A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “Take your hands off me, Trystan,” she whispered.

  In a way, he did, for his hold loosened.

  Then he slowly moved his hands down her arms in a gesture that was more like a caress than anything else. “Order me to go, Mair, and I will.”

  As his fingers began another slow, tantalizing journey, Mair couldn’t ask him to leave.

  How could she, when she desperately wanted him to stay and make love with her again? How often had she dreamed of being in his embrace, just like this? How many nights had she drifted off to sleep wondering what it would be like to have Trystan beside her?

  What would she not have given to have had him for her first lover?

  Everything but her pride, her pride that made her keep her desire for him a secret for so long.

  And now…now she was where she had so often longed to be.

  And she did not want him to go.

  Instead, she accepted her desire and eagerly gave in to the yearning within her.

  His long hair brushed against her bare arms as she wound them about his neck. His chest pressed against her breasts, the sensation incredibly exciting.

  Then his mouth was upon hers in a savage, wildly arousing kiss.

  It was even better than before. Last night, he had been all primitive passion and fiery lust. Today, there was that—and more besides.

  Today, he seemed to be holding back, more tentative, more aware of her and what she might want.

  What she wanted was him inside her, loving her. Completing her. Making her feel as if he needed her as she needed him.

  She had no time for hesitant tenderness, no need for softly spoken words of encouragement, no patience for gentle caresses.

  She thrust her tongue between his lips and into his warm mouth as her hands sought his arousal. She stroked him boldly, at the same time twisting and turning as he ran his hands over her willing body.

  With increasing need, she ground her hips against him and gloried in the low, rolling growl that burst from his throat.

  She pulled him down to the packed earth floor. Kneeling between her legs, he kissed her and fondled her breasts as she herself tugged up her skirt.

  He took an instant to untie his breeches—and then he was inside her, filling her, giving her almost unbearable pleasure. She held to him tightly as she arched to meet him, need answering need.

  Never had she felt more attuned to a lover, as if their union had been preordained and so must be perfect. How else could he know that licking the hollow of her throat thrilled her so, or that softly brushing the underside of her breast with his fingertips made her nearly faint with pleasure?

  Clutching his shoulders, she raised herself to suck the tender lobe of his ear into her mouth. His breath caught as she took it gently between her teeth.

  In another heartbeat she had to let it go, for she was fast approaching the peak.

  All too soon, it was as if she had leapt from a high place onto clouds of unbelievable pleasure. So immersed was she in her own enjoyment, it took her a moment to realize he had reached that after-place, too.

  Panting, he lay his head on her breasts while she stroked his curling dark hair. She ignored the hardness of the floor, which she had not noticed before.

  “God’s wounds, Mair, why do you make me do this?” he murmured.

  She stiffened slightly. “I don’t make you do anything.”

  “You make me give in to the basest elements of my nature,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret as he rose and began to fix his unkempt clothing.

  When she scrambled to her feet he regarded her as if she were some kind of siren, luring him to his doom. “I am only a man, after all, and a man has needs—”

  Mair’s expression hardened. She had not enticed him here; he had come of his own free will. She had not touched him first. She had not drugged him, or gotten him drunk.

  She had done nothing wrong—nothing except give in to her desire and believe he cared for her. “Your needs, is it? Let me guess. That Norman you’re sniffing round will not let you touch her, so you come to me. I will not be a substitute for any woman, Trystan DeLanyea!”

  “Mair, I did not come for such a disgusting purpose,” he growled as he, too, got to his feet and fixed his clothing. He gave her a sharp, condemning look. “If you think me capable of such a motive, I am surprised you let me touch you.”

  With swift, aggressive motions, she adjusted her disheveled bodice. “No more surprised than I. Now get out!”

  “Not until I have your word that you will keep what has happened between us a secret.” He flushed. “Both times.”

  She looked at him as she might a mouse who had gotten into her stores. “You are wise to be worried about what I’ll tell Ivor tonight—when we’re in bed!”

  Trystan’s hands balled into fists. “I knew you gave your favors freely, Mair, but I never knew just how freely.”

  She lifted her chin, her fierce eyes flashing. “Go ahead, insult me!” she declared scornfully, full of anger at him, and at herself for being weak and giving in to her desire. “Why not? You hate me, and I hate you. I probably shouldn’t tell Ivor anything! That would be admitting that I am mad. I must be, to make love with you. And doubly mad to do it twice. But at least I will not accuse you of making me do something against my will. I chose to do it, I am sorry and it won’t happen again—because I will not let it!” She put her hands on her hips. “Now leave me, sir, and never come here again. You remind me of my shame.”

  He made a skeptical face. “I did not think you had it in you to be ashamed of immorality.”

  Her face flushed. “I am not ashamed of making love, man!” she snarled. “I am ashamed of making love with you! Now get out of my house and never speak to me again!”

  Trystan’s face was nearly as red as he bowed stiffly and marched to the door.

  Mair picked up the porridge pot and threw it after him. It hit the doorframe with a heavy thud, making a large dent, before it rolled on the ground.

  She stared at it a moment before she realized the porridge didn’t spill because it was too hard. With trembling hands, she picked it up, then forced herself to survey the dent.

  If that pot had struck Trystan, she could have killed him.

  She almost wished she had. Almost.

  Nevertheless, she silently vowed, she would never go near him again, that Trystan with his fine, muscular body and handsome face and eyes that seemed to say…

  No, she would have nothing more to do with him, even if he looked at her that way, and even though his hands seemed able to touch and arouse her as no other man, and despite his kisses that filled her such incredible desire…

  “Fool,” she whispered as she headed for the pigsty. “Stupid, stupid fool!”

  She was not referring to Trystan.

  From her luxuriously appointed bedchamber in the west tower of Craig Fawr, Lady Rosamunde looked down into the bustling courtyard below. Her idle gaze fell on the tall, brawny captain of the guard as he spoke to his men in that preposterous Welsh. He was not an unattractive fellow, in a rough-hewn, barbaric way. He probably loved his women roughly, too, she thought, the idea warming her.

  Nevertheless, he was a barbarian, when all was said and done, and she would not waste her time in useless contemplation of him. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Trystan DeLanyea, who she was keeping waiting for a little while before they went out riding.

  A wise woman let a man wait, to increase his anticipation.

  She looked out over the wall to the land beyond the comfortable fortress which, surprisingly, would have done any Norman proud. Then she surveyed her bedchamber.

  The comfortable bed had soft, silken coverings, and fine wax candles provided illumination at night. There was a brazier for warmth, and a lovely ewer and basin on the table nearby. There was even a carpet on the floor, a thing only the wealthiest of nobles possessed.

  Still, how could any intelligent, sophisticated person want to live so far from Lon
don and the court, or anything remotely civilized? As for the local peasants, they were like savages, with their odd language and strange customs, and their disgusting familiarity with their overlord.

  Why, she had even heard that that woman in the lovely red gown at the feast was no more than an alewife—and yet she had danced as if she were…as if she were somebody.

  Well, Rosamunde thought contentedly as she turned back to look into the courtyard again, surely it would be easy for a woman as beautiful and graceful as she to convince a loving young husband that any man with any ambition at all should spend most of the year in London, near the court.

  And she had come to the conclusion that her loving young husband should be handsome Trystan DeLanyea.

  Trystan DeLanyea’s personal attributes were, of course, but a pleasant bonus to the real issues that did, and should, concern a woman of her rank. The most important thing was wealth and the power that went with it. Without that, a handsome face was nothing, and a comely man’s love even less important. Fortunately, everything around her and everything she had seen at Craig Fawr attested to the DeLanyeas’ wealth.

  To be sure, there was the problem of Trystan DeLanyea’s Welsh blood. Fortunately, he was but one quarter Welsh and the rest Norman. Besides—and as her father was sure to realize eventually, as she had immediately—Trystan’s father’s ancestry had apparently proved no impediment to the baron’s success in an England ruled by Normans.

  In fact, given all that she had seen here of the baron’s wealth and influence, she was quite certain Sir Trystan DeLanyea was worth marrying. It was regrettable he was not the eldest son, yet she was sure that any son of Baron DeLanyea would be granted a fine and prosperous estate.

  Another important factor in her decision was her conviction that Trystan DeLanyea already loved her. She knew men well enough to recognize the signs of infatuation, and it had taken so little effort, she was certain she could ensure that his infatuation lasted longer than most bridegroom’s.

  Pleased with her rational and wise decision, Rosamunde smiled with the satisfaction often seen on a feline face. Then, thinking she had kept her future husband waiting long enough, she pulled her light cloak about her shoulders and swept from the bedchamber.

  Unaware that his fate was apparently decided in a way quite different from Angharad’s method, Trystan mentally berated himself for a fool as he marched toward the stables.

  How could he have done that—again? How could he have been so weak and filled with lust?

  It had to be Mair’s fault. No other woman had that effect on him, not even Lady Rosamunde. Why, one look from Mair, one touch of her hands, and he was suddenly powerless to overrule his lust. Even now, simply thinking about her, and despite what they had just done, he was filled with desire to be with her again.

  He rammed his fist into his palm. He wasn’t a fool, and he wasn’t a love-struck youth, and he could be strong. He must be strong if he was to win Lady Rosamunde.

  All he had to do was stay away from Mair. He wouldn’t get within twenty yards of her if he could help it, he silently vowed.

  He sighed raggedly and ran his hand through his hair. God’s wounds, what was wrong with him that he felt this undeniable doubt that he would be able to do even that much?

  Maybe nothing, his mind replied. As Mair had so angrily suggested, maybe he was merely a vital young man needing an outlet for his natural urges. He hadn’t been to a brothel in weeks and had never particularly enjoyed visiting such places, with their earthy women and filthy sheets.

  “Lady Rosamunde!” he cried as he nearly collided with her.

  She moved back, smiling shyly. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sir.”

  How lovely she was, with her light blue silken cloak and gossamer white scarf that brushed her cheek.

  She wasn’t too pale today, for the cool air and her shy surprise had brought a most becoming pink flush to her face.

  “Forgive me for being lost in my thoughts,” he said.

  “I hope they were not troubling ones.”

  He smiled and decided this was as good a time as any to make his wishes known. “Not troubling, but important,” he replied, “and you were in them.”

  “I?” she said with modest surprise and a pleasure he was happy to see.

  “Yes.” He glanced around the busy courtyard where servants and tenants came and went. “Would you come with me to my mother’s garden? There is something I would ask you.”

  She looked around worriedly. “With you? Alone? I thought we were going riding.”

  “We can do that afterward, my lady. Please come with me to the garden. I assure you, I will not do anything improper.”

  “Oh, I know you will not, but others might not believe that if we are seen.”

  “They will if I say so.”

  Her eyes widened a little, and he regretted sounding so forceful. “If you would rather not, or if you would care to fetch your maid…?” he offered, albeit reluctantly.

  The lady smiled and shook her head. “There is no need for that. I trust you, sir.”

  Her words should have made him proud and happy, and he told himself they would have, if they had not also filled him with even more remorse for being with Mair again.

  He held out his arm and after Lady Rosamunde placed her delicate hand upon it, he led her to a bench in his mother’s rose garden, now prepared for the coming winter. She sat on the wooden bench he brought her to, in one of the more secluded areas of the garden. He didn’t want any servants to hear him propose marriage. Out of respect for her concern about propriety, however, he left the gate open.

  “This garden must be very lovely in the summer,” Lady Rosamunde noted with a smile. “An oasis in the wilderness.”

  “It is. But Wales is not so much of a wilderness.”

  “It is far from London,” Lady Rosamunde replied. “For a man of your talents, it must be frustrating to be so far from court.”

  He smiled. “My talents?”

  She flushed prettily. “We have heard of your prowess in tournaments, Sir Trystan. Indeed, you are quite famous, I think.”

  A rush of pride filled him at her sincere compliment. He had dared to dream that some of the Norman nobility had heard of his victories, and now it appeared that dream had not been a vain one.

  She continued to regard him with wide-eyed wonder. “I am sure any one of my father’s friends at court would be delighted to have you as his liege man.”

  “I wish I could be as certain of that, my lady, as you seem to be,” he replied softly as he sat beside her.

  “I grant you, having Welsh blood is something of a drawback, but I am sure they would be willing to overlook that.”

  Trystan’s pleasure decreased, for she spoke as if he was seriously tainted, despite his prowess in tournaments and his own family’s title. “It is true that I am one-quarter Welsh.”

  “It is also true your father is well-respected.” She gave him a shy, sidelong glance. “I am sure many people do not care about your heritage at all.”

  He told himself she did not mean any insult as he took her thin, cool hand in his. “Do you care about it?”

  “No.”

  Now was the time to ask for her hand, his mind commanded. Now he must speak. Now he should ask her to be his wife.

  The words stuck in his throat as she looked at him expectantly.

  Again his mind ordered him to ask her to make him the happiest man in Britain by consenting to be his wife.

  Instead, he put his arm around her and drew her close for a gentle kiss.

  Her lips were as cool as her hands. It was like kissing a rock.

  “Forgive me, my lady. Your beauty…” he stammered as he moved away.

  He couldn’t even finish the excuse.

  To his immediate relief, she smiled and did not look overly dismayed. “I am not angry, sir. Indeed, I am flattered, although your action was rather improper.”

  Despite the coolness of her kiss, he should ma
rry Lady Rosamunde. He should have a place at court, or at least in the entourage of a powerful lord. Marrying into her family would make that possible.

  Besides, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever come to Craig Fawr, as well as the most demure, virtuous and graceful. By wedding her, he would have bested Griffydd and Dylan and all the unmarried Norman noblemen in Britain for all the world to see.

  And still the words would not come.

  “What did you want to ask me, sir?” Lady Rosamunde said as she delicately adjusted the hood of her cloak.

  “How long will you and your father stay at Craig Fawr?”

  If the lady was disappointed, her face did not betray her. “At least another fortnight. My father wishes to learn more of your father’s silver mining, and his agreement with the Gall-Gaidheal to the north. My father wants to widen the market for our wool and is curious about the bargain the baron struck with Diarmad MacMurdoch.” She gave him a coy, sidelong glance. “I hope your father doesn’t plan to marry another one of his sons to a Gall-Gaidheal woman.”

  “No, he does not.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Are you?”

  “Very.”

  Once more he put his arm around her shoulder. “Lady Rosamunde, has any man spoken to you of marriage?” he asked, gently pulling her closer.

  “One or two,” she admitted.

  “Yet you are not married or betrothed?”

  “No.”

  So she did not kiss with fierce and hungry passion like Mair, he thought as he leaned down to kiss Lady Rosamunde. So what if Lady Rosamunde kept her lips as firmly closed as a locked chastity belt.

  Lady Rosamunde kissed like a lady, not like a…a woman.

  Turning her head away, she broke the kiss. “Sir Trystan, you quite take my breath away,” she murmured, her beautiful breasts rising and falling rapidly as if she were indeed breathless.

  “Perhaps we should go riding now,” Trystan said, standing and holding out his hand, “before I am tempted to act in an impetuous, ungentlemanly manner.”