Page 35 of Lord of Dunkeathe
Sir Nicholas’s answer was so softly, gruffly spoken, she had to strain to hear it. “No, we are not.Iam not.” He started toward her.
Suddenly, all her brave defiance seemed to have deserted her. She swallowed hard and sidled backward. “I’m surprised to hear you admit it,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
“I know my faults, but I also know my strengths. Yet it seems you, my lady, are capable of arousing such desire in me, I become as weak as a lad.”
He halted in front of her and a troubled look darkened his face. “God help me, how I wish you did not!” he whispered hoarsely as he pulled her close and his lips took hers with sure and certain purpose. His arms encircled her and held her tight against him.
Need, yearning, lust leaped into burning, vibrant life within her.
She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to help herself as she leaned into him with her warm, yielding body.
Yet even as she returned his kiss with ardent passion, she knew this was wrong. They should not be here, together, alone and kissing. She should stop him. Make him let her go. Walk out of this chamber and never, ever come near him again.
But the desire kindling within her swiftly overwhelmed the voice of her reason. Her objections fell away, destroyed by the sensation of his mouth against hers, and that of his body, virile and powerful, hard against her own.
He tasted of fine wine, intoxicating and full-bodied. Rich and warm, like grapes in the sun.
And like the sun, she was hot. No breeze could chill the welcome warmth engendered by his touch as his hands slid up her back, clasping her even more tightly to him. No blast of winter could cool her ardor as she leaned into him, her breasts crushed against his chest.
Her hands glided around his waist, over his rough leather belt. How good this felt, how right. How perfect. More thrilling than anything in her life. When his tongue pushed against her lips, she didn’t hesitate to part them, and welcome him inside.
His hand moved slowly down her back to cup her buttocks and press her against the evidence of his arousal. Her legs slightly parted to steady herself, she moaned softly, aware of his need, and her own. The moistness between her legs, the gentle throbbing that had an urgency she had never felt before.
She held him closer still, and her kisses became more urgent. More fervent. More demanding. This was what she’d longed to feel, on those long, lonely nights at home. How she’d dreamed ofbeing held and kissed and touched, by a man who passionately desired her.
She’d feared this was impossible, forever denied, because she was not pretty and no longer young, and no man she could love had ever wanted to marry her.
This man didn’t want to marry her. He might lust after her, but he would never marry her. There was nothing good or lasting or pure between them, but only unbridled, uncontrolled desire.
She broke away from him. “Stop!”
For a brief instant, she saw his shock. And then it was as if shutters had closed over his face, rendering it a wooden mask no more revealing than a plank. “If you wish, my lady.”
“I do wish it!”
“And so I have stopped,” he said, his tone reasonable, as he spread his arms wide.
“I have no desire to be the object of your lust. I refuse to be just a body in your bed, a means to sate and satisfy your lust while you woo another for your wife,” she declared as she marched to the door.
She looked back at Nicholas of Dunkeathe over her shoulder. “Have no fear, my lord, that I will speak of what’s happened between us,” she said, while he stood as still as a marble statue, “I won’t, because it’s to my shame, as itshouldbe to yours.”
With that, she threw open the door and strode out of the room. They couldn’t stay here another hour, not after what Sir Nicholas had done.
And what she’d done, too, the small voice of her conscience prompted.
She ignored it, just as she ignored Lady Joscelind and the other ladies by the hearth who stopped talking to stare at her as she stalked past, determined to find Uncle Fergus and leave this place without delay.
Some of the ladies were sewing, while Lady Joscelind idly strummed a harp. Lady Catherine and Lady Elizabeth weren’t there, of course. They’d already had the great good sense to go. As for the rest, let Sir Nicholas have one of them and be damned.
Then she spotted Eleanor, seated at the edge of the group, looking at her in amazement. She couldn’t stop to explain—not yet—and she was sorry they would have to say goodbye to her. She’d miss Eleanor and she was certain Uncle Fergus would regret bidding farewell to Fredella, yet they simply couldn’t stay.
She reached the courtyard and there was still no sign of Uncle Fergus. Perhaps he’d gone to the village, or out to the farms, looking for more marvelous sheep.
She continued to the gate and spoke to the two Saxons on guard, the same ones who’d been so insolent that first day.
The stocky one ran his gauntleted hand nervously up and down the shaft of his spear, and his cheeks colored. “My lady, thank you for not saying nothing to Sir Nicholas about…aboutwhat happened there at the gate Midsummer’s Day. We’re right grateful.”
The other one eagerly added, “If we’d a-known who you was—”
