Beyond the rustles and squeakings emanating from the undergrowth, the breeze filtering through the branches above, she could hear water running, then a faint splash. She tilted her head first one way, then the other, trying to work out where it was coming from. There. Over there, behind the hut. Her hand slipped from the horse’s neck. Picking up her skirts, Gisela headed towards the noise. Moonlight traced a path along the woodland floor, a gleam of track winding between the ferns and moss-covered rocks. Brambles, muscular arcs of thorn-laden tendrils, snagged her gown, but she wrenched them free with quick, decisive tugs.
And there he was. In a pool, mirrored in moonlight. Beech trees circled the spot, branches swaying gracefully down to touch the water’s surface. Pinned by his sword, his remaining clothes were strewn across the bank, as if he had cast them off in feverish abandonment. She staggered to a stop, feet rocking with unused energy, folding herself back behind a large tree trunk. Silent. Her subterfuge astonished her. She should shout to warn him of her presence, announce herself, but she could not, for her heart was in her mouth, stifling all speech.
Ragnar was swimming, bare arms describing wide, lazy circles across the pool, the white shimmer of his naked flesh visible beneath the limpid surface. Her eyes feasted greedily upon the sight, tracing the clench and release of muscle across his back with avid abandonment, before sweeping down the sturdy curve of his spine to his hips, the scoop of defined flesh across his powerful buttocks, the splay of thigh muscle beneath. A slow burning heat gathered in her loins, blossoming dangerously. He drew her like a spell, magical and dangerous, lifting her up and pitching her fast into another world: a world of desire, of dark, secret couplings and love, unspoken. The heaviness of grief lifted from her, leaving her light and tingling.
Ragnar stood. Water sluiced down his honed flesh, bathing his perfect physique in liquid silver. An Adonis beneath the stars. Ecstasy stabbed at her, plucking violently at her self-control. She made a small sound in her throat, swiftly muffled; laid her forehead against the nubbled bark of the tree, admonishing herself for not leaving, for not turning tail and running back to the hut. And yet still she looked.
Raising his arms, he pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. Strings of pearly water fell from his shoulders, surrounding him in a net of twinkling light. A rippling line of darker hair ran down the centre of his chest, separating the two flat planes of muscle, down across his stomach to the point where his hip bones curved into the patch of dark hair at his groin, partially hidden by the water level.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said quietly.
Chapter Fifteen
Humiliation sliced through her. Clapping her hands to her cheeks, she swivelled around the trunk, jamming her spine against the bark, ripping her gaze from the pool’s dark gleam. Her breath punched out, short gasps of pent-up air. How long had he known that she was there, running her eye across him like some prime bull in a cattle market? Her knees sagged as she struggled for composure, fought to rid her mind of all she had seen. Was there time for her to tiptoe away, back along the snaking woodland path, and pretend that nothing had happened, that she hadn’t ventured near the pool?
But Ragnar was beside her, his muscular frame materialising in the moonlight. ‘How long have you been there?’ he asked. Gisela stared resolutely ahead, refusing to look at him. Was he still naked? Surely he hadn’t had time to put his clothes on!
‘I am dressed, you know.’ His mouth twitched at the red patches no doubt staining her cheeks and her tight-lipped, disapproving expression.
She sagged with relief against the trunk, turning to face him. He must have put on his fawn braies at the pool as he was now fastening his sword belt around his hips. His torso was bare, his shirt crumpled beneath his elbow.
‘How long have you been there?’ he repeated.
He knew she had been spying on him. She explored his carved features for condemnation of her actions. ‘Not long.’ Her voice was a tentative croak; she cleared her throat. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Her gaze slid down the powerful cord of muscle in his neck, avoiding his piercing scrutiny; her fingers, hidden in the folds of her skirts, picked nervously at the bark by her hip.
‘Liar,’ he said, using his shirt to wipe the last droplets of water from his chest. The moonlight slanted sideways across the high ridges of his cheekbones, lending him a devilish look.
Her belly flipped in dismay. Had he truly known she was there all along, or was he taking a wild guess? ‘I was worried,’ she said, more confidently, jutting her chin into the air. ‘I woke up and found you were gone. I thought... I thought something might have happened to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said ruefully ‘I needed to wash. I should have told you, but it seemed such a shame to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly.’
A wave of self-consciousness flooded over her. She hitched one shoulder up, embarrassed at the thought of him looking at her while she slept. But was it any worse than what she had done, ogling him while he swam? ‘It’s fine,’ she replied, attempting to keep her tone light.
‘How much did you see?’
‘W-what...?’ Her eyes rounded in horror at his bold question. ‘No! I told you, I didn’t see anything! I have only just arrived!’
The shrill protest of her voice told him all he needed to know. ‘Everything, then,’ he remarked drily. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘It makes no matter to me, but I hope I didn’t offend your maidenly modesty.’
A droplet of water spun down from his hair to his chest, trailing across the spare, sculptured flesh, like plates of armour, Gisela thought. What would it feel like to savour that warm muscle beneath her fingers? ‘You didn’t,’ she retorted hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t offend me, anyway. I’ve seen it all before.’ The plucky lie fell from her lips, unconsidered.
Ragnar grinned, his eyes sparking humour. ‘Have you?’ His voice held a challenge. ‘Who would that have been, then?’
Why, in heaven’s name, had she said such a stupid thing? She shifted uncomfortably beneath his questioning, yanking her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, searching frantically for something to say. ‘Well...there’s my brother...’
‘When he was a baby, no doubt.’ Ragnar clapped a hand on her shoulder, openly laughing now. ‘Caught red-handed, my lady! You couldn’t take your eyes off me, admit it!’ He smiled down at her.
‘Please, Ragnar, stop teasing me. I saw very little, believe me.’ Embarrassment sifted across her face. She dropped her head, the simple gesture admitting defeat. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’ Somewhere above them, an owl hooted, the mournful cry echoing through the shifting branches. A leaf rustled down, brushing past Ragnar’s shoulder.
‘I should hope not,’ he said. His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. His skin was cool, damp from the water. She inhaled the fresh scent lifting from him, intoxicating. Her senses reeled, her mind tacking back continually to what she had seen, back there in the pool. His naked flesh, spangled with light. She shivered, trying to drive the image from her brain. She needed to create some distance between them, allow her senses to recover, regain some self-control before she did something really foolish.
‘You’re cold,’ Ragnar stated, misinterpreting her gesture. He stuck his head through the neck-hole of his shirt, tugged the fine linen down over his chest. ‘We should go back.’
‘Unless...’ she said slowly, glancing at the pool. It would give her the opportunity she needed: a place to be alone, a place where she could calm down and regain her composure.
‘Do you want to bathe?’
‘Can I?’ she whispered. Her pearly skin was luminous in the moonlight, lustrous patina gleaming like cream satin.
‘You don’t need my permission, Gisela,’ Ragnar said, ‘but the water’s very cold.’
‘Oh, Ragnar, I don’t care about that! I’d do anything to be able to take these g
owns off! They’re far too tight...’ She plucked fretfully at the side-lacings ‘And they stink from de Pagenal’s castle. My hair stinks, too!’
‘I’m not going to stop you,’ he murmured. ‘Do you...?’ He hesitated, clearly knowing that what he was about to suggest was a bad idea. ‘Do want me to stay and keep watch?’
‘No!’ Gisela replied, a little too vehemently. ‘I think...it would be better if you go back to the hut.’ Springing away from the tree, she hopped from one foot to the other, then stumbled forward in excitement, tripping over Ragnar’s toe.
He cupped her elbows, steadying her, his generous mouth curving with humour. ‘I can truly say I have never seen anyone quite so thrilled by the prospect of taking a bath.’
‘You have no idea,’ she said, pulling out of his light hold and stepping towards the pool. The last time she had managed to wash had been when she had shared the chamber with him at Bertune. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Shout if you need me,’ Ragnar said.
‘I will,’ she promised. But in her heart, she knew that she could not.
* * *
Gisela struggled out of the hated clothes, wriggling and contorting until she had managed to yank both gowns over her head, ripping a seam in the process. Face flushed with effort, she dumped the dresses down with her cloak and headscarf on the mossy ground. The dark pool gleamed in the moonlight, a slight breeze scuffing the polished surface. Kicking off her boots, she rolled down her woollen stockings, trembling slightly in her chemise and linen drawers. Unlacing the ties at the bottom of her braids, she wondered whether she should remove her undergarments. Glancing back into the darkness of the wood, she spotted the faint glow of the fire at the hut. Could she trust Ragnar not to reappear? But the thought of that cool liquid sliding against her naked skin was too much to bear. Her chemise and drawers floated down on top of the pile of clothes.
Clutching hold of a branch, she stepped down into the inky water, gasping at the icy coldness. Ragnar had not been lying. But she took another step, then another, the mud on the bottom squelching around her bare toes as she headed out into the middle. The water level crept over her hips, up to her waist, and she stood for a moment, shivering, wrapping her arms around her bare breasts, summoning up the courage to duck beneath the surface. Then she bobbed down, immersing her body, her unbound hair. The silken tendrils floated out around her.
The water stung her skin, a thousand freezing needles, numbing at first, but then invigorating. Tipping her head back, the water filled her ears, blocking out all sound. She floated, her feet stretched out in front of her, closing her eyes, the delicious sensation of the water drawing out all the strain and hurt from the past few days. Then she stood, the radiant liquid sluicing down her flesh, as she scrubbed vigorously at her scalp, her hair, washing the dirt away.
Her hands stilled, fell from her hair. Motionless, she listened. Had she heard something? The trees around the pool seemed oddly silent. Her ears strained for sound, hollowing out inside to capture even the slightest squeak. What if de Pagenal had decided to follow them in the forest with his men? Was he lurking in the shadows?
Breath caught in her chest, a knot of panic twisting with her anxious mind. She had to get out of there. Sloshing forward, she staggered clumsily to the edge of the pool, scrabbling through the mud to claw her way out, on her hands and knees. Grabbing her chemise, she clutched it to her chest, then sprinted, fast, darting along the bleached line of the path, back to the hut.
‘Ragnar,’ she gasped, bursting out of the shadowy trees and into the clearing. He was sitting cross-legged by the fire, the carved lines of his handsome face lit by the flickering flames. ‘Ragnar, quick! I think... I think de Pagenal might be out there!’
His leather boots hit the ground with a thump as he sprung to his feet, drawing his sword with a sibilant hiss. The semi-precious stones set into the hilt winked in the firelight. He turned his head from left to right, his piercing eyes roaming the darkness. In two paces he stood before her, one hand cupping her shoulder. ‘Where?’ he asked quietly.
‘I thought I heard something!’ she gulped out, her lungs burning with the effort of running from the pool. ‘What if de Pagenal decided to try to find us? He has never forgiven me for taking Marie from him!’
* * *
Her bare flesh burned into the palm of his hand. His breath seized, senses unravelling. In the glowing light, the dancing flames enveloped her half-naked outline in a rosy glow, highlighting the dip beneath her clavicle, the enticing slope of her hip. Her pulse beat frantically in the hollow of her throat. The urge to place his finger on the spot and feel the surge of her blood was unbelievable. The chemise held against her stomach scarcely covered her; the top of her breasts were visible: round, creamy globes of perfect flesh. Her wet hair straggled over her shoulder, down, down to the flare of her hips, dark curling ropes against her limpid skin.
His groin tightened, mind hazing with desire. Heat pounded through his chest.
Gisela bit her lip, doubtful now. Had her fear of the Norman made her mind play tricks on her? ‘I...might be wrong,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought I heard something, that’s all. In the pool, alone, I felt afraid.’
‘Where are your clothes?’ Ragnar spluttered out. His tongue moved thickly against the roof of his mouth. Divested of her garments, she appeared smaller, fragile, delicately built. Around her shoulder, his tanned fingers contrasted strongly against her milky-white skin.
‘Can you hear anything?’ Gisela peered at him.
He forced himself to concentrate, to listen. But all he could hear was the blood hurtling in his ears, his chest; the quick gasp of her breathing. Step back, his logical brain told him sternly, move away from her. Jerking his gaze up, he focused on the stars above, twinkling in the midnight-blue sky, praying for sanity, desperate to block out the enchanting vision before him, but her image burned on his retina: slender legs indented gracefully at the knee, rounding upwards into soft, creamy thighs. Her womanhood, hidden by the gauzy hem of her chemise. Just.
‘Can you?’ she repeated, knocking him lightly on the shoulder to gain his attention.
‘No.’ His voice, gruffly hoarse, tottered out into the night. ‘No, I can’t.’ Lust, the flicking tongue of fire, lapped at his groin, severing his brain from good sense.
* * *
‘Ragnar...?’ She chewed doubtfully on her bottom lip, her panic subsiding as she listened. The chill air brushed her skin, whisking away the water droplets; she trembled. All she could hear were the branches whispering above their heads, the water running into the pool, nothing more. Suddenly she felt very, very stupid.
‘I... I have imagined it.’ A hot rush of embarrassment flooded her flesh. ‘What a fool I am!’ Her hands rose to her cheeks in consternation, not thinking. Without the firm trap of her hands, the chemise dipped fractionally, gaped forward. One rosy nipple peeked out.
His lungs emptied of air, breath punching out. ‘Thor’s teeth, Gisela!’ Ragnar seized the chemise, as if intending to yank the material upwards. ‘I should never have let you bathe,’ he murmured, almost to himself. His knuckles grazed her flesh, knocking the downy side of her breast. His hand flew back, as if her flesh stung him; he jammed his trembling fingers into his sword belt. ‘Go now, go and put your clothes back on!’ Pivoting away from her, he glared fixedly into the shadowy forest beyond the hut.
Clutching her chemise, Gisela stared miserably at his broad back. Damp tendrils of hair fringed the solid nape of his corded neck. He was annoyed, irritated with her, and rightly so. There was no one in the forest, no one but the two of them. His cold disapproval sloshed over her.
‘I am sorry, Ragnar. I did imagine it. But you don’t have to be quite so angry with me!’
Air whistled out from his lungs, slowly. He gritted his teeth. ‘Nay, I’m not angry with you, Gisela.’
‘What then? I made a mistake; I have apologi
sed.’
‘It might have escaped your notice, Gisela, but you’re wearing almost nothing!’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why is that a problem? It matters not one jot to you whether I am fully clothed or stark naked. You’ve made it perfectly obvious that you think little of me.’
His eyes glittered dangerously as he spun back to face her. ‘Have I?’ His expression was incredulous. ‘Whatever gave you that impression?’
The breeze sifted against her flaming face. Something was not quite right here; they seemed to be talking at odds with each other. ‘Well...that you think of me more like...a sister.’ She cleared her throat, wriggling her naked toes against the moss-covered ground.
‘Wrong.’ The word jabbed out, coiling seductively in her belly. He stepped forward, lifting up her mud-stained fingers, rubbing his thumb across her middle knuckle. ‘So when I kissed you in the bedchamber, back in Bertune, I kissed you like a sister, did I?’
Her mind tacked back to the moment with clear, pin-pointing accuracy, knowing the answer. She had no need to speak it aloud.
‘Don’t you understand?’ An edge of desperation hooked his low tone. ‘I’m trying to protect you.’
‘Protect me? From what?’
His eyes glowed over her. ‘From me.’
A single drop of water hung from the lobe of her ear, sparkling like a diamond. He reached out, touched it with the pad of his finger. She gasped as the curve of his thumb grazed her jaw. It was all he needed. The signal. Her simple whispering sigh, heavy with need, with longing. A muscle jumped in his cheek. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. Restraint loosened, slipped away. He made no attempt to call it back.
His hand slipped down, across her neck, gripping the gauzy fabric of her chemise, tugging decisively, wedging her slight frame against his own hefty muscle. His mouth descended, lips claiming hers, devouring their sweetness. His powerful arms moved around her, roping her tight to him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. A rolling tide of awareness flooded through him, engulfing, unstoppable.
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