give him her whole self, everything she was or ever could be. But there was no way to tell him, no words to explain. She needed to be a part of him.
Oh, God. Give me a child of this man, she pleaded silently as the heat began to rise in her belly. Hotter, faster, harder. Please, God.
“ … Please, God …”
Then it burst and she cried out in an agony of exquisite pleasure. “Jasper … . Jasper …”
He covered her at once.
“I’m here, Rhonwen. Here …”
Before the tremors could end, he slid inside her. Her kirtle was gone. His braies had disappeared. They were naked and joined, and she wrapped herself, arms and legs and soul, around him.
Please, God, her silent chant began again, echoing the rhythm of their joining. A child, please, God. His child.
He brought her to the peak again, and kept her there until she was sure she must die from the intensity. Then he plunged groaning into her, and their union was complete.
Complete …
In the aftermath they lay tangled together, connected in every way they could be. Their bodies. Their wills. Their hearts. It was a moment of perfection, a moment Rhonwen knew she would treasure all the days of her life. Should she die tomorrow or live to see her children’s children’s children, it did not matter, for she was complete. Jasper had made her so.
But she was not dead yet, and when he rolled to his side, taking her with him, she forced her sated body to move. He was relaxing into near sleep. She could feel it. But he was naked and warm and damp, and she had a compelling need to explore his body. So she faced him and in the dark room began to touch him. She could barely see him, but she could learn the contours of him, the textures, with her fingers and her lips.
The heavy muscles of his arms were smooth. The relaxed muscles of his chest were, nevertheless, hard. His nipples, flat and small, were intriguing, and he groaned when she teased them. One of his arms circled her, pulling her against him.
“What are you up to?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Be still and you will see,” she answered, then deliberately shifted her hips against his. She felt the instant response of his manhood.
What a wondrous organ it was. From small and peaceful to huge and aggressive, it could change in seconds. Then, sated, it subsided, only to rouse again at the suggestive thrust of her hips.
Her hand slid down his chest, playing in the damp curls, gliding across the ridged stomach, then finding curls again below it. She hesitated only a moment. She must go easy with him, as he’d gone easy with her. At first.
A brush of her knuckles. The tickling stroke of her fingertips.
When he thrust convulsively against her hand, she knew he was fully revived.
“Come over me, Rhonwen.” He rolled to his back and dragged her on top of him.
Though she was more than willing, she was not yet done with her exploration. She sat up, straddling him and liking the way it felt. “I want to see you.”

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