Rannulf sent her a teasing look. “At least until he gets to know her.”
’Twas pure reaction that had her pitch her halfeaten apple across the table at him, that and the banked heat she’d noticed in his eyes.
Still, she regretted it as soon as the fruit left her hand.
Rannulf caught it. A faint smile on his lips, he brought the apple to his mouth and took a bite, the fire in his eyes as he ate it kindling a like blaze deep within her. Unable to bear its intensity for long, especially since they’d an audience, she glanced away.
To find Sir Henry scowling at her.
Face flushed, she glanced at her guardian, uncertain what to expect of him. Nicholas glanced from her to Rannulf, his expression amused, pensive—but essentially unreadable.
Cheeks still awash with heat, she slumped a little in her chair, then forced herself to straighten as soon as she felt the carved chair back press against her spine. Lady Gillian de I’Eau Clair wouldn’t cower in her seat.
She also shouldn’t pitch food at others, she scolded herself.
She folded her hands on the table in front of her lest she succumb to further temptation. “Thank you, milords. I do understand what you meant. ’Tis sufficient, I think.”
Rannulf face sobered as he returned to the subject at hand. “I know how we can increase our numbers, at least for long enough to run our attackers to ground and vanquish them. I’ve sent word to my brother Connor, ordering him to send me a complement of FitzClifford’s finest fighters. It’s been quiet around my keep for some time now, so they should get by without a problem until my men return. And I’m certain Lord Ian will lend some of his people if Gillian asks it of him. Before he left, he mentioned something about doing so.”
“We should have accepted his offer,” Nicholas remarked. “Although he didn’t bring all that large a party with him. Still, he might have sent some of them back once he arrived home.” He served himself bread from the platter before him, pausing with his knife poised over the mutton. “I wouldn’t have asked while he was here,” he admitted. He shook his head and resumed slicing the meat. “Foolish pride has ever been one of my consuming flaws.”
“I’m willing to ride to Gwal Draig and ask for his help,” Rannulf offered. “’Tis far too late to catch up to them, but I should arrive at his holding swiftly if I travel alone. I could lead the men back, assuming he is able to send any.”
“He will,” Gillian told them. “Ian hasn’t a large manor, or many men under his command, but his people are well trained, and I know he’ll help us.”
“Good. Rannulf, you’ll leave—” Nicholas glanced over his shoulder at the open window and the fading daylight. “You’d best wait until first light. How large a guard should you take with you, I wonder?”
“I’ll make better time if I go alone—”
“No,” Talbot said firmly. “What if you’re attacked?”
“That could happen as easily if I’ve others with me.” Rannulf toyed with his eating knife. “I’ll take Will—he’s a good man in a fight, and he knows the area better than I. Is that acceptable?”
The three men fell into a discussion of the details, but Gillian had no desire to be drawn into it. She’d willingly admit that any of them knew better than she what they needed, and what Ian might be able to spare.
Instead she took advantage of the opportunity to observe Rannulf unhindered. The man she’d seen since they entered this chamber a short time before was one she knew well—far better, in fact, than the moody stranger who’d arrived here with Nicholas. This was the Rannulf she’d grown to love—a handsome man, strong, physically appealing to all her senses—but also a fun-loving tease, a skilled and intelligent warrior.
’Twas her Rannulf.
The happiness she felt at the fact welled inside her, was almost more than she could bear.
So she savored it, immersed herself in the sight and sound of him.
Having lost it all once, she vowed she’d never take
Rannulf’s presence, his love, for granted again.
If only they could stop the raiders and end the attacks upon her lands, her people, her joy would be complete.
By the time the men finished their plans, ’twas full dark, and Gillian could barely keep her eyes open. The day had been so full, spilling over with tension, with emotion. It would take time, and all her resources, to understand everything that had happened recently.
And it wasn’t over yet.
She nodded her thanks when Nicholas held the door open for her. “I’ll bid you all good-night, for I hear my bed calling me,” she said with a faint laugh as she passed through the doorway into the corridor. “I’ll see you in the morning before Rannulf leaves.”
Surprised to hear her voice wobble on the last words, she dropped a swift curtsy, eyes lowered, and made her escape before she did something foolish.
Such as cry.
Or beg Rannulf not to put himself into danger on her behalf.
Rannulf spoke with Nicholas and Sir Henry awhile longer after Gillian left them, one part of his mind focusing on their discussion—and the fact that Nicholas seemed to have become more reasonable, more approachable—the remainder of his thoughts distracted by visions of Gillian.
Gillian naked beneath him by the pool, tossing an apple at him, trying not to cry when she left them.
Though ’twas naught but conjecture on his part, he wondered if the tears he’d seen pooling in her beautiful eyes had been for him. Was she sorry to see him go? God knew, he’d no desire to leave her, either, but he could not stay, allow her to remain in danger, when it was in his power to help her.
Besides that, he needed to talk to Ian, tell him all he’d learned in the time since the Dragon had left I’Eau Clair.
He sought his chamber, but found the room cold and unwelcoming despite the fire in the hearth and the candles scattered about the room to chase away the shadows of night. He’d find any place cold now, if Gillian wasn’t there.
He drank deeply of the sweet spiced mead left warming for him by the hearth. The heady brew sent a wave of yearning through his veins, a boldness that would not be denied.
Setting the cup aside, he bent and tugged off his boots. He unbuckled his sword belt, but left his other belt, with its sheathed dagger, about his waist. He might be a fool m love, but he was not such an idiot as to wander any keep completely unarmed.
As he turned to leave, he noticed a bowl of apples on the table by the hearth. Grinning, he slipped one into the pouch on his belt and, carrying his boots, headed off for a night of adventure with his love.
If she’d let him into her room.
He’d not ask, he decided as he crept through the torch-lit hall and up the stairs. Mayhap he’d be lucky and she’d be asleep. His blood burned hotter at the thought of creeping into her chamber—into her bed—and waking her.
He met no one—a blessing, for he had no explanation save the truth for wandering the hall with his boots in his hand.
And he knew that Nicholas, for one, would find his reasons no excuse.
Deep shadows shrouded her doorway, and the hallway stood silent and empty. He tucked his boots under one arm and carefully raised the latch and eased the door open wide to slip into the chamber.
The room stood in near-darkness, only the banked coals in the hearth lending their faint glow to hold back the gloom of night. He halted as an unwelcome thought assailed him. Did Ella sleep here, too? He hadn’t any idea, and he couldn’t see to tell. Explaining himself to her might be as perilous as meeting up with Nicholas.
’Twas too late to worry about that now, for he’d, set himself upon this course, and he meant to follow it through until he reached his goal. If he met Ella lurking in the shadows by the bed, he’d deal with her then.
Gillian was worth any risk, as he well knew.
He made it to the bed unhindered and set his boots on the floor near the foot of it. The hangings were partly drawn on the side of the bed nearest him, cloaking Gilli
an from him.
And him from her, he thought with a silent chuckle.
Careful not to rattle the curtain rings, he eased open the drapery and rested one knee on the bed. Leaning forward, he reached for where he thought Gillian to be. Instead of encountering a warm woman, he felt cold steel pressed against his throat.
He remained motionless and silent, certain she’d not harm him, but unwilling to risk a mishap in the darkness.
“Sneaking about in the dark, milord?” she asked, her voice a silky caress. “What have you come to steal, I wonder?” She lowered the blade, drawing the flat of it along his neck, then rose up beside him to press the heat of her lips where the knife had rested.
He buried one hand in her disheveled hair to clasp her nape and closed the other over hers on the hilt of the knife and lowered it to rest on the mattress. “Need I steal what I want, or will I find it freely offered?” he asked. Tightening his grip on her hand, he brought it, blade and all, up to pull her closer to him.
Her fingers opened and she let the knife fall, turning her hand in his grasp and twining their fingers together. “You may take whatever you want, milord,” she whispered. Raising their joined hands to her lips, she nipped at his knuckles, sending a bolt of fire streaming down his spine to pool in his loins. “I hoped you’d come to me tonight.” Her tongue darted out to soothe the spot, then trailed over his fingers before she drew his fingertip into the warm wet cavern of her mouth.
She chuckled when he moaned in reaction, then did it again. ’Twas too much, yet not enough—he wanted that mouth, her tongue, elsewhere with a yearning he didn’t try to resist.
He drew her back against the bolsters mounded at the head of the bed and captured her mouth with his. Despite the urge to seize her, strip off her silky shift and bury himself within the welcoming warmth of her body, he felt he’d rushed her before. He’d not do so this time, for he wanted to savor her, make memories to heat his blood while they were apart.
More than that, he wanted to show her how much he valued her, how much she meant to him.
Shifting the pillows, he propped them behind him and drew Gillian around to rest against his chest. “Do you realize, this is the first time we’ve been together in a bed?” he asked.
“Aye, ‘tis wonderful,” she said, wriggling against him as she sought a more comfortable position. “But ’tis so dark in here.”
He laughed. “You just want to stare at my body,” he teased. “Shall I tell you what effect your staring had on me this afternoon?”
She sat up, her hair slithering over his throat and making his breath hiss out through his teeth. “I’d like it even better if you’d show me,” she said boldly. “If you don’t mind if I light the candles.”
He caught her by her shift before she could climb down off the mattress, tugging her back to him and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Her shiver of reaction heightened his desire to not only feel her. response, but to see it as well. “You wait here—I’ll be right back.”
He scrambled off the bed and groped along the table beside the bed until he found the flint and steel. His hands shook, but he managed to kindle a spark and light the single candle there.
Since Gillian wanted light, he would give it to her. Taking the candle in hand, he roamed the room, lighting every candle he found until the chamber seemed filled with a golden glow. ’Twas chilly even to his overheated senses, so he stirred the fire into life, adding small pieces of wood until the flames caught hold.
He couldn’t allow her to become cold, he thought with a grin.
“What’s put that smile on your face?” she asked, reaching out to draw him down beside her on the bolsters. While he’d been busy lighting candles, she’d folded the coverlet at the foot of the bed and pushed the sheets down, out of their way. She lounged back against the pillows, her shift a tantalizing veil over her body, her hair strewn about her a fiery temptation.
“Nothing of importance.” He’d make this night a memory neither of them would forget, he vowed, reaching out to stroke his finger over her eyebrows, down her nose, finally reaching her lips.
It scarce seemed possible they could be softer than her skin, yet they felt delicate as rose petals. Her tongue darted out to brush his fingertip, then just as quickly disappeared. He traced the outline of her mouth, watching her eyes grow dark, unfocused.
The expression in her eyes made him recall the apple he’d brought. Still holding her gaze with his, he unbuckled the belt, fumbled the fruit from the pouch and set the belt on the floor beside the bed.
“Where did your knife go?” he asked.
Her eyes widened and she sat up straight. “What do you need it for?”
What an idiot he was, to frighten her! “Nothing harmful, I assure you,” he said, reaching out to stroke her shoulder and ease her onto the pillows. He held the apple out to her on his outstretched palm. “I need it for this.”
Her expression brightened, and a teasing light appeared in her eyes. “I believe I’m supposed to offer this to you.” She took it from him and held it out to him, her smile enticing. “Can I tempt you, milord?”
“You already do,” he told her. “But I would tempt you, milady.” He reached beneath the pile of pillows and found the knife. At her questioning look, he added, “Right where I keep mine.”
He took the apple and cut a slice from it. After carefully returning her blade to its resting place, he brought the apple to Gillian’s lips.
When she opened her mouth to take a bite, however, he edged the fruit away, instead dragging it over her lips and painting them with the tart, sticky juice. The tip of her tongue slipped out to taste it just as he bent and licked at her mouth. He would not allow her to hurry him, but lapped away every trace, then captured her lower lip with his teeth and nibbled at it.
Her moan filled his mouth. Still toying with her lip, he raised the piece of apple to the corner of her mouth and trailed it over her chin, down her throat and, nudging aside her shift, down to circle her nipple.
He had no word for the sound that Gillian made, but that it signified pleasure he had no doubt. ’Twas nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t melted into a puddle beside her; he hadn’t realized that by teasing her, he’d well nigh drive himself mad with longing.
And he’d yet to follow the apple’s path. Smiling, he drew a deep breath and set off on the journey.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gillian gasped as Rannulf slowly, tortuously followed the apple’s path down her body. The anticipation of his touch alone sent heat pulsing through her to center deep within her. The reality of his tongue blazing its way over her sensitive flesh made her nigh mindless with need.
She ached for his possession, but it seemed he was in no hurry to bring their lovemaking to fruition.
Indeed, he seemed intent upon making it last a very long time.
She’d not complain about that, but she didn’t know if she’d strength enough to endure this blissful torment.
He paused at her throat, raking his teeth over her skin, nibbling at the place where her blood pulsed just below the skin until she thought she’d swoon. “Does that please you?” he murmured, the vibration of his voice adding to the sensation.
She nodded weakly—all she could manage—and slid deeper into the pillows. He slipped his hand beneath her back and arched her to meet his questing mouth. His tongue traced over her chest, leaving dampness in its wake. He followed that course with his callused fingertip, spreading the moisture, then blew gently on the spot, sending a chill that wasn’t cold at all skimming over her skin.
“Rannulf, ’tis too much—” she whispered.
He halted the words with a finger over her lips. “Hush, love, ’tis only the beginning.” He reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers, his free hand lifting her breast to his mouth.
He lapped away every trace of juice, his flexing grip on her hand somehow intensifying the feel of his tongue on her breast. Finally he left her nipple wet and aching an
d rose on his knees to brush his lips across her own. “You taste so sweet,” he said. His voice shook—did he feel as she did, ache the way he’d made her ache?
She hoped so.
From someplace inside her she found the strength to return his kiss, to try to make him lie back against the pillows so she could torment him as he’d done to her. “Not yet, love,” he told her, resisting her efforts and edging down her body once again.
Before she could argue with him, he closed his teeth carefully about her nipple and sent every thought flying from her mind. Waves of pleasure flowed through her, leaving her limp and throbbing with need.
She clutched him to her, burying her fingers in his hair, the feel of the soft curls brushing against her another caress. “Rannulf, please,” she cried. Her hand still gripped in his while he suckled her breast, he smoothed his free hand over her—breast, belly, the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs—pushing her shift down her body and off her legs before answering her unspoken prayer and moving to caress her aching women’s flesh.
Her senses shattered beneath his touch. He rose up and muffled her cries with his mouth; his kiss, and his hand still stroking her, eased her into awareness so subtly it seemed but another part of the pleasure he’d given her.
He brushed kisses over her cheeks, her brow, then her lips again, until her body quieted and she could think again. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He smiled. “’Twas my pleasure, love.”
“I doubt that,” she said, casting a look over his still-clothed body. Her cheeks heated at the realization that she’d been so involved in her own pleasure, she’d scarce spared a thought for his. “’Tis your turn now,” she said, the words a promise.
She only hoped she could bring him as much joy as he had given her.
Her fingers shook, but she fumbled open the neck of his shirt. “Off with your clothes,” she commanded.
“As you wish, milady,” he replied, his mouth quirked into a winsome smile, his eyes dark with appreciation as he caressed her with his gaze.
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