Diana Cosby (12 page)

“You would be liking that?”

The disbelief in her voice had him groaning. “Yes, very much so.”

“I . . .” She looked away.

He gently turned her face toward him. Within the silvery shafts of moonlight, he caught her blush. “What is wrong?”

“I do nae know what to do.”

Alas, she was a virgin. How could he forget?

“Will you show me?”

Another groan slid from his mouth, his body so hot, ’twas as if he’d burst into flames. He would touch her, no more. “Yes, but you have to trust me.”

Rois watched Griffin, his face a complex mask of desire and determination. She ached with need, need he inspired, need she yearned to understand.

With efficient movements, he removed his tunic and shirt, his body hard, sculpted against the sheen of the moon.

Awareness poured through her. He was beautiful. No, magnificent. With a hesitant gesture, she reached out; her fingers met silken steel.

His breath rushed out in a hiss. “No.” He caught her hand as she started to pull away, gently lay it against his chest. “I enjoy your touch.”

Mesmerized, fascinated with their differences, his defined muscles where her skin was soft, how his body shivered beneath her exploration, she lingered.

“Rois, I—” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“What?”

He stared at her with pure male desire.

Though innocent, she understood his need, a burst of longing coursing through her as well.

“I want to touch you,” he whispered, “but only if you want me to.”

With his hot stare burning her very soul, to have a man look at her with such want, such desire, the reasons for her uncertainty faded. How had she ever considered denying what they both wanted?

“I would like that very much,” she said.

“Would you?”

Wherever his gaze lingered, her skin tingled, and he hadn’t even touched her. What would it be like to make love? Heat stroked her body until she wondered at her ability to stand. She realized Griffin was holding her up, intimately, against the moss-softened rock. Heaven help her, the things this man made her think, made her want.

“Aye,” she whispered.

His nostrils flared as he caught her face. “I will be gentle.”

“I know.” This moment was perfect. ’Twas as if a magical tale whispered by the bards around an ember stoked fire deep into the night.

Without warning, she caught a tinkle of distant laughter as if truly of the fey. Nay, ’twas the muddying of her mind that invited fantasy. How did one think straight when alone with such a passionate man?

On an appreciative hum, he pressed slow kisses along the curve of her jaw, and her thoughts of the fey fled.

“I want you, all of you.” He skimmed his destroying mouth lower, his fingers following in shameless display. “But first I need to see you, taste you”—his gaze riveted on her—“everywhere.”

Anticipation swept her as his fingers loosened her gown, exposed her to his view. A breeze skimmed across her skin like cool hands, leaving her aware, needy, wanting. Instead of being ashamed, she found herself wanting him to look at her, to drink his fill and never stop.

“You are incredible.” Griffin cupped her breasts, lifted his eyes to her. “Perfect in every way.” With his eyes locked on hers, he lowered his head and caught the tip of her nipple with his mouth. He slowly encircled the sensitive skin with his tongue, each stroke slow, each movement shooting another wave of heat through her body.

She gasped. “Griffin.”

“Let yourself go,” he said as he licked the taut tip, “just feel.” Senses exploded as his tongue lavished her. Their bodies wrapped within the breeze, embraced beneath the moon so full, so vibrant as his hands moved over her with infinite precision, skimming, savoring, leaving her breaths coming fast, and her body shivering with delicious tremors.

Then, God help her, his mouth moved lower, his hands exposing her most private place to him bit by wondrous bit. A whisper of hesitation filled her. She should say something, stop him, but if she did, after the hints of bliss she experienced on their wedding night, forever would she regret not knowing the full wonder of this moment.

With her heart pounding fast, she watched and experienced the magic he seemed to wield at his every touch. And she wanted more.

Wanted to know it all.

“Griffin . . .” Her words ended on a moan as he exposed her fully.

Eyes hot, he looked up, pressed a kiss on her tender skin. “This, us, is right.”

“I believe you,” she replied in a throaty whisper.

“I need you to be sure this is what you want,” he said, his mouth but a breath away from her, his eyes fierce with need, but his words fragile, as if desperate for her to understand.

Emotions welled within her until she thought she’d burst. Rois nodded.

“Watch me,” Griffin whispered.

Fascinated, she watched his warrior’s hands skim across her most private place with sublime grace, like poetry meant to seduce. Her each breath was infused with the scent of man, the taste of longing, and the sight of wonder.

With exquisite gentleness, he cupped her, his breath a sultry whisper upon her soft curls, the sensitive folds beneath quivering with expectation. Against the shimmers of moonlight, like a god unveiling its most precious prize, he splayed her soft folds to his view.

At the rush of cool air against her slick warmth, Rois trembled. The heat of his tongue transformed the swirl of her breath into a moan. Her body ignited, exploded with sensation.

“Griffin,” she gasped as he relentlessly took, savored, his finger playing in accord to the wondrous sweeps of his tongue. He increased his pace, and her body began to convulse. She cried out.

Warm hands drew her to him, cradled her as she absorbed each shudder, amazed such intense emotion was possible.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered.

The concern in his voice had her opening her eyes. “What?” she asked, suddenly shy—absurd when they’d been so intimate.

“You have tears on your cheeks.”

“’Twas so beautiful. Griffin, can I . . .”

“What?” he asked, but she caught the satisfaction in his eyes. He was enjoying this. Curiosity interwove with her newfound bravery.

“I . . . I would like to touch you so intimately as well.”

His eyes burned into hers, he stroked his hand against her cheek. “Do what it is you wish.”

He was giving her free rein? Rois drew a steadying breath. “I—I may be slow.”

His body tensed. “I am counting on it.”

Confused, but nae dissuaded, she stood. Her entire body trembled, but she understood. Desire, nae fear guided her actions.

At the brush of cool air, she glanced down. She was all but naked. Gathering her courage, she discarded the remainder of her gown, exposing herself fully to his view.

“God’s teeth.”

At his strangled curse, confused, she glanced down. Shimmers seemed to dance upon her skin, a light pulse that conjured erotic images in her mind and if possible, made her want Griffin more.

Without warning, energy swept through her like a mystical presence. “You want me to touch you?” Rois asked, her voice thick, wanton, the lure of a siren. She had no experience. What was going on? The pulse of air increased, smothering her doubts, her thoughts until it was only him. Her. This moment.

“Yes, very much,” he strangled out.

Against the glittering mist surrounding her, she skimmed her hands over her breasts, curled her fingers beneath the weight of each, slid her thumb back and forth across the still slick, sensitive tips. Sensation tore through her. She arched back, moaned.

His breath fell out in a rough exhale. “Rois . . . please . . . touch me.”

Instead, she slid her hands over her body, down, savoring the feel of him watching her, of his body coiled, tensed for action like a predator.

She thrilled at the sensual danger, understood she played with fire, and with each breath, willingly dared to burn. “When you touched me like this”—she skimmed her finger along her breasts—“your tongue hot against my skin, it makes me want you deep inside me.”

“Rois.” His voice slid out a rough hiss. “Bedamned, touch me.”

She splayed her sensitive flesh where he’d tasted her so intimately, her sheer audacity stunning her.

Griffin trembled. “I am but a man.”

“A very desirable man.” Her entire body ablaze, she knelt before him. “And one I want.”

Hands shaking, he reached down.

She pushed his fingers away. “Your body is mine to discover.” Her gazed lifted, met his. “To taste.”

Need drove her actions, her mind sensitive to the scents, the cool air of the night. With confidence, she stroked his hard length through his garb.

How did she know how he would feel before she’d touched him? Never had she touched him so boldly before, never had she experienced this intimacy with a man before. Another tinkle of laughter sounded in her mind.

Could the fey indeed be influencing her actions?

Unsure of anything, only that her need for Griffin was desperate, she focused on him. Rois quickly loosened the ties and the last vestiges of his garb fell away.

His body, hard with need, trembled before her.

A shimmer of light from his chest caught her attention. She glanced up, frowned. “What is that?”

“What?” Griffin strangled out.

“Near your neck something is glowing.”

With shaky hands, he lifted a chain, a gemstone hanging upon its end, pulsing with light. With a curse, he dropped it to his chest.

Like a spell broken, the stone’s glow faded; her courage, knowledge of moments before, vanished.

An ancient legend of a fairy guiding a maiden into a man’s arms crept through her thoughts. Her breathing quickened. Nay, ’twas a myth, none but her had made the decision to touch Griffin this night. But as she stared at him unsure, the magic of moments ago fading, her wanton actions became disturbingly clear
.

Ashamed, Rois scrambled to her feet, grabbed her gown, and shielded her nakedness.

“Rois? What is wrong?”

Throat dry, she shook her head. “I should nae be here. What we are doing is—”

“Lord Monceaux,” Lochlann called from a distance away on the opposite side of the boulder. “Englishmen approach!”

His blood pounding hot, Griffin cursed as he donned his garb. Two steps away, Rois tugged on her gown. The last tie secured, he stepped over and framed her face between his hands.

“We are not done,” he stated. Eyes wide and unsure, her face pale in the moonlight, she looked like a fairy tumbled. As if that helped a bloody whit.

“Aye. We are.” Her voice trembled. “Neither of us truly knows the other. A moment’s passion is but a bond of desire, nae more.”

Fury ignited, spilled through him in a raw haze. “A moment’s passion? Is that all you think exists between us?”

Her lower lip trembled. “It must be.”

“With the English approaching,” he stated, “now is not the time for a debate. But the time will come. Soon.”

She pulled away; he let her.

Withdrawing his sword, he nodded to Rois. “Stay behind me.”

Anger flared in her eyes. “My da taught me how to wield a blade.”

Of course, Angus would have taught her. “As your husband I will protect you. Neither do you have a sword to fight.”

On a hiss, she withdrew a dagger hidden within the folds of her gown. “I do nae travel unarmed.”

He caught her hand, drew her with him around the rock. “We have little time to argue.”

Outlined in the silver clash of moonlight, a distance across the smoothed rock, Sir Lochlann crouched before the boulders. At the soft crunch of their steps, he turned. Face taut, he motioned them down.

Griffin bent low, drawing Rois with him, and then led her forward. When they reached the Scot, he halted. “How many men did you see?”

Lochlann shook his head. “I am unsure.”

Pulse racing, Griffin glanced at Rois. “Keep down.” He edged up, peered over the slash of weathered rock.

Moonlight embraced the steep slopes, those that would hold the snow from winter storms, and challenge the stoutest man. Except now the shield of land held danger, that from his countrymen, knights who if they saw him, would believe he’d captured two rebel Scots. Never would Rois fall into their hands.

What man would not be drawn to a woman as proud, as fierce? A woman of passion?

He shook off the thoughts and scanned the sweep of trees. Beneath the swath of frayed light, he followed each ripple of movement below, frustrated when within the weave of darkness he could make out naught.

A lone cloud overhead moved past and unveiled the moon. Ice-grey light illuminated the land, exposed the emptiness as if a hand waved.

Long moments passed.

Nothing moved below.

It couldn’t be.

A muscle worked in his jaw as he continued to scan the moonlit, battered land to find a threat. But as he scoured the weave of trees and rocks and the slash of hills, it became clear. He’d find naught but Lochlann’s fury, his warning a lie.

Body taut, Griffin knelt back behind the shield of stone, his focus on the knight.

“What did you see?” Rois asked.

The waver in her voice tempted Griffin to look at her, but he kept his gaze leveled on the Scot. “Naught.”

Sir Lochlann swore. “By God, I saw them.”

“Did you?” Griffin demanded.

Rois lay her hand on his forearm. “What is going on?”

Griffin glared at the Scot a moment longer. “’Twould seem the threat has passed.” Her body sagged with relief, and he drew her against him, his eyes piercing the Scot in warning. The bastard must have surmised what they were doing behind the stones. Not that he cared. Rois was his.

The Scot’s eyes narrowed in an age-old gesture of defiance.

Pleased when outrage burned in Lochlann’s eyes, Griffin stood, holding Rois tight. Mayhap in the end Rois would belong to another, but for now, for this moment, she was his. After witnessing the knight’s abuse of the woman at the inn two years ago, he would die before permitting Rois to become more than the Scot’s acquaintance.

However much Rois believed otherwise, Lochlann was not her friend. Whatever it took, he’d ensure Angus knew how dangerous the knight was, and ensure Rois never married the Scot.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Abed.” Griffin caught Sir Lochlann’s muttered curse. A sense of victory filled him and fell away as fast. He’d won but a moment.

In silence he walked to where a short while before Rois had stood naked before him, her eyes rich with desire, and her body welcoming. He made their pallet, determined in this emotionally battered night that they would find much needed rest. After he tugged the final corner of their bedding straight, he motioned Rois to lay down.

“I canna sleep next to you.”

Griffin stared at her in disbelief. “After what we have shared?”

She glanced in the distance where Sir Lochlann made his own pallet. “’Tis unseemly.”

At her nervous whisper his jaw tightened. “We are married.”

“In name only.”

His anger rose a notch. “Had we not been interrupted, by now ’twould be a fact.” Her face paled, and Griffin damned his words. Like he needed the reminder of how close they’d come to making love, or how with the Scot’s interruption he’d avoided a sheer disaster?

Bloody hell!

He would damn the time when they parted. He’d come to know and like her. How could a sane man not? Rois was everything a man could want and more.

Griffin shoved back the emotions, and focused on his vow to Angus to keep her safe. “’Twill be a long journey tomorrow. We will but rest.”

She hesitated.

“Trust me.” And he found he wanted her trust. Somewhere along the way it had become more than a want, but a need. Being with her unearthed emotions he never believed he would experience. He swallowed hard. His life’s mission was to aid the rebels, not to be with Rois. He refused to search his feelings deeper, to understand more. He held out his hand.

For a moment she held his gaze, her own somber, and then she placed her fingers on his palm.

His throat tightened at her belief in him, and he brushed his thumb against her cheek. “If necessary, I will give my life to protect you.”

Softness gentled her gaze. “I know.”

Her tender words curled around him, made him want her always. A ridiculous notion. He forced a smile. “We had best watch it or we might become friends.” He awaited the laughter in her eyes, instead found hurt.

“Friends, is it?” She turned away. Without a word she lay by his side as he wrapped them both within a blanket of wool. But her silence fed his mind, conjured her meaning. She wanted more than friendship. If strife didn’t exist between their countries . . . but it did.

What had her father been thinking, insisting that Rois remain with Griffin? Familiar with his covert travels as
Wulfe
, Angus knew that Griffin could not keep Rois by his side. Mayhap her father had drunk one too many a whisky before they’d discussed the matter?

Rois shifted; her bottom brushed him with the lightest touch.

He hardened to a painful ache. Images of Rois naked and embraced by the shimmering light rolled through his mind. Her eyes had taken on a knowing, a woman’s power at odds with her innocence. And the way she’d touched him without hesitation. Her actions as if guided by another.

Or magic.

He frowned at the memory of how his gemstone had glowed during their intimacy. Well he knew each of the halved gemstones gifted by the MacGruders’ grandmother held strengths to complement the man who received the matching stone.

Except, he wasn’t of MacGruder blood.

The grandmother had gifted him his halved Magnesite in thanks for his aid to the rebels. Not a talisman to guide his emotional fate. Except the MacGruder brothers wouldn’t see it that way, especially not if they knew his gemstone glowed when he was with Rois.

She gave a soft sigh.

Sadness filled him as he watched her sleep. At least she hadn’t questioned the stone’s glowing. ’Twould seem that the depth of their intimacy had shaken her, and so he was spared any inquiry.

For now.

With an ache in his heart, Griffin wrapped Rois in his arms, and for this foolish moment, wished he and Rois were meant to be.

The thunder of a nearby waterfall boomed, and the swirl of amber-gold leaves clattered around Griffin’s mount’s hooves. He nudged his mount through the thick weave of pines, the boughs’ fragrance rich, a fierce backdrop to the swirl of water beyond.

Rois, seated before him in the saddle, shifted as they wove amongst the thick pines.

He drew her against him and leaned close. “You need to try and sleep.”

Rois exhaled. “I canna. I worry for Da.”

“As I.” Griffin pressed a kiss against her hair. “I pray he is healing fast.”

“Aye.”

With Lochlann’s descriptions of Lord Brom’s wounds, Griffin held doubts of how fast Angus would heal. An infected wound could take down the stoutest warrior, but the recovery of a man well into his prime could take many a sennight. But, before they learned how Angus fared, he must reach Andrew de Moray.

Sir Lochlann glanced over. “Rois can ride with me if she wishes.”

Griffin met the Scot’s cold glare, the man’s sincerity-coated words a mockery against the hatred in his eyes. “My wife remains with me.”

The Scot gave a rough snort. “Wife is it? Now you want her?”

Enough of his prodding, badgering. A fight he wanted, by God he would have it here and now! Griffin halted his steed. “Get off your horse.”

A smug look carved in his face, Sir Lochlann swung down.

Griffin dismounted.

“Do nae do this,” Rois gasped.

“Leave it be, Rois.” With slow precision, Lochlann withdrew his claymore, set it upon the flat of a rock, and straightened with the swagger of a fight won.

Griffin removed his sword, laid it to the side, but kept a dagger hidden. He would fight fair, but held doubt about the Scot.

Rois scrambled from the mount. The lackwits. “Gr—”

“Take the horses near the trees, Rois,” Griffin stated.

“I will nae—”

“Listen to him, lass.” Lochlann’s cocky voice filled the tense silence, a tone she’d heard over the years when her friend was confident in his game.

But this was no game. The fierce light burning in both men’s eyes exposed the seriousness of their intent. To fight, not from their dislike of the other, but to claim their territory.

Her.

Except by their base actions, she was far from flattered. “Have you both forgotten that the English could be about?”

“You forget,” Lochlann spat, “I have a bloody Sassenach in my sight.”

Trembling, Rois tossed the reins on a limb, strode between the fools.

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “Move aside.”

She shook her head. “I refuse to let you fight.”

“We are nae asking your permission, lass.”

Rois whirled to face her friend. “Lochlann, stop this. Now!”

Her friend gestured her away. “’Tis been a long time coming, that you know.”

Frustrated, she turned to Griffin. “I will—”

“Go,” Griffin said. “I will be finished with the braggart soon enough.”

“Listen to the Englishman, Rois,” Lochlann spat. “He is a man used to giving orders.”

Eyes narrowed, Rois glared at her friend. “You are nae any better prodding him.”

“’Tis nae prodding,” Lochlann replied, “I will beat his bloody arse.”

“A fight?” Griffin asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. “No, you want me dead.”

She caught the deadly glint in her friend’s eyes, and stilled. Nay. It could nae be. “Tell him ’tis nae true, Lochlann.” But she knew, a fool could see the truth.

Her heart pounded with a bitter taste upon her tongue, a taste she didna want to recognize—fear. Dear God in heaven, she was afraid. Nae for Griffin, but Lochlann.

“Please,” Rois whispered to her friend, “do nae fight.”

Each man’s breaths fell out, steady, raw with intent. And she knew. She couldn’t stop them. As Lochlann had said, this moment had been a long time coming. Terrified, she turned to Griffin. His gaze remained locked on Lochlann. Wetness slipped down her cheek as she took several steps back.

Damn them both. Never did she cry!

With a battle yell, Lochlann rushed Griffin.

The impact had Griffin stumbling back. He shook his head, drove a merciless blow.

With each slam of a fist, each curse, Rois’s tears flowed unchecked. Griffin had nae asked for this. From the first, Lochlann had goaded him like a stick to a badger. And Griffin was a man who walked his own path.

Lochlann lashed out again.

Griffin ducked, then caught his fist and jerked him to the ground. Sunlight glinted off Lochlann’s knife.

Rois screamed.

On an oath, Griffin sprang atop Lochlann, jerked the blade free. He held it against her friend’s neck.

“Do nae kill him!” Rois yelled.