Page 72 of The Forest Bride
“But no mention of forest bride. Not all predictions come true. Even his.” She met his gaze, then looked away quickly.
His heart surged with sudden compassion, seeing her disappointment. “You do not know that. Someday you will wed.”
“It is not likely now. And not in a forest!” She laughed, though it was thin.
“Tell me,” he said, for the question had been burning in him, “what did De Soulis want when he spoke to you before we left?”
“He wants me back. You do not.” She spun to walk ahead, reaching up to shake a sapling, then bent to poke some bracken. She kept her back turned as she peered into a tangle of birch limbs and new leaves.
He followed. “I never said I did not want you.”
“You made it clear years ago.”
“Margaret—”
“I could decide to take his fair offer.” She lifted her chin, slanted him a look.
“It is not a fair offer.”
“It is an offer. Look!” This as she pulled an arrow shaft from ferny undergrowth. “I have an eye like a hawk, sir. You would have done well to keep me around.”
Enough. He stepped forward, hardly thinking, plowing through the ferns toward her as if he could break the wall between him and his feelings. She had been his lost dream for so long, and now she was here—and he had yet to crack through the barrier around his heart. But her remark had touched off his guilt like a flame.
“Margaret.”
“We should go,” she said, back turned.
“Margaret!” He reached for her arm and spun her toward him, her skirts spiraling through the ferns. Her eyes widened in surprise when he snatched the arrow from her hand and threw it aside. He tossed his arrow down as well, and took her wrists in his hands to tug her close. She raised her forearms between her body and his.
“Margaret Keith, for love of God,” he said low, furious—not with her, but himself—“what is it you want?”
“What doyouwant?” He felt the resistance in her. “Though perhaps you do not need to tell me again.”
“Jesu, you are a vixen sometimes,” he growled, and pulled her toward him. The desire that had lingered in him since the other night plunged through him, renewed, stronger. He tugged her so close that her breasts pressed against his woolen surcoat and tunic, against his hard-beating heart.
“What do I want? You,” he said.
As her lips opened to reply, lush and ready, he kissed her. Setting his lips over hers fast and firm, he held her by the wrists, his chest hard against her full breasts, and tasted her mouth. Her lips responded and she gave a little moan. He felt her body arch closer, meeting him, pressing, drawing back. What he sought, she gave willingly, her lips opening, the small tip of her tongue meeting his. He let her wrists go and took her waist, pulling her tight against him, then slanted his face for another kiss. Her arms looped around his neck and he tilted her back as she arched, feeling as if he could not slake the thirst that pulsed through his body. The next kiss was her doing, breathless, tender, and deep. He let go of her small, taut waist and cupped her head in his hands. Kisses poured, one into the other. His heart was slamming within.
He pulled back, breathing hard, and tipped his head against hers. “Margaret.”
“What,” she whispered, “was that?”
“An offer.” The words slipped past him. “My offer to you.”
She stared at him. “Of what?”
“God’s very bones, Margaret Keith, you do not forgive a man easily, do you?”
“I forgave you years ago. You never knew. Offer of what?”
Forgiven? Relief washed through him. He would say it, and so be it. “My heart.”
Silent, she watched him, eyes green as the leaves surrounding her. “Truly?”
“Lass,” he whispered, then sighed. He still cupped her face in his hands. “This is not easy.”
“I know,” she said in barely a whisper. Captured in his hands, she stood so close, her body pressed to his. He tipped his brow to hers again.
