Always (35 page)

“Nay. Whatever she did, she is dead now. Rosamunde is not my mother. Nor is she Delia. Confusing her with other women was my mistake. Rosamunde is
Rosamunde.
A gift to me from God and our king. And I shall treasure her until the end of my days.”

“Oh,” Rosamunde said softly, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I see.” Lord Burkhart cleared his throat and turned
away to blink rapidly against a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He watched Shambley walk toward them, then murmured, “Well, I am glad to hear it, son. Rosamunde is a jewel, and I am proud of you for not allowing the past to affect your future.”

“Who are you talking to?” Robert asked curiously as he reached his side.

Burkhart scowled at the younger man, then turned to gesture toward Aric and his young wife. The couple was gone. They had left while his back was turned.

“Never mind,” he muttered, starting toward the trees now himself. “Come, we should inform someone of the bishop's death—and get someone to put out that fire.”

 

“I do not think your father was quite finished,” Rosamunde murmured as Aric rushed her back through the gardens.

“Aye, well, he can finish later.” Pausing as they reached the castle, he opened the door, then urged her inside and toward their room. Both of them remained silent until they had reached their chamber. Aric ushered her inside, then turned to close the door. When he turned around, it was to find Rosamunde digging around in her bags.

“Sit you on the bed,” she instructed as she straightened with a small bag in hand.

Aric hesitated briefly by the door, then shrugged and moved to do as she said, settling himself and waiting patiently as she poured water from a pitcher into a bowl, then dipped a cloth in it and moved toward him.

“Now hold out your arms,” she ordered, setting the bowl on the floor at his feet and taking one of the hands he held out to begin cleaning his wounds.

Aric watched her work, noting her frown with interest. “What are you thinking?”

Her mouth tightened slightly. “I am thinking it is a good thing that the bishop is dead, else I would surely
rake him over the coals for this,” she muttered as she finished cleaning the wrist and began to wrap it. “Does it hurt very much?”

“Not much at all,” he assured her with gentle amusement as she turned her attention to the other wrist. “What of you?”

Her eyes slid to his in surprise. “Me? What do you mean?”

Using his free hand he gently brushed her cheek, running a finger over the small sprinkling of red spots and blisters there from the sparks from Shrewsbury's torch. “Do they hurt?”

“Nay.” She shook her head, concentrating again on his wrist. “They shall heal quickly.”

“As will my wrists,” he murmured, grabbing her hands as she finished bandaging him and would have moved away.

Still clutching the now bloodstained cloth she had used to clean the wounds on his wrists, Rosamunde peered at him questioningly.

“You disobeyed me…again,” he said quietly, and Rosamunde's eyes widened at the solemn pronouncement, then narrowed warily as he went on. “I distinctly recall telling you to wait here in the room for my return. But you did not do that, did you?”

“Oh, well,…” Rosamunde's gaze began dancing around the room behind where he sat, but jerked back to him when he drew her between his legs until her knees bumped against the bed.

“Nay,” he interrupted firmly. “You did not do what I asked.”

Reaching up, he began to undo the ties of her gown. “Instead you left the room and came in search of me, even managing to save my life in the process. And for that…” He finished with her stays and slid one hand behind her neck to draw her head down toward him.

“For that I am eternally grateful,” he whispered against her lips, then covered her mouth with his own, kissing her at first with gentle tenderness, then with a passion that built quickly to consume them both. Rosamunde was vaguely aware of his hands skimming down over her breasts, across her stomach, then lower over her hips and down the outside of her legs. It wasn't until his hands slid their way back up, his callused fingers caressing her bare flesh, that she realized that he had been removing her gown and undertunic.

Shuddering under his touch, she moaned into his mouth, her own hands moving to his shoulders to brace her weight. His hand caught and cupped one breast as his tongue delved into her mouth. Pulling his lips away, he kissed a wet trail down her neck, then dropped suddenly to lave the nipple of the breast he cupped. Then he breathed the words, “Thank you for saving my life.”

His words were spoken against her wet skin, his breath warming the damp flesh and making her shudder. Opening her eyes, she watched him continue to lave her breast, then caught her fingers in his hair and urged his head away. When his eyes opened and he peered up at her, she said softly, “Thank you for saving my life, too.”

Smiling, he stood and pulled her into his arms, pressing his body against hers as he again covered her mouth with his own, his lips strong and searching, until they were both panting and breathless. His hand suddenly dipped between her legs and found her warm, wet heat. She gasped.

“I need you,” he said gruffly against her mouth, then moved his lips to her ear and nibbled there briefly. “Until you arrived in the cottage, I thought I was a dead man. That I would never hold you again, never touch you, taste you—”

“Hush,” Rosamunde murmured gently, hugging him tightly and closing her eyes as his fingers began to move, stimulating a rather urgent sensation inside her. “Hus
band, I—” she began a bit breathlessly, then moaned as he slid a finger inside her, stretching her gently.

“Aye?”

Rosamunde curled her fingers into his tunic, her head turning into the nibbling kisses he was applying to her ear, even as she shifted into his caressing hand. “You have too many clothes on,” she muttered in frustration, tugging at the tunic.

“It is a sin to fornicate unclothed, wife,” he teased, then groaned when her hand found him through the cloth of his brais. She squeezed gently at first, then with a stronger grip. “Do that again and I shall—” He bit his words off when she did so again.

“You shall what?” she taunted, aware of her effect. He grew firm and bulged against the cloth of his brais.

Growling, Aric bit her ear gently, then used his free hand to push at his brais until his swollen flesh sprang free. Her hand closed around him at once, sliding along its length like a sheath.

“I feared I had lost you, too,” Rosamunde admitted suddenly, her grasp tightening. “I thought—”

“Shhh,” Aric murmured, ensuring her silence by covering her mouth again. He caught her around the waist and lifted her slightly, taking her down onto the bed with him. Nudging her legs apart again, he brushed her hand away and took himself in hand as he shifted between her legs. He brushed himself against her, making her groan.

“I need you inside me,” she said in a moan, wrapping her legs around his hips and attempting to pull him nearer. “Now.”

Aric gave a husky, breathless laugh. “You are a demanding wench, wife.” He rubbed himself against her again, then slid into her, covering her joyful cry with his mouth as he did. He kissed her passionately as he withdrew and thrust into her once more, driving himself into her again and again until at last they cried out and found their release.

Several moments later, Aric opened his eyes and peered at the woman in his arms, then down at himself. She was as naked as the day she had been born.

“I am still dressed,” he murmured with wry amusement.

“Hmmm,” Rosamunde murmured, beginning to pluck at the cloth of his tunic absently. “We should attend to that.”

Smiling, Aric pulled his arm from beneath her and sat up to remove his tunic.

Shifting to lie watching him, Rosamunde murmured, “Husband?”

“Aye?” he asked, tossing the shirt to the floor before slipping his legs off the bed and setting to work at removing his brais. They had barely made it off his hips.

“You are not angry that I disobeyed you about leaving the room, are you.” It wasn't really a question—it was more a statement of fact—but Aric glanced at her and answered anyway.

“Nay, of course not. You saved my life.”

“Hmmm.” Rosamunde was silent as he stepped out of his brais, then asked hopefully, “Does that mean that I am released from my vow to always obey you, my lord?”

Snorting, Aric straightened, brais in hand, and pointed out with amusement, “You haven't
always
been obeying me anyway.”

“Aye,” she agreed wryly. “But I
have
felt guilty every time I disobeyed.”

Laughing, Aric tossed his brais on the floor with his shirt and crawled back into bed. Settling on his back, he pulled her into his arms again. “You have, have you?” he asked with amusement. When she nodded her head and peered up at him unhappily, he managed a solemn expression. “Well, we cannot have that, can we?”

Rosamunde shook her head.

“Well, then, I release you from that vow, so long as you keep the other.”

She stilled at that, and he could see the frown plucking at her brow even before she asked uncertainly, “What other vow?”

“To love me,” Aric said softly, and she melted against him, her gaze softening on his face.

“Oh, aye, my lord husband,” she whispered, meeting his gaze clearly. “I vow to keep that one. I shall love you. Always.”

“And I shall love you always, too,” Aric swore. A smile was tugging at his lips even before he pulled her face up for a kiss; then he began to make love to her again.