Ever My Love: The Lore of the Lucius Ring (The Legend of the Theodosia Sword Book 2)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I think I explained, I was trying to teach you a lesson.”

  “Which is so very flattering really. Women love it when men show them their place.”

  “It was not meant like that and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “Goddamn it, Britannia…”

  “Such language. Whatever would my father say?”

  “I believe he would say you are in need of a spanking.”

  Her eyes widened. Outrage swelled. If he even tried, she would saw him open with the butter knife. “You are something of a beast, you know.”

  “I am a Scot,” he snarled. “What else would you expect?”

  Well, there was no answer for that.

  But then, he didn’t expect one.

  Rather, he took that last step toward her, yanked her into his arms, and kissed her.

  It was not a gentle, demure or respectful kiss. Not in the slightest. It was like the wild wind on the moors. A crashing tumult of a storm at sea.

  And it was mind-boggling.

  She and Peter had kissed many times before. But never had Britannia felt so swept away, confused, elated and aroused.

  Without thought, she responded, returning Charles’ manic kisses with ones of her own, each more savage, more taking, more demanding than the last. She clutched at his shoulders through the linen of his shirt, raked her fingers through his silky hair, pressed herself against him, glorying in the hardness of his body, his scent, his power. Heat soaked into her where they touched. The ridge of his erection pressed against her belly.

  Good glory. This was magnificent. This was divine. This was—

  He pulled away with a snarl and whirled around, showing her his back. She felt his absence to her core. And she ached with it.

  Gingerly, she touched her lips, wondering if he had seared them off. Her body shook, her pulse rocketed, her muscles trembled and a hunger raged within her.

  “We shouldna ha’ done that,” he said in a rasp. “We should never ha’ done that.”

  She sucked in a breath and attempted to find her balance. He was probably right. They should not have kissed. It had exposed something raw and feral that she realized, in retrospect, they had both been trying desperately to hide.

  Oh, she wanted him. It was like a fire in her blood.

  A pity they could not have pretended a little longer. This would make things ever so much more difficult.

  She rallied all her resources and pinned a cheerful smile on her face. “It was a nice kiss,” she said in a tone that was as blasé as she could manage.

  He whirled around and scowled at her. “Nice?”

  “Very nice?”

  “It was a damn sight better than bluidy nice,” he snarled. Then he recalled himself. He straightened his shirt, which refused to be straightened, cleared his throat and said, “But we canna do that again.”

  She nodded, and fixed a pleasant expression on her face, though it cost her. “Of course not. I am betrothed, after all.”

  “You are.” His tone had the hint of a dirge to it.

  “So no more kissing.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  They stared at each other across the room. Britannia tried very hard to maintain her aplomb, though her entire body quivered with the strain. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, throw herself against him and take for herself more of the glory he had to offer.

  Tension stretched.

  Silence rippled.

  And then, in a rush, they both moved as one. As one. With the ferocity of an oncoming storm. Into each other’s arms.

  Chapter Six

  He’d only wanted one more taste. One more delicious, dizzying kiss.

  He should have known better. Given her responsiveness and his raging desire, now slipped free of its bonds, he should have expected the conflagration that rose up between them.

  He knew he could not take her, but a kiss? A caress here or there? Surely there was no danger in this. In this, and nothing more.

  Ah, but therein lay the crux of the matter.

  He wanted more. Much, much more.

  A part of his brain registered the truth. He should stop. He should thrust her away and hie from this room, from her presence. But the thought made his soul howl, so he allowed himself to sink into the exchange once more. Her mouth was sweet and velvety soft. Her tongue was mischievous and inquisitive. She leaned into him with a fervor that made his rational brain fizzle and pop.

  Her father was a duke.

  Her brother was his best friend.

  But oh, when she cupped her hand to his nape and stroked him with her thumb, it sent delicious shivers through him and all such resistance faded.

  He should not let this go any further, but Charles was lost. Lost in her scent, her curves, her warmth.

  When her passion rose, and that gentle stroke became a rake of her nails over his skin, he shuddered. His body tightened. His pulse thrummed. Insanity loomed.

  She moaned his name. It whipped through him like a wild wind off the moors. With a start, he realized he was on the precipice. Teetering on the edge of a perilous cliff. This was coming far too close to the point of no return—for both of them.

  Aside from that, Britannia was an innocent. She did not understand all of the ramifications of their actions here, what continuing would mean for her and her life. Her hopes. Her dreams.

  If anyone was going to put an end to this, it had to be him.

  He could not seduce her.

  He could not take what he wanted, needed, craved.

  It would be wrong.

  Drawing in a deep and painful breath, he cupped her cheeks and eased back. She stared up at him with beautiful, damp, dewy eyes. Her lips were parted. Her expression was soft, welcoming.

  Oh, one more kiss.

  Just one—

  But no.

  He could not. He suspected if he kissed her again, just one more time, he would not be strong enough to stop. He wanted her too much. He was man enough to admit such weakness. Man enough to protect her from her own desire…and his.

  “Britannia,” he said.

  “Charles.”

  He set his forehead to hers and gulped in another calming breath. “We canna.”

  He saw it there, in her eyes, when his words sank in. Her agreement. It slayed him, but he needed to be slayed. His dragon, at least. They could not continue along this path or all her decisions would be stripped from her.

  For if he took her tonight, or any other night, he would never let her go.

  If he took her tonight, it would force her hand. And while he dearly wanted to win her, he did not want her on those terms.

  So, as difficult as it was, he stepped away and gestured to the bed. “You sleep there,” he said in a rough voice, as though his throat did not want to release the words. “I shall sleep on the floor by the fire.”

  She seemed shaken as well, but valiantly attempted to appear calm. “But Charles, the bed is yours.” She offered a small, crooked smile. “And I am the valet.”

  “You are taking the bed,” he said, and without another word, gathered a blanket and a pillow and fixed himself a pallet alongside the abandoned tub.

  It occurred to him that, had circumstances been different, he should have offered her a bath, but the water had cooled. And aside from all that, the thought of her in that tub, bare and glistening, threatened to unhinge him.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow they would stop at another inn. She would have her own room. He would arrange for her to have a bath in privacy while he politely suffered in the room next door.

  It was the least he could do.

  He settled onto his pallet on the hard floor and tried not to pay attention to the little noises she made as she settled in. He knew there was no chance in hell he would fall asleep. Not with his cock as wide awake as it was. But it hardly mattered.

  He had so much more weighing on his soul than his fatigue.

  The fact that he was utterly besotted w
ith Britannia, the fact that he wanted her for his very own, was a torment.

  Because he could not have her. Not as things were.

  Some men might see such opportune reunion as a sign that this was meant to be. That God was placing her in his path because they were, indeed, meant to be together.

  Charles was tempted to succumb to such reasoning, but he was rational enough to know, had a friend come to the same conclusion, he would advise him to proceed with caution.

  In his experience, God did not step in on major matters like life and death. Why would He step in for the sake of a romance?

  He was, however, not a fool. He recognized an opportunity when he saw one, and this was one he would not squander.

  Aye, he could not seduce the tantalizing Lady Britannia Halsey. But there was nothing to prevent him from wooing her on this journey.

  There was a chance John St. Andrews was simply a man who looked like her Peter, and if that was the case, she might finally be ready to release her hold on her betrothed. Something Charles could pray for.

  Beyond that, if John was actually Peter, and Britannia discovered the concerning truth about her fiancé, she might consider herself finally free of that obligation.

  She might find herself in a position to consider Charles.

  It only made sense to prepare for such a happenstance.

  Because honestly, though he hadn’t known her all that long, he was head over heels. He couldn’t envision his life without her.

  Though her bed was soft as down, Britannia could not sleep. For one thing, every single move Charles made, though across the room, captured her attention, making her think about him.

  For another, her body was restless. She could not forget those kisses, or the overwhelming passion he’d incited.

  She’d never felt like that with Peter. But then, she and Peter had a lovely, calm relationship. They’d never had cross words with each other the way she and Charles had. There had never been any of this irksome tension whenever the two were together.

  She loved Peter, there was no doubt about it, but for some reason, her feelings for the Earl of Wick were so much stronger. And they were not always pleasant. She did not understand why.

  What was love, anyway? Was it physical attraction or deep respect? She had one with Peter and the other with Charles. And they both confused her.

  It was foolish to fret over, though.

  She was dedicated to Peter. Betrothed to him.

  She had no business feeling anything for another man.

  The more she reflected on what had happened here, the angrier she became. Not at Charles, but at herself. She should have been stronger. She should have been able to control herself. She should have refused to succumb to that unruly passion.

  Oh, la. What a fool she had been to yearn to break free from her constrained existence. It was by far more exciting to be wild and free, but it was more dangerous, as well.

  She knew, with blazing clarity, how close they’d come to… Well, to ruining everything. She would never have forgiven herself if she had. Peter expected the best of her and he deserved it, too. It would be selfish and weak to allow herself to surrender to her passion.

  It was imperative that she keep her distance from Charles from now on. There was a good week or so of the journey left. Hopefully it would not be too difficult. During the day, he would ride outside, and at night, of course, they would have to have separate rooms. She would insist upon it.

  But tomorrow, first thing, she and her traveling companion would need to have a serious talk. She would remind him of her mission, her dedication, and insist that they maintain a cordial distance.

  Yes. That was a lovely plan. It eased a bit of the guilt she felt by losing her mind in his arms.

  But, oh, it had been magnificent, hadn’t it?

  As the memories rushed back, swamping her with a delirious warmth, she grimaced and pushed them away.

  She had to be strong. She had to resist whatever this was. She had to be faithful to Peter because, no matter where he was, no matter who he was, she knew Peter was being faithful to her.

  It was only right that she offer him the same honor.

  No matter how much she wanted to kiss the Very Vexing Earl of Wick.

  She must have slept because when she opened her eyes, a muted sunlight was streaming through the room and a very tantalizing smell teased her nostrils.

  She realized at once that it was bacon and shot up in the bed and scanned the room. Her mood dipped unaccountably when she realized she was alone. Apparently, Charles had risen early, brought her breakfast and left again. She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed.

  She decided on neither and quickly took care of her personal needs, and washed her hands and face in the basin. It was amazing how much time it saved to sleep in one’s clothes. She sat down at the table and lifted the dome from the plate. Her mouth watered at the sight of a lovely breakfast. Certainly more than she could eat. But she tried.

  Just as she finished and pushed the plate away, there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Come in,” she said, ignoring the shiver at the thought of seeing Charles again. It was a ridiculous shiver. She reminded herself of her resolution of the night before and steeled her spine.

  She had no idea, therefore, why the sight of him, freshly washed and shaved and splendidly dressed, made her lower body ache and melt. She forced a casual and remote smile. “Good morning, milord.”

  He frowned as he entered and closed the door. “Must you call me that?” Why he seemed put out was a mystery.

  “You are a lord,” she said with a shrug.

  “My name is Charles.”

  “I know that.” She toyed with her fork, to have something to look at other than him. “But there is no appropriate scenario where I would call you that.” Not as Lady Britannia Halsey and, most certainly, not as his valet.

  “Is there not?” he growled. And when she dared a peep at him, he said in a low and gravelly voice, “You called me Charles last night. When you were in my arms.”

  The words caught in her throat, but she finally managed to croak, “As I said. No appropriate scenario.” Her aloof mask threatened to melt in the heat of his gaze.

  He grabbed a chair and pulled it toward the table and sat. Far too close. “But you do not deny you cried my name in the throes of passion.”

  What on earth was he doing? Had they not agreed—without words, of course—to ignore what had happened last night? And more to the point, why did he seem angry about it?

  She threw back her shoulders. “My good sir. I’ve never been in the throes of anything.” She was fairly certain she had not been. Last night notwithstanding.

  “Shall I kiss you again and remind you?” Nearly a whisper, but it made her lurch back. Twin trails of horror and exhilaration twined through her.

  Ah. She would love to kiss those beautiful lips again…but she could not. Should not. Her kisses belonged to Peter and it was wrong to give them to another man.

  It took a great deal of effort, but she met his eyes and said, with devastating resolution, “Charles. We must have a talk.”

  His eyes narrowed at her tone. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “All right.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and began, taking care to look anywhere but at his face. “What happened last night—”

  “Was lovely.”

  She frowned at him. “Please don’t interrupt.”

  “But it was lovely. Was it not?” He edged closer and in response, she edged away. This was difficult enough without the distraction of his scent.

  “We must forget about last night.”

  “Forget about it?” He snorted. “I think not. In fact, I intend to play it again and again in my mind for years to come.”

  Well really. This was not going well. She redoubled her efforts to convince him. “It should never have happened—”

  “Some of the most amazing adventures begin just like that.”

&n
bsp; “It is not my intention to have a wild, passionate, ill-advised fling with an earl.”

  “Hardly ill-advised.”

  “It rather is.”

  “Besides, that was hardly a…fling. Merely a kiss. A delightful one at that—”

  “Regardless.” She cut him off with a ruthless gust. “We should not have done…”

  He leaned closer. His breath caressed her cheek. “What?”

  “That! You know very well of what I speak.”

  “I think you should remind me.” His lips touched hers. Lightly. Teasingly.

  It took some effort, but she wrenched back, away from his touch, away from his allure. Guilt boiled in her gut. She was a betrothed woman. She had no business feeling like this for some other man. She had no business wanting him. She certainly had no business doing what they had done.

  But lord. That kiss had been devastating. A tumult of need and desire and glorious delight.

  Whatever would Peter think of her? What would he say when he discovered she’d kissed another man? Would he still love her?

  She glanced at the ring and imagined she saw its color dimming. With a frown, she yanked her attention to something else. Unfortunately, it was Charles’ face.

  Damn him. Why did he have to be so handsome?

  “Well?” he purred, as though he was expecting her to say something.

  She had no idea what it might be. “Well, what?” she snapped.

  “Aren’t you going to remind me what we shouldna’ ha’ done?”

  Oh bother. He was an aggravating man. “Charles. You and I can only be friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “And there can be no more kissing.”

  “Friends kiss.”

  She glowered at him. “Not like that, they don’t.”

  “Why don’t you just admit the fact that you are uncontrollably attracted to me, and I to you?”

  “I am betrothed.”

  “That does not signify. Betrothed women, married women, widowed women…they can all be attracted to other men.”

  “Attraction is one thing. Action is another entirely.”

  “Do tell.”