The Rose of Blacksword (18 page)

When Rosalynde came slowly awake she had the oddest sensation of floating, of lifting from her cold, uncomfortable bed to float in warm security somewhere above the ground. Her bed at Millwort had been warm and secure.
Yet she knew somehow that she was not in her old familiar bed. Then she was shifted slightly against something hot and solid, and she reluctantly opened her eyes.

At first she thought she was still asleep. She’d dreamed of those eyes. And of that smile. But then she felt his arms tighten beneath her and she knew that this was real. He had her in his arms and was boldly walking off with her as if she were some prize he had just stolen.

“Let me down,” she gasped as she came fully, abruptly awake.

“Soon,” he answered, giving her a faint smile.

“No, now!” she insisted, struggling aginst the firm hold he had on her. She kicked her legs and shoved hard at his chest and shoulder. But his only response was to hold her tighter, although his face did grow more stern.

“You have no right to do this! Get your hands off me, you vile cad! You disgusting … disgusting—”

When he suddenly released her she let out a shriek and automatically grabbed at his neck to prevent herself from tumbling to the ground. But he caught at her too and then, with a deft shifting of his arms, turned her upright.

In the space of a second Rosalynde found herself face to face with him. Her arms were still twined around his neck, holding on tightly, and her entire body was pressed close to him. His arms circled her waist, keeping her near and holding her up just enough so that her feet did not touch the ground. It was a far worse position than before, she realized at once, and she found it far more unnerving. For a long moment their eyes met in conflict, hers darkened to green in anger and outrage, his hard as granite, determined not to give an inch. But then his eyes changed, glowing from within as if a fire smoldered there. Slowly he let her slide down his hard-muscled length as he still held her eyes captive.

“I have every right.” The words came low and husky, and she knew what was to come. She knew he was going to kiss her, but in the space of that one shattering moment she lost the will to protest. Logic deserted her as did any remnants of rational thought. His face seemed to descend in slow motion. His mouth lowered to hers with torturous delay. Yet when their lips finally met and clung, everything else sped up to a dizzying speed. The world was spinning too fast; her heart pounded furiously; and her blood seemed to roar in her veins. In desperation she clung to him as the only sturdy thing in an out-of-kilter world. But that just made it worse, for the pressure of his body against hers only added fuel to the fire. In a rush all the confusing emotions she’d tried to stifle earlier came back, but with far more urgency.

His lips moved on hers with a sureness that stole her breath away. When his tongue came out to trace a possessive path along her lower lip, her mouth opened of its own volition to give him entrance. As if the torrid kiss they’d shared before was only a harbinger of things to come, he teased her with the power of his seductive mouth. Promising, demanding, and then rewarding her with new and higher thrills of pleasure, he erased every objection from her mind.

One of his hands cupped her derriere and she let out a low moan. But that only fired his ardor higher. More and more demandingly he laid his claim, stroking deep within her mouth, tantalizing her until her tongue joined with his. It was new and frightening to her, and yet there was a part of her that responded instinctively to his virile dominance. It was an ancient dance they performed. The moves came innately to her, from some wellspring of her feminine being.

When he tilted her back and moved his kiss down to
her throat, she clung to him helplessly. When his lips moved urgently across the rough wool of her gown to press heatedly against the valley between her breasts, she shuddered with longing. Only when he pressed her hard against his thickening loins did her eyes come open and any semblance of reason return to her.

“You mustn’t,” she whispered, although every fiber in her demanded that he continue.

“I must,” he murmured hoarsely, stirring her anew with his breath in her ear. “There’s no other way it can be between us.”

There’s no other way … The words echoed in her mind as he lowered her to the grass-lined earth, pressing new and more feverish kisses on her. There was no way to stop him. And no way to stop herself. For a moment she fought the all-consuming lethargy that overwhelmed her. This was sinful. Despite the pagan ritual binding them, they were not truly married.

Yet her body betrayed her logical mind. This exquisite pleasure, this heaven on earth could not be wrong. It could not be a sin. Then his hand found her breast and even that weak debate was quashed. As his mouth delighted hers with sweet desire and fiercely flaming passion, so did his hands begin to work an incredible magic on her body. They strayed to where no one had ever touched her, to where she hardly dared to touch herself. But it was no accidental straying and he was not hesitant. One of his hands cupped her breast; the thumb stroked rhythmically back and forth against the already stiffened nipple. With his other arm he rolled her over to lay upon him and he boldly stroked her derriere once more, sliding his palm back and forth across her bottom in the most provocative manner.

A feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced
washed over Rosalynde. It was hot and yet she shivered. It felt natural and, oh, so right, and yet there was something in her that said it was wicked and forbidden. She knew she should fight the all-encompassing lure of it, and yet she could not. She could not.

When his hand found the bare skin of her thigh, she shuddered with ever-increasing delight. Then, when he rolled her over and pressed his full weight against her, she gasped at the dizzying rapture. His hands pulled at her gown, tearing her girdle away and loosening the ties at her waist. But all the while he kissed her, deeper and deeper, striking a chord somewhere inside her, awakening feelings in her that she’d never dreamed could exist. She was lost in the physical splendor of their mutual passion. It was only when he tugged her gown free and slid her kirtle from her shoulders that he pulled a little away from her.

As she gazed up at him, her eyes dazed by the maelstrom of emotions he roused, he removed his tunic and chainse in one swift motion. His boots and hose were hastily followed by his braies, and only when her eyes swept over his magnificently naked body did the enormity of what they were doing strike her.

“No—”

Her cry was stifled before it properly escaped. As if he anticipated her sudden reversal, Blacksword covered her near-naked body with his own. His skin was firm and warm and heavy with possession. His lips were adamant, almost fierce as he plundered her mouth.

With only the feeblest of protests her words died unsaid. Her hands fluttered a moment at his hard chest, then slid up to circle his neck. Her kirtle was only a crushed bit of linen between them, pulled down to her waist, lifted up beyond her hips. Beneath his heavy form she melted against his hardness. Everything that was feminine in her
responded to that which was masculine in him. Even the heated press of his rigid male flesh was met by the soft concave of her belly.

Then he nudged her legs apart and she complied.

“Be my wife,” she heard him whisper hoarsely against her lips. “Be mine,” he murmured as one of his hands slid down to her secret triangle of curls, then slipped even further to stroke the very center of her being.

At once she felt a quickening, like lightning striking a dry tree, sending it immediately into flames. Hot and slick, his fingers played against her with devastating results. She could hardly catch her breath, and though she squirmed away from the fiery delight, she wanted it so badly. Then his hand was replaced by another probing heat and she arched up to him in a mindless plea.

“Blacksword …” she entreated, tossing her head back and forth, then reaching up once more for his mind-drugging kiss. “Blacksword.”

“Aric,” he whispered against her lips. “My name is Aric.”

“Aric.” She panted as he pressed a little farther into her, beginning to fill her with fire and fury and a primitive sort of power.

“You are wife to Aric of Wycliffe.” His teeth pulled at her lower lip, refusing her the deep kiss she was pleading for. “Say it,” he insisted breathlessly, as he rocked his hips back and forth against her, torturing her with a deliberateness that was driving her mad. “You are wife to Aric …”

“I am your wife,” she whispered in a voice that shook with passion. “I am …”

With a groan he finally let his weight come down upon her. His mouth met hers with an explosion of passion; his chest and hard-ridged belly crushed her into the soft
green earth; and the full length and strength of his male flesh slid with unerring accuracy into her.

She wanted to cry out, to pull away in fear and pain at the sudden tearing she felt. As he found her virgin’s barrier, then pushed beyond it, passion fled and an abrupt and horrible reality startled her.

But he would not let her go and he would not end their kiss. Though she struggled, he held her firmly beneath him. When she sobbed he seemed to absorb all her fear and pain into himself, and only deepened the kiss. Though no less fiery and demanding, his lips nonetheless moved to please her. His tongue stroked her inner lips; they forced her to respond. And when her own tongue moved out to meet his, she was rewarded by a renewed leap of the same passionate fire. He still filled her with a heat and pressure completely foreign to her, but the pain was gone. And when he shifted his hips slightly, she let out a gasp of unexpected pleasure.

It seemed the signal he waited for. As he raised his face from hers, he began a slow and rhythmic motion, pressing his hips to hers then rocking back, pushing deeper then lifting away, sliding his full length into her, then pulling almost completely out. Exquisite waves of undiluted pleasure rippled through her as he steadily increased his tempo, filling her then pulling back. Rosalynde’s eyes widened with wonder as she stared up into his passion-filled eyes. She arched up in unthinking response, accepting him fully into the feminine warmth of her body, urging him on as she innocently responded to his expert caress. Their movements increased and the fire flamed higher. A rush that was wet and hot and filled with light swept over her, and in a moment of near panic she clung desperately to him. Then she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of
passion and she cried out at the very ferocity of their lovemaking. Wave after wave shook her. Like a storm she was battered by its very violence. She heard his cry buried deep against her neck. It seemed to have been wrenched from deep inside him, and it filled her with awe. Yet the one emotion she did not feel was fear. She was not afraid.

He shuddered over her as if he too shared in the same cataclysm of emotions. Then his weight came fully, heavily against her and she released a huge sigh.

Her breath was short, matched by his own ragged breathing. With hearts pounding in unison, their bodies melded together, still intimately joined, their breathing almost a shared effort, Rosalynde felt absurdly as if they were no longer separate beings but part of the same whole. He lay above her, absorbing her into himself, it seemed, and though she felt nearly crushed by his massive weight, she did not care.

Then he moved a little to the side, sliding from her sweat-slicked body. She let out a faint groan of dismay, but he quickly stilled it with a stirring kiss as he gathered her close to him. Legs tangled, arms still wrapped about one another, they lay in the dappled shade. Rosalynde’s exhaustion was complete: Her mind, body, and emotions had been taxed beyond previous comprehension. She could not think about the wondrous things that had just happened to her. She could not be logical or dwell on what was to come. She only relaxed in his heated embrace and listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart beneath her ear. Steady and reliable, the sound gave her a sense of security she could not quite understand. In the past days she’d had enough of death and sorrow and fear to last her a lifetime. But this—this was the sound of life and of hope.

With a faint smile she sighed again and moved a little nearer to his comforting bulk. She was safe. She knew that without a doubt. Then she gave herself over to sleep and the watchful observance of the man who still held her.

10

This time Rosalynde awoke in one sudden jolt. Blacksword had shifted slightly and his hand had, even in his sleep, moved unerringly to her breast. It was this that brought her slumber to an end, and for a few seconds she simply lay there, reliving in growing horror the full extent of her degradation.

There was no denying what had passed between her and the man whose body curved now so intimately around hers. She could not believe it, and yet every portion of her body gave vivid proof. Her lips were sensitive and swollen from his fierce kisses. Her breasts were full and even now her nipples peaked and tightened at the remembered passion they had shared. But it was the lingering warmth down there …