The Rose of Blacksword (49 page)

“Christ, but I burn for you! Wood nymph that you are, I need to have you beneath me here, in the presence of the entire forest. You are mine, woman!”

Rosalynde felt his hard arousal beneath her derriere. She felt his fingers tighten at the apex of her thighs. Where they were—how they could accomplish such a thing—was of no consequence to her. She wanted no more than to prove her love to him and have him prove his to her. With her hands and her lips, with her tongue and fingers and every other portion of her body she would show him her love. If they could just come together and reach that moment of oneness, that moment of completeness—everything else could be made right, or else forgotten. If only she could get close enough to him …

But if Rosalynde was not mindful of the dangers of their proximity to her fathers castle, Aric, at least, was. With a groan as if of physical pain, he slid his hand out from beneath her skirts. His head lifted from her breasts and he pulled her upright, holding her in a last embrace several trembling seconds. Then he took a harsh, sobering breath.

“Only a wench can drive a man to such a consuming
madness as this,” he muttered self-mockingly. “Only one wench.” Then with a quick tug on the reins, he turned the mare for the deep woods.

Rosalynde took no note of their direction as Aric guided the horse through the night gloom. She could do no more than cling to him, leaning against his chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heart. Too much had happened in the past hours for her to long contemplate this new turn of events. The tournament and the melee seemed only a long ago dream, a nightmare that had nearly robbed her of all she truly wanted. But this steady heartbeat, this solid warmth and reassuring presence of the man she loved were reality now. All the rest was merely something she was just now waking from.

In less than a minute Aric brought the mare to a stop. In a slight clearing the mighty destrier he had absconded with was calmly cropping some thin grasses, but at their approach the animal raised his proud head.

“He’s your horse, isn’t he?” Rosalynde spoke quietly, for the still forest seemed to demand it.

“He is,” Aric answered, sliding easily from the mare. Then he plucked her from her horse and brought her full length against him. “He is mine, and now you are mine as well.”

His eyes were darker than midnight, but the fire in them burned her with its heat. “And you are mine,” Rosalynde replied, gripping his tunic in her hands. She stretched up on her toes to meet his lips in a kiss that clung, fragile and trembling, between them.

He put her away from him almost at once, holding her at arm’s length with one hand on each of her shoulders. But his breathing was ragged, and Rosalynde knew he put her off with only the most stringent effort. “This place is not safe. We must be away from here.”

His words brought home to her the harsh reality of their plight. She was suddenly very frightened for them, and her hands went up to curve around his forearms, holding on to his strength.

“Where will we go?”

“I have a place in mind where we may be safe—and alone.” A hungry expression swept over his face as he looked down on her upturned face and slender form. “I want you, Rose. You know that well. But my revenge is still not done. Even had your father wished to let me free, now that I have you, he must come after me. But Gilbert knows he must find me first.”

“Gilbert.” She mouthed the name reluctantly. “Why does he persecute you so?”

He did not answer at first, only swung her up on his destrier and tied the lead of her mare to his saddle. Then he mounted behind her and urged the animals forward.

“What is this bad blood between you and Gilbert?” she persisted. “Why did he have your horse?”

“There is no time now for that,” he answered as he settled her comfortably before him. His arms circled her waist, and her back fit snugly against his stalwart chest. “I’ll explain everything once we’re safe. For now, just have faith in me.”

Have faith in me. It was those simple words that renewed Rosalynde’s spirits. She did have faith in him, she realized. Faith that he was a man of honor. Faith that he cared for her. Faith that he wanted her for more than simply the property attached to her name.

But as they rode through the thick darkness, beneath towering trees and silent shadows, it was her lack of faith in everyone else that worried her.

27

Dawn was but a vague promise in the east when they finally stopped. Aric had been silent as they rode, and Rosalynde had been too exhausted to do more than sit in his strong embrace. She had dozed intermittently in his arms, secure in the knowledge that at least he was safe, and heading away from Stanwood. But although the terrain appeared vaguely familiar, it was not until the tireless destrier splashed unhesitantly into a shallow river crossing that she realized where they were. In the purple gloom of early morning the hulking ruins of the adulterine stood shadowy guard in the hills above the river Stour.

Rosalynde shivered in the cool night air, not certain whether this return to the doomed castle boded good or ill for them.

“Will we rest here?” she asked as Aric slowed the horses and allowed the destrier to pick his way slowly up the overgrown trail. The shrill cry of a hunting curlew hushed at her words.

“We shall wait here,” he answered, guiding the horse with only the slightest pressure of his knees. Beneath her thighs Rosalynde was well aware of his strong legs. One of his arms circled her and rested comfortably where her waist flared down to her hips. She felt his every breath in a silky puff against her hair and cheek. Despite her grogginess,
she was acutely aware of his robust masculinity. Only with a determined effort was she able to concentrate on his words.

“Wait? What shall we wait for?”

She felt him stiffen. “We wait for Gilbert, of course. And your father.”

“But why?” Rosalynde cried out in sudden fear. She twisted around to see him. “Why wait for them when we can get away so easily?”

Aric kept his profile to her. His expression revealed no real emotion, neither anger nor even concern. “It has never been my goal to escape Stanwood. You should know that by now.”

“But things are different now. You’ve been discovered.”

He turned the horse into what was once the castle bailey, then glanced down into her pale face. “The only difference now is that the players have all been revealed to one another. The secrets are all out. You are still my wife, however. And Gilbert is still my enemy.”

“But … but if he finds you, he and his men will kill you! You will not have a chance!”

“Leave Gilbert to me, Rosalynde.”

“But we can get away! Just keep riding—”

“ ’Tis a hard life you describe. Hard enough for a man alone. Impossible for a man with a wife. No, I’ve grown fond of Stanwood. No one shall drive us from it.”

With that final statement he halted them before the same little stone storeroom where Rosalynde had hidden the wounded Cleve—it seemed like a year ago, not just a matter of weeks. Aric slid over the horse’s rump, then reached up to help her down with a hand on either side of her waist. Rosalynde’s palms rested on his shoulders and once on the ground she started to back away, unwilling to
abandon her argument. But Aric’s hand held her before him and even pulled her nearer.

“To confront Gilbert again is foolhardy,” she began.

“I do not wish to speak of Gilbert.”

“But my father will not help you—”

“Nor do I wish to discuss your father.”

“But they will find us—”

“Eventually. But not yet. And until they do, I’ve other things on my mind.”

He pulled her nearer, until her breasts brushed his chest and she stood within the span of his parted legs. Rosalynde pushed once against his chest, trying futilely to make him listen to her. But he was adamant in his intentions, and lowered his face to capture her lips.

Without warning Rosalynde’s logical protests died, swallowed up in the flame that leapt between them. She had known this was inevitable, for despite all else that might go wrong, this intense physical reaction between them flared ever stronger. Yet even as she melted beneath his fiery ardor, even as she welcomed the exquisite stroke of his tongue along her sensitive inner lips and met its increasingly bold thrust with her own, she was overwhelmed by emotions stronger than mere desire. She clung to him as she might cling to life itself—pressing herself close, clutching tightly—for there was no doubt in her mind that without Aric she would no longer wish to live. He must be safe if she was to survive. They must be together if life was to be worth living at all.

His hand slid down her back, splayed to caress every curve and hollow, then moved lower to press her hard against him, shaping the soft flesh of her belly to the rigid contours of his arousal. Willingly she came against him, and her blood sang dizzily in her ears. Here was the proof of life, she thought as she drowned beneath his ravenous
kiss. His life and hers together had the force to create yet another life.

In that moment she knew that she wanted a child of him, and tears of happiness sprang to her eyes.

“I love you,” she murmured silently into his kiss. “I love you. I love you. I love you—”

With a mighty groan Aric lifted his face from hers then buried it in the warm silk of her hair. “By damn, but I would not have you this way, in the leaves of a ruined castle!” A harsh laugh escaped him and he raised his head and took a shaky breath. “You should be wooed upon silken sheets or the softest furs.”

“I don’t need those—”

“And yet I would give them to you.” He paused and in the slowly strengthening light his eyes were a rare clear shade, silver as the moonlight, yet as warm as the sun. “There are things I have not told you,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving her own. “Things you should know.”

“Those things are nothing to me,” Rosalynde answered as emotions choked her voice. “Just come and lie down with me. We’ll make a bed—I have a blanket.” She pulled away from him, letting her hand slide lightly down his arm until she took his hand in her own. “Come with me.”

Aric’s eyes searched her face, seeming almost to drink in her image. Then he bowed over her hand and brought it to his lips. One kiss he planted on her knuckles, another on the underside of her wrist. Then he opened her hand and pressed a warm kiss to the center of her palm. With his lips and tongue he caressed that tender spot, springing all her nerves to life. Then he straightened and pressed her hand to his pounding heart.

“You come to me when I had no reason to hope you would. For this, my thorny Rose—” His voice broke off and a wondrous shiver overtook her.

“My Rosalynde …”

Together they removed their meager possessions from the horses then set the animals free to graze. The blanket became the finest of rugs. The gathered leaves, a couch of rare design. The sky showed pale blue and striking gold above them, a painted ceiling that outshone the finest church rotunda. Crickets hummed softly as birds played a wild and wistful song. Serenaded they were, and surrounded by a beauty unmatched by all mankind’s efforts.

When Aric drew her to him, Rosalynde would not have had it any other way. He let her cloak down lightly, then with both his hands, smoothed her hair back from her cheeks. Gently he worked the tangles free, sliding his fingers down to where her hair brushed her hips.

She touched his hair as well, running her fingers through locks that felt too soft and silken for such a hardened man as he was. His jaw was rough with the faint growth of his beard, yet the contrast was exquisite. Soft hair, rough chin, soft lips. Across his face she let her fingers roam, exploring this man of hers, learning all she could: how thick his lashes were; how fine the hairs at his temple were.

How sensitive his ears were to her touch.

As she ran one finger lightly around the rim of his ear, his eyes darkened and she heard the sharp intake of his breath. Before she could put that new knowledge to the test, he was down on one knee before her, his hands intent on her waist.

“This gown must go,” he said in a thick voice as he fumbled with the ties at her sides. Then when his fingers worked the lacings loose, he slid his hands within the space, sliding the thin linen of her kirtle sensuously along her heated skin.

“Aric,” Rosalynde breathed, bowing her head to kiss the golden hair at his crown.

“Sweet Mary, but you fire my blood,” he groaned. He gathered her in his arms even as he knelt there, crushing her thighs and belly to his chest. Rosalynde held the side of his face against her breasts, glorying in his nearness, in his desire for her, and in hers for him. Then he tilted his face up and she cupped his cheeks.

“Won’t you show me how a husband comes to his wife who loves him well?”

“Who loves him …” His words trailed away, but his gaze was unshakably fixed with hers. Then a faint, wondering smile edged his harshly handsome features. He rose from his kneeling position, never letting go of her, so that she was held quite aloft, looking down upon him. For a long moment they stood there in the quiet of the abandoned castle, just looking at one another. Rosalynde felt as if her heart were filled to bursting, so much love did she feel for him. Then he slowly let her down, sliding her torturously along the hard length of him.