A Lady of His Own

  “No. I decided that was because no bad battles, or betrayals, happened here. It’s as you said. This place has always simply been, and bad things aren’t allowed to happen here.”

  Glancing at him, she saw the self-deprecatory smile playing about his lips. She smiled, too, and looked ahead.

  Noting the various landmarks, they unhurriedly circled the keep. Nearing the hall once again, Penny paused to glance out one last time. To the left across the river and a little way southeast lay the Abbey; Wallingham Hall lay to the right, farther away and concealed behind a spur of the escarpment.

  “Where will we eat?” Charles asked.

  Hiding a smile, she turned and followed him down the steep stairs.

  They spread a rug under a tree that had sprung up by the side of the dry ditch. The spot still gave them views, albeit more restricted, but also protection from the stiffening breeze. In their oasis of comfort, they munched their way through the delicacies Em had packed into the bags. There was a bottle of wine, but no glasses; Penny laughed and accepted the bottle when Charles opened it and, with a flourish, offered it. They passed the bottle back and forth while commenting on this and that, all matters of local life.

  Nothing to break the spell.

  When Charles had demolished Mrs. Slattery’s game pie, and between them they’d finished Cook’s almond tart, they drained the bottle, then packed everything away. Hand in hand, they walked back to the courtyard.

  Charles attached the empty bags to their saddles. Penny handed him the folded rug; he tucked that away, too. “It’s too early for any courier, isn’t it? They won’t have reached the Abbey yet.”

  Charles glanced at her. “Unlikely.”

  “In that case”—she looked up at the rooms giving onto the courtyard—“let’s explore.”

  Anything to prolong their time in this place, this haven from the world; Charles fell in with her wish without quibble, inwardly acknowledging his own inclination. Outside a murderer might stalk their families’ lands, but while here, time and place were theirs, sacrosanct, inviolable.

  He caught up with her in the hall and took her hand. Together, they ambled through the rooms, recalling incidents from earlier times, laughing, smiling at their younger selves. Restormel was a shell keep, the various rooms built around the courtyard. They were traversing the armory beneath the south battlements when Penny glanced out of an arrow slit—and stopped. “Charles?”

  He was beside her in an instant.

  She pointed. “Isn’t that Gerond?”

  A tiny figure on horseback was trotting along the road to Lostwithiel; it was, indeed, Gerond. He was wearing a caped riding cloak.

  “He’s alone,” Penny murmured.

  “Hmm…I wonder where he’s been.”

  “That cloak…” Penny glanced up at him. “You kept that scrap your knife caught last night. Couldn’t we check to see which of them has a torn greatcoat?”

  “We don’t need to check—the answer is none.”

  She frowned. “Because he would have got rid of it?”

  He nodded. “And in this season, it’s perfectly reasonable for a gentleman to go visiting without a greatcoat.”

  Staring at the dwindling figure was pointless; it reminded him of their lack of success in identifying the villain thus far. He nudged Penny. “Come on—let’s go on.”

  They did, passing through the rest of the chambers, some still roofed, others open to the elements, eventually reaching the ladies’ solar. A small chamber built on a mezzanine level above the main hall, it faced southwest and was bathed in sunshine for most of the day. Its roof was intact. A stone platform worn smooth over the years filled the space beneath a series of thin vertical windows, each narrow enough not to be out of place in a keep, yet the mullions had been cunningly shaped so that, from inside, the series appeared as one large divided window spilling golden light into the room.

  As usual, the chamber was invitingly pleasant. Penny stepped onto the stone platform and felt the warmth seep through her boots’ soles. For her purpose, this was the perfect setting. Walking to one window, she looked out; long, thin, and open, the windows stretched from above her head to a foot above the platform. “I used to sit here and stare out, and imagine I was the lady of Restormel Keep, waiting for my husband to return from some typical male military endeavor, like chasing off a band of outlaws.”

  Charles came up behind her. He stepped close, then his hands slid around her waist, and he eased her back against him. It felt wonderful to stand there, supported and surrounded by his strength in the sunshine; she leaned back, relaxed, closed her eyes, let her senses unfurl.

  And sensed a sudden sharpening of his attention. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw what had caused it. Another of their three suspects, Fothergill this time, was striding across a field, heading west. “He must have been out looking at birds.”

  “Hmm.” Charles’s response came as a low growl. “At least he’s heading away from here.”

  So he wouldn’t disturb them in their enchanted place. Penny smiled. She had no difficulty following Charles’s thoughts; leaning back against him as she was, it was apparent in which direction they’d gone.

  Fothergill marched steadily on, then disappeared over a rise. They’d seen no one else; no one else was likely to stop by. They were as alone and as safe as they could be.

  Memories and questions hung suspended in her mind. Possibilities beckoned.

  She swayed, just a little, against Charles, then turned sinuously in his arms. He met her gaze, arched a brow as she draped her arms over his shoulders. His hands firmed and he drew her close, her hips flush to his thighs. “So what else did you think of when you sat here, all those years ago?”

  His voice had lowered to a tone she thought of as distilled seduction. Her lips curved, but she kept her eyes on his. Wondered for one second if she truly dared…decided she did. Would. “I thought about us.”

  “Us?” One brow arrogantly arched. “You and me?”

  She nodded. “Yes, even then. I used to think about you being half-Norman, and the other half French, very much like your ancestor who came over with the Conqueror.”

  Eyes locked on his, she knew when he picked up her train of thought. He started to follow it, not quite sure…

  “And, of course,” she continued, “I’m Norman with a healthy dash of Viking, enough to make me interesting, more of a challenge to a French-Norman lord.” She opened her eyes wide, stared into the midnight depths of his. “Don’t you agree?”

  His hold on her firmed. “As a French-Norman lord, I definitely agree.”

  He bent his head; before she could stop him he covered her lips with his and demonstrated, amply, just how interesting he found her. For an instant, the rising tide of desire threatened to sweep her before it—the gloriously familiar heat of his mouth, the flaming brand of his tongue, the silkily slow, sensuous claiming of her senses—then she remembered her goal.

  He was holding her too tightly, too close to break away. Reaching up, she grabbed a handful of his thick locks and tugged.

  Lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes, he looked his question.

  She managed to find enough breath to ask, “Don’t you want to know the rest of what I thought about?”

  He stilled. Not a freezing type of stillness but one even more absolute, a predator holding perfectly steady so as not to frighten its prey. Not a cold-blooded stillness but an elementally hot-blooded one, one that set their pulses pounding.

  His eyes, dark and intense, bored into hers; he searched, confirmed—went to answer…and hesitated.

  She felt that hesitation like a rein snapping taut, holding him back. Tilting her head, she studied his face, then returned her eyes to his. “What?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then pressed his lips tight, closed his eyes, and murmured, “I…don’t know if I dare.”

  Charles not accept a dare? She could barely believe her ears.

  As if expecting that, he
opened his eyes and looked at her—wordlessly warning her not to say what she was thinking.

  It was her turn to look inquiringly at him.

  He heaved a deep sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know what you might be about to say, but…” After a moment, he raised his head and met her eyes. “You do know that I’m not entirely sane when it comes to you, don’t you?”

  It took a minute of searching his face, his eyes, for her to be sure she’d correctly interpreted what he was not very clearly trying to tell her. The look she bent on him was chiding. “Charles, you won’t hurt me—you never have.” He opened his mouth; she cut him off. “Yes, all right, except for that once, but that was inevitable, as you should by now realize—I don’t hold that against you. I do wish you’d forget it!”

  Especially if that sensitivity was going to interfere with what she had in mind. Before he could respond, she sank against him, let her fingers trail across his cheek to his lips, followed her fingers with her eyes.

  His hold on her firmed again.

  “Please…?” She infused just the right amount of coercion into the word.

  He sighed, then drew breath. “So what else did you imagine?”

  “Well, if I was the lady of Restormel Keep, then obviously”—she lifted her gaze once more to his eyes—“you were my lord.”

  He swore softly in French. “Do you really want to venture there”—bending his head, he nipped her lower lip—“lady?”

  She laughed softly and drew him back to her. “Oh, yes.” She breathed the affirmation over his lips, then kissed him voraciously, then drew back. He let her, just.

  “So,” she said, moistening her lower lip, her gaze lowering to his lips, “you’re my lord, and you’ve just returned from chasing brigands, and I’ve been waiting for you here.” She swayed in his arms, swishing her hips side to side against him. “You’ve just ridden in and come up, ordered my ladies from the chamber, and here I am, in your arms.” She lifted her gaze to his. “What would you do next?”

  His eyes had darkened, their expression more intense; the planes of his face seemed harder—more, indeed, like the lord of legend she’d painted him.

  “What I do next…would depend on a number of things. Such as…” One hand slid down and around; cupping her bottom, he jerked her up and to him, so the vee at the junction of her thighs cradled his rigid erection. His eyes held hers, watching her reaction as he evocatively rocked. “Have you been obedient? Or not?”

  Her nerves were already unraveling with anticipation; it was an effort to cling to enough wits to respond appropriately. Holding his gaze, she arched one brow haughtily. “Me? Obedient? I’m part Viking, remember?”

  “Ah. I see.” His gaze, hard and ruthless, raced over her face. “So you haven’t yet been tamed?”

  “Oh, no,” she affirmed. “Not yet.”

  She pretended to push him away, to wriggle from his hold; he didn’t budge. Relentlessly he held her close, pressed her to him; on a gasp, she turned her head as if spurning him. Locking her to him with one arm, he raised a hand to frame her face, not gently yet as he forced her face to his, there was neither violence nor the threat of it in his touch.

  He looked down at her, deep into her eyes.

  She glimpsed him behind the ruthless mask, sensed his hesitation. “Don’t stop.”

  A whispered plea, it sent a faint shudder through him.

  His lids flickered, then he locked his eyes, intent and burning, on hers. Slowly bent his head. “I’m not even sure I can.”

  His lips covered hers. Firmed, then forced hers apart. He surged into her mouth, claiming, branding, devastatingly commanding, and passion, unleashed, swept them away. Within seconds she was reeling, unsure if the turbulent tumultuous tide came from him or herself. Or them both. It was her imagination that had scripted the scene, but her words, her fantasy, had struck a chord in him.

  Struck a deeply buried vein of ruthless possessiveness and sent it raging.

  His hands raced over her, impressing even through the plush velvet of her habit, in some strange way even more erotic than if he’d stripped her naked. She shivered, a reaction that came from her bones. His tongue whipped fire down her veins; his hands roamed, claiming, kneading, flagrantly possessing, and she wondered what she’d invited, what degree of surrender he’d demand.

  Realized she didn’t care. She’d asked for this, wanted it, needed to know of it, of him and what, once stripped of the restraint of civilization, lurked within him when it came to her.

  So she played her part, simultaneously acquiescent, for no lady could deny her lord his rights to her body, yet also holding back, denying him the ultimate surrender, making him work for that, demanding he conquer her before she would yield that, too.

  A dangerous game; the last remnant of sanity remaining to her knew it, yet equally knew that with him, despite him being the very source of the danger, or perhaps because of that, she was safe.

  She had nothing to fear and everything to gain. And a great deal to learn.

  Such as how desperate he could make her, that simply through the combination of his heavily shielded if blatantly explicit caresses and the voracious demands of his lips and tongue, he could reduce her to a state of sobbing need. To where her blood thundered in her veins, to where her skin burned and her flesh throbbed, and a telltale empty ache blossomed inside her.

  Their kiss turned savage, primitive and demanding, then he broke from it and growled, “Do you want me inside you?”

  “Yes,” she gasped, breathless, the word faint. “Now.”

  His hands closed about her bottom and he moved provocatively against her. “As my lady desires.”

  The words rang with maleness, arrogant and sure, dominant and demanding.

  He’d been holding her high on her toes; he eased her down so her feet touched the stone slab. Relief flashed through her; she reached up to twine her arms about his neck—he released her, caught her hands and spun her around, then locked her against him, her bottom to his hips, her back to his chest.

  “First things first.”

  The gravelly words brushed her ear; releasing her hands, he reached for the buttons of her short jacket. He opened it and pressed the halves wide; she used the moment to catch her breath—lost it again when his hands closed over her breasts and kneaded possessively, then he set deft fingers to the buttons of her blouse. The change in protection from velvet to fine linen had made her senses spin, but then he spread her blouse wide, with two tugs stripped down her chemise. A breeze threaded through the window slit before her, caressing her flesh with cool fingers, then his palms cruised over the swollen mounds; his hands closed, hot and hard, taking possession. They kneaded, then his fingers found her nipples and she gasped.

  Arched as he knowingly played. She was suddenly brutally conscious of the flaring need to have him inside her, to take him into her body, already ripe and waiting. Wanting.

  As if he knew, he released her breasts, caught her hands, drew them forward until her arms were straight, then pressed her hands palms down against the beveled edge of the window slit before them, where the carving in the stone formed a small ledge at hip height.

  “Your hands stay there.”

  An absolute order. Reflexively, she gripped, wondering; the stone was at least solid beneath her hands. She was half-bent forward; before she could think, she felt him gathering the back of her skirts, felt the rush of cool air across her heated skin as he lifted them. He pushed them to her waist as his hand boldly roved, making free with her body as a lord might with his lady’s. His hand caressed, blatantly claiming; his fingers probed, tracing her softness, opening the swollen folds, then sliding into her, pressing in, then explicitly stroking until she sobbed with frustrated need.

  “How disobedient have you been, lady?”

  She tried to catch her breath, tried to think—couldn’t, not with his fingers playing so evocatively. “Ah…”

  “Nev
er mind.”

  She felt him shift behind her.

  “You still need to be tamed.”

  He thrust into her. In one smooth, powerful, relentless invasion he filled her to the limit, until she could feel him beneath her heart, in her throat, throughout her body.

  Then he rode her that way.

  Hands locked about her hips, he held her immobile and repetitively filled her, the fabric of his breeches against her bare bottom an added stimulation, emphasizing that to him she was exposed, vulnerable—his for the taking.

  And he took.

  He’d entered her from behind before, but only in their bed; she’d had no idea it could be this…primitive. This powerful, this erotic. Far beyond breathless, she clung to the stone, arms braced, her body riding his thrusts as he filled her again and again. Lids falling, she gave herself up to the moment, to the experience, to the building excitement as he expertly pushed her sensually further, then further still.