Linus grabbed his arm, while Gandy’s worried gaze sought out Isolde. She shook her head in response to his questioning look. She was not harmed. Not really.
Meanwhile Linus had a bearhold on Rhys and dragged him off the unconscious Dafydd. Others crowded up the stairs, but Gandy swiftly took matters in hand. “You two. Take Dafydd belowstairs. Linus, put Rhys in there,” he ordered, gesturing to the bedchamber. “Isolde.” He studied her a long moment. “Go with Rhys. He may be injured.”
Isolde was already on her way. She shut the door against the onlookers and turned to face Rhys. Linus had released him and backed toward the door. Rhys paced the room now, his rage barely controlled. When he saw her he halted. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No. But what of you?” Blood drenched one of his sleeves. “Let me see to your wounds.”
Rhys stared at her, not blinking, not hearing her words. She was unharmed. Dafydd had not had time to do any real harm.
That was all that mattered.
Then she crossed the room, her worried eyes running over him. “Fetch water,” she told Linus. “And bandages. Also, soap and a cleansing salve—and a needle and thread. Gerta will know what I need.”
Linus left and they were alone. Only then did Rhys understand how afraid he’d been for Isolde—and how enraged he’d been by Dafydd’s vicious attack on her. She was not hurt. His relief was so profound Rhys felt light-headed. He steadied himself against the bedpost, only then realizing his hand was bleeding.
“
Uffern dan!
” he swore, wincing at the sudden pain.
“Let me take care of it,” she said, gently cupping his hand in her own. “I’ll take care of you, Rhys.”
She studied his wounds, a slash in the fleshy part of his right thumb, another on his left forearm. Then she looked up at him, a long steady connection of their eyes, and it was as if she made a vow to him. A private, personal vow. I’ll take care of you. Had sweeter words ever been said to him? He knew they had not.
Linus and Gerta came in and set the supplies on a small
table, then departed. Although Isolde thanked them, she never looked away from him.
She loved him and though that should not matter to him—though he’d never wanted that from her—Rhys’s heart swelled with the knowledge. No one had ever loved him. No one had ever promised to take care of him. He’d never needed to be taken care of, and he didn’t need it now. But she wanted to do it, and he wanted to let her.
“I’ll try to be gentle, but this may hurt,” she murmured, her hands still holding his. Were those tears sparkling in her eyes?
“I am fine. Do your worst,” he jested. “I will survive.”
“I will do my best,” she vowed, her face solemn.
Whether solemn or gay, angry or even weeping, Rhys knew that hers was the one face he’d rather gaze upon than any other. In that moment he was glad he’d been cut. The pain meant nothing, for Isolde was here to tend his hurts.
She led him to the table and pulled his sleeves up. “Hold your hands here,” she instructed, “while I pour water over them.”
“Damn,” he muttered when the water stung the two cuts. Now that his rage had eased, he was able to give her a crooked grin. “My apologies. I should not curse so in your presence.”
“Please, Rhys. Do not apologize to me. ’Tis I who …” She faltered and looked away, pressing her lips together a long moment. She blinked several times and he marveled at the movement of her long dark lashes upon the delicate skin of her cheeks. Like butterfly wings against rose petals.
He almost laughed out loud at that sentiment. She was turning him into a besotted fool, a poet spouting inane words of love and admiration. But he didn’t care. Her cheeks
were
like rose petals, soft and pink and fragrant.
Hardly aware of his movement, he leaned nearer to her. At the same moment she lifted her head up again, so that their faces were mere inches apart.
“Thank you,” she whispered. But though her voice was soft, it quivered with emotion. “Thank you, Rhys.”
He loved the way she said his name. That was the only coherent thought in his thoroughly besotted brain. He loved the sound of his name on her lips.
“I … I am so sorry you are hurt,” she continued. “I should
not have gone up there alone. I should have guessed …” She shook her head slightly. “Thank you.”
“You owe me no thanks, Isolde,” he finally managed to say. “Nor any apologies. You did nothing wrong.”
She looked down, sheltering her emotions behind the heavy curtain of her lashes. She poured fresh water over the wounds, then pressed clean cloths over both cuts. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” So long as her warm touch remained upon him, he could feel nothing else.
She took a deep breath. They were so close. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, and he felt the immediate rise of his own manhood. Be done with ministration to his wounds. He had far more urgent needs!
“Isolde,” he began.
“No. Be still, Rhys.” Her small hands tightened on his. Then she looked up at him and he knew she’d read his thoughts. “First things first. Let me see to your injuries. Afterward … Afterward I will tend to your other needs.”
ISOLDE FELT LIKE ANOTHER PERSON, AS IF ANOTHER PART OF herself had decided to take over both her thoughts and her actions. No. Not her thoughts, she amended. This was not the first time she’d imagined being the aggressor in her relations with Rhys. But always before she’d been too shy, too awed by the powerful emotions he raised in her. But not tonight.
He had saved her. Had it not been for his quick response to her peril, Dafydd might have done anything to her. The very thought made her shudder. That Rhys suffered now in her stead only strengthened her feelings for him.
She was right to love him, for he was a good man.
And she was right to tend to him in all ways tonight. He wanted her, despite his injuries. She saw that clearly in his midnight eyes.
Gingerly she patted his cuts dry, then prepared the needle and thread. She could have called for the village healer, but Isolde wanted to do this herself. So she braced herself and concentrated. Rhys was silent as she took three stitches in his thumb and five in his arms. Afterward she dabbed a soothing ointment of thinned beeswax and ground hyssop and black poplar buds on his wounds, as well as on his skinned knuckles. Then tenderly she wrapped everything in soft strips of linen.
“Does it pain you very much?” she murmured, sitting back and wiping her hands clean.
“No.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Later, when you are quiet in
the night, they may throb. But I can give you a draught of vervain to help you sleep.”
“I do not wish to sleep right now.”
Isolde’s pulse began to race in anticipation. In spite of Dafydd’s brutal attack—or perhaps because of it—she wanted desperately to be close to Rhys. “Very well, then.” She stood, then glanced up at the ruined mural. This might be their last night, she realized. Their last. And if it was, she wanted it to be perfect. She wanted to see approval and desire and love shining in his eyes. Especially love. She could manage the remainder of her life without any of those things, she told herself, just so long as she could have them this one night. But not in this room.
“Come,” she said. “I will bring the ointment and more bandaging to my chamber.” She felt his avid gaze upon her, but she was suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. So she gathered what she needed onto a platter, and started for the stairs.
He followed her. Step by step, down the stairs they went, she leading, he close behind. And with every step they drew nearer her private chamber—their private domain—and nearer the moment when he was bound to recognize her love. She was so fearful her legs trembled beneath her.
In her chamber she fidgeted with the medications, arranging and rearranging everything upon a table. Finally she turned away, only to kneel before the small hearth to feed fresh logs to the fire. She felt him near her, though, and she was aware of his every movement.
When he grunted in pain, she turned to find him sitting on the bed. He’d tried to grab one boot to remove it.
“Let me do that.” She hurried to his side, then knelt before him and swiftly removed one of his tall leather boots. But she did not look up at his face. She was too overcome with shyness.
Then she felt his hand on her head, a light caress as his fingertips moved gently through the waves at her temple. “Be careful,” she said, looking up at last. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Their eyes connected and held. “My hands are but one part of me. There are other ways for us to touch. And know this, Isolde. I want to touch you everywhere.” His eyes were so dark, yet they seemed alive with light. Isolde could not breathe. She
did not have the ability to draw air into her lungs, and as their gazes clung, her chest ached. His hand moved to cup her cheek. She felt the rough glide of the linen bandage against her skin.
“I love you.” She whispered the words without realizing she had done so. Once said, however, they relieved the tightness in her chest. “I love you, Rhys. I did not want to, but nevertheless, I do.”
His hand stilled. But when she closed her eyes and bowed her head, he forced her face to tilt up again. “I don’t want your gratitude.” His voice was harsh.
“’Tis not gratitude I feel.”
He frowned. “No? Mayhap it is merely desire and gratitude mixed up together.”
She shook her head. “No. I wish it were merely that, for it would be …”
He leaned forward when she trailed off, and cupped her face with his uninjured hand. “For it would be what, Isolde? Finish what you began.”
“I wish it were simply desire and gratitude,” she said in barely a whisper. “For it would be far simpler, far easier.”
She felt the shudder that went through him. He closed his eyes—just for an instant—and she knew then how much her words meant to him. Then he released her face and sat back, not speaking.
Isolde took a slow, shaky breath. She’d told him the truth of her heart. If he was not ready to hear her yet, she would be patient. But a part of her feared she would never hear those same words back from him. She wanted to hear them with an intensity that was truly terrifying. And in time she thought he might find the words within him—if only they had time.
She would not think about that, though. She would not ruin this night by worrying about what was to come. So she bent to his other boot and removed it. Then operating on instinct alone, she began to unbuckle his girdle.
He let her undress him, bending and twisting, raising his arms, but letting her take charge. When he was naked she backed away. He was aroused. His manhood stood upright, drawing her eyes. She forced herself to look elsewhere, for in truth, he was beautiful everywhere. A delight for her eyes.
Broad shoulders, thick arms. A muscular chest covered with a light layer of dark hair. Thighs, calves, every part of his body proclaimed him a warrior. By comparison, she was a weak creature, indeed. But all his power and strength was there for her use, she reminded herself. At least for now it was. He was hers to use and take pleasure from.
As she stared af him, at his magnificent body limned with gold in the fire’s light, it occurred to her that the greater part of her pleasure came from pleasing him. And he seemed to take great pleasure in pleasing her. She licked her lower lip. That was the true perfection of their joining.
She vowed to make pleasing him her only goal this night.
His eyes burned over her as she began to remove her heavy clothes, mantle, girdle, then kirtle. She peeled them away, layer by layer, slowly and with great deliberation. “’Tis my intent to make love to you,” she said, astounded by her own boldness. But she went on, her gaze never wavering from his face. “For once I have the upper hand with you, and I intend to take full advantage of it.” She paused. “To take full advantage of you.”
Where such brazen words came from, she did not know. He’d transformed her into a wanton these past two weeks. But when he sucked in a harsh breath, then let out a groan, she was gratified. She might be a wanton, but he clearly approved.
He reached out with one hand. “Come to me, Isolde.”
“I will. When I am ready.”
Again he groaned. “Do not torture me, woman. I am an injured man. Have mercy on me and hurry, else I might die.”
Isolde laughed, heady now with the power she wielded over him. “I dearly hope not, for I plan to have my wicked way with you,” She stepped out of her shoes and removed her hose, then stood before him clad only in her chemise. Though the room was still cold, between the leaping fire and her own leaping desire, she was anything but chilled.
“Damn you, woman. Look what you do to me.” He exhaled then stroked himself awkwardly with his bandaged hand.
Isolde watched the movement of his hand, then mirrored it on herself. She stroked down her chest slowly, past her breasts to her belly, then lower still.
“Damn,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on her movements.
She stroked back up, tugging the chemise above her knees in the process, and her breathing grew shallow. To have him watch her that way was more arousing than she would have guessed. Her hand did not feel like her own, but rather like his, like an extension of his eyes and his will.
“Touch your breasts,” he ordered hoarsely. “Use both hands.”
Isolde did as he asked. She was embarrassed, yet not enough to stop. Her breasts felt heavy and warm when she cupped them, the nipples taut and extended—and so sensitive.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “So beautiful. Show yourself to me, sweetling.”
She raised one hand to tug down the shoulder of her chemise. The other she flattened against her belly. She was on fire for him.
“Hurry,” he rasped out.
But she had no intention of hurrying. For once she was in control—at least somewhat. She meant to impress upon him how good it could feel to let a woman take charge of him. So she bent forward, allowing her hair to fall in front of her like a thick curtain as she let the last of her garments slither to the floor.
“Come here,” he pleaded. “Isolde …”
Instead she began to finger-comb her hair, reveling in the feel of it moving against her naked shoulders and breasts. The waving ends tickled her belly and hips. “Would you like me to slide my hands and my hair over you?” she asked, advancing a step nearer.
“Yes.”
She quivered from the raw intensity of that one simple word. She stepped nearer still, running her hands down her own body as she’d done before.
“Isolde.” He lurched to his feet, the perfect picture of virile masculinity, a warrior ready to battle and defeat the demons of desire that gripped him. But those same demons had a merciless hold on her, and Isolde knew that only he could defeat them for her. She was done with teasing him. She was too aroused to go on. So she closed the final distance between them. She stepped into his embrace, bare skin to bare skin, with only the strands of her hair separating them.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into full contact with him. She wound her arms around his neck and stood on her toes. But to her surprise, he did not kiss her, not at first. He bowed his head until their foreheads touched, and for a moment they simply stood that way. The desire was there; his arousal scalding her belly was proof enough of that. But there was as much emotion between them as there was physical longing.
Isolde clung to him, filled with love and with hope that he would confess his true feelings to her. Do you love me? her heart silently cried out to him.
“When I saw him on you—” His arms tightened even more. “I was so afraid for you.”
She smiled. Say the rest, she prayed. Say it.
“But you are all right.”
She nodded slowly. “You are not, though. You came to my rescue at great risk to yourself.” She paused, waiting still. But when he said nothing, she added, “No one else. Only you.” Still he said nothing and she felt a twinge of disappointment. But she pressed on. “He was your friend for many years.”
He took a deep breath; she felt his chest expand against hers. “That was long ago. He changed. Or perhaps I have.” He paused. “I could never stand by and not offer my aid to you. But enough of that. If you would thank me, you know how best to do it.”
He pulled her back onto the bed.
He was not going to say it, she realized. He cared for her. She was certain of that. But he was not going to respond to her confession of love with similar words of his own. Had they not been naked and lying upon a bed, and she already aroused, the keen disappointment might have overwhelmed her. But his eagerness for her buoyed her hopes.
I will make you love me
, she vowed as she kissed him.
I will make you love me
.
Something was different between them. Rhys felt it in the way Isolde moved over him. Her kiss was fierce and yet tender. Her body was sweet and hot, and she used it very well to arouse him. He closed his eyes and she slid up and down him, just a few inches of friction, but it had a powerful effect on him.
He groaned with pure pleasure. If she seemed different, he told himself, it was only that she had learned what he liked during their past few nights together, and that she was grateful to him. Her profession of love had nothing to do with anything.
Though a part of him had wanted to believe her words, he’d since regained his perspective. She desired him. That was not love. She might think it was, but she was wrong. And even if she did love him, he did not feel the same way about her.
But you do!
“No.” He said the word out loud, breaking their kiss, and abruptly rolled her over. But when he tried to move, he grimaced at the immediate pain in his hands.
“Just lie back,” she ordered, pushing him to the side. Her face was flushed with passion; her eyes were bright with it. “Lie back and let me do this, Rhys.”
Frustrated, gasping for breath, Rhys did as she ordered. But his emotions were in a turmoil. She knelt over him, her pale skin showing through the heavy curtain of her hair, and he knew he’d never beheld such a beautiful sight. Pink lips ripe for passion; equally pink nipples protruding through the rich silk of amber tresses. His eyes drank in the delicious view. God in heaven, but he wanted her.