by Nina Mason
His weapon looked even more daunting unsheathed. En garde, she thought in response to the challenge. He peeled off his breeches like a pair of leggings and threw them aside. Now as naked as she was, he leaned over her.
“Gwyndolen,” he said, looking her in the eye, “I’m falling in love with you, which means you will die if we don’t break my curse.”
“I know,” was all she could manage in response.
“Will you help me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you afraid of me? Now, like this?”
“No. I want you.”
“If you do get scared at any point…or don’t like what I’m doing, just tell me, all right?”
“All right.”
He came down beside her and captured her mouth with his. While he kissed her, he cupped her breast and rolled his thumb over her sensitive nipple. Her hips bucked as an arrow of searing pleasure shot straight to her sex.
Breaking out of the kiss, he moved his mouth to her open breast and blew very gently on the nipple. She groaned as his breath ignited the smoldering embers in her loins. When he tugged on the nipple with his lips, she let out a gasp and buried her fingers in his hair.
“You have beautiful breasts,” he said.
As he carried on teasing her nipples with his agile lips and tongue, he moved his hand down her body, through her pubic hair, and into her crevice. His finger began to circle her sweet spot as his teeth scraped her nipple. Holy hell. What he was doing to her was sheer torture.
She wanted to touch him, too, but was afraid. The only penis she’d ever touched was her foster father’s and the memory was still there. Hovering in the shadows like a phantom. She tried to send it away, back to the attic room where she kept it under lock and key, but the ghost refused to leave. Anxiety bloomed in her chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Leith, please. Just get it over with.”
He stilled and pushed off her. Concern and what she thought might be hurt shimmered in his eyes. Tears tightened her throat. She felt so ashamed, and like such a failure. He brought his hand to her face and stroked her cheek.
“Are you all right?”
“Not really.”
“Do you need me to stop?”
“Maybe for a minute.”
He kissed her cheek and stroked her hair, but ceased all sexual touching. “Take all the time you need, my darling. I want you to be comfortable.”
He was so sweet and so different from the man who made her call him Lord and Master. This, she was sure, was the Sir Leith who’d written that beautiful letter to his wife, the tender-hearted and noble knight he was before Avalon. He was the man she loved; the man she wanted him to be again; the man she was sure he would be once they broke his curse.
“Will you hold me?” she asked.
He gathered her into his arms and held her against him, the warmth of his body surrounding her like a shield. She could hear his heart beating and smell the comforting manliness of his skin.
“What if we can’t break your curse?”
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Don’t say never, Leith. If I came back this time, I’ll come back again.”
“I don’t want to wait for you to come again. I’ve waited too long for you to come this time.”
She licked her lips. “What happened to Clara? Your book doesn’t say.”
The anguished expression that came over his features made her sorry she’d asked. “That’s because I couldn’t bear to write it.”
“Can you bear to talk about it?”
“Only if you’ve decided against making love.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then let’s save it for another time.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Aye,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It was worse than you could ever imagine.”
“Then don’t tell me now.”
“All right. I won’t.”
He went quiet. The gentle thumping of his heart lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, she was still in his arms. She listened to his breathing, trying to determine if he’d drifted off, too. She couldn’t tell.
“Leith,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”
“Aye.”
She smiled at his jest and the stupidity of her question. “How long was I out?”
“Not long.”
“I feel better now.”
He hugged her to him and kissed the top of her head. “Does that mean you feel like making love?”
“Yes.”
Letting her go, he propped himself on one elbow and tucked a stray stand of her hair behind her ear. His eyes are kind, his smile tender.
She stretched out beside him, feeling loose-limbed and relaxed. She grinned at him, drowning in the golden honey of affection. He looked so appealing with his tousled dark hair and beautiful lavender eyes. For some reason, she felt inspired to sing.
“Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes and the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love’s hair.”
The strange expression on his face made her stop. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like my voice?”
“It’s not that...”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Clara used to sing me that song.” He leaned in and kissed her very gently at the corner of her mouth. “You are her, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. I know the song, know I’ve felt a connection to you from the first time I read your book, know that I look like her, and know I was a Scottish lady in a past life who died around the same time she did. All of those things added together probably do mean I was her…but I still want you to love me for who I am, not who I was.”
“I’m not sure I can separate the two,” he said, brushing his fingers down the side of her face. “But I can say that I love you now, as Gwyndolen Darling.”
He came over her and kissed her cheek as his long fingers moved down her body. Pushing his fingers between her legs, he massaged her clitoris in slow-moving circles. His breath was warm against her face as he planted a row of kisses along her jaw.
“You smell like her, too.” He nuzzled behind her ear. “Citrusy, spicy, and fresh. Like lemon verbena.”
She felt a twinge of jealousy, but ordered the monster away. If she had been his wife, it seemed stupid to be jealous of what was essentially herself in a different body. Lemon verbena was her signature scent. She’d felt an affinity for it from the first time she smelled it. His finger was still circling her sweet spot, winding her up again like that kid with the key. Reflexively, her hips started to imitate the motion of his hand. She liked this. Lying here with him while he played with her pussy felt nice and low-pressure.
She swiped her hand across his crotch, curious to know if he was hard. Her fingers brushed wiry hair and firm flesh. She petted his erection like an animal, amused by the way it jumped under her touch. It seemed like a separate being. A giant worm that pushed out of a man’s body and robbed him of his reason. Her foster father seemed like a different person when his dick was hard. Maybe he’d been taken over by that evil worm.
Leith pushed his thumb inside her, but didn’t stop circling her clitoris. The combined effect was magical—like when he’d used that vibrator on her. She was still stroking his dick like a hairless dog. It felt awkward, but not unpleasant.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sublime feelings building in her pelvis. She tried to think how she would describe them in a romance novel. Tingling warmth? Yes, there was that, but also a building pressure and a delicious tickling sensation.
Leith withdrew from her and cold emptiness replaced him. She opened her eyes to see where he’d gone. He was up on his knees rolling a condom down his erection. A thrill threaded through her as she watched him work the sheath down his length. His cock curve
d slightly, like a cutlass blade.
A memory surfaced. Her foster father on the couch with his bathrobe open, stroking himself. “Come here and taste it Wendy. It’s yummy and full of cream, just like the can in the refrigerator. Come lick it, sweetie, like a lollypop, and if you do a good job, I’ll shoot the cream into your mouth.”
Wendy was his pet name for her, because she liked Peter Pan and her last name was Darling. Needless to say, he had ruined the book for her, and every other sweet thing from childhood. He also had deceived her. The cream he shot into her mouth, nothing like the kind in the can, was slimy, salty, and tasted like snot.
As anger tore through her, she flung the memory away. That sick bastard had ruined sex for her long enough.
Leith must have sensed the change in her because he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m just fine.”
Returning to her, he positioned himself between her legs, pushed up on his arms, and eased into her gradually. His slow possession was remarkably relieving—like someone had finally scratched an itch she’d never been able to reach. She felt liberated, too. Liberated and lighter and more like a desirable woman than a preyed upon little girl.
Buried deep inside her, he circled his hips and slowly withdrew. On the brink of disconnecting, he circled again before sinking back in. The feeling was divine. Languorous and sensual. Nothing like the jackhammer her foster father had been.
“You feel good,” he said, staring into her eyes.
“So do you.”
She wasn’t just saying it. He’d wound her spring tight. One or two more cranks and she’d go off like a cymbal-banging monkey toy.
He increased the speed a little more with each sequence. In, around; out, around. In, around; out, around. The man definitely knew what he was doing.
When her insides started to quiver, he pulled back and waited. “Not yet, my darling. Wait for me.”
He waited until the quivers ceased, then started the whole delicious sequence again. In, around; out, around. In, around; out, around. He’s breathing hard and his arms are trembling. She’s breathing hard, too, and wound so tight she is reaching for release.
“You’re mine now,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
His words were music to her ears. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He increased the rhythm of his thrusts and cut out the rotation. His face was strained, he was breathing hard, and the sweat from his forehead was dripping onto her breasts. She’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Her insides quickened, and Leith picked up the pace.
“I wish I could have protected you,” he said.
“Which time?”
“Both times.”
Her spring snapped. As her sex quavered around his, she cried out his name. “Leith, oh, Leith. I’m coming, baby.”
In two more ardent thrusts, he stilled and let out a strangled cry as he spilled himself in violent pulsations. He then pulled out of her, rolled onto his side on the bed, and said, “The full moon’s in less than a week and we still need to make preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?”
“Buying you some new clothes, for one, and gathering the wood we’ll need for the nawglen for another.”
She squinted at him. “What’s a nawglen?”
“A specially prepared mixture made from the ashes of the nine sacred woods,” Tom explained. “Willow, hazel, alder, birch, ash, yew, elm, rowan, and oak. Each has its own power when used on its own. When combined, they can dissolve the vale long enough to cross over. Tom says a mortal can’t get through the vale without it.”
“I thought he was a book editor,” Gwyn said, confused. “How does he know how to get through the vale?”
“He knows because he’s Thomas the Rhymer.”
“Who’s Thomas the Rhymer?”
“Never mind that now,” he said, sitting up. “It’s getting late and we both need our rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
“Will it? How so?”
“I’m taking you to Inverness to buy some new clothes.” He gave her a smile. “You can hardly make the trip to Callanish dressed in one of my roleplaying costumes.”
“No, I guess not.”
She was excited by the prospect of seeing Inverness and a little daunted by the reminder of Brocaliande. She wanted to go, to break his curse and save her own life, but she was also afraid her courage might fail her.
He climbed off the bed and started to dress. She watched him with growing discomfort. She liked how safe she felt in his arms and didn’t relish the thought of spending the night alone.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
He met her hopeful gaze with a frown. “That isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because sleeping together is too intimate.”
His answer seemed ridiculous, given what they’d just done. “More intimate than making love?”
“Aye, Gwyndolen. Much more.”
Chapter 11
Leith was in the highest room of a tall tower with no door and only a small window. From his bed, which sat in the middle of the circular chamber, he could see the full moon shining through the window. Below the window, he could hear someone singing.
“Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes and the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love’s hair.”
The song touched his heart. Wanting to see the singer, he climbed out of bed. His hair, he noticed then, was impossibly long. Plaited into rope-like braids, it circled the walls several times. Obviously, he had been in the tower for ages—alone and lonely with no hope of love or escape. He also somehow knew he had been imprisoned here by an evil queen.
Minding his locks, he made it to the window and looked down. There, at the base of the tower, stood Gwyndolen (or was it Clara?) looking up at him.
“Leith, Leith,” she called up. “Let down your hair to me.”
Her American accent clarified her identity. As much as he wanted to throw her his hair, he also knew a ferocious dragon guarded the castle. If the dragon saw Miss Darling climbing his hair, she would burn her alive with her fiery breath. He couldn’t risk that, even for a chance at freedom and happiness.
A door opened somewhere. He looked around the tower, but saw no door. Through the window, he heard Miss Darling call to him again: “Leith, Leith, let down your hair, so I can climb up to you.”
He came awake, naked under the covers in his own bedchamber with the scent of lemon verbena in his nostrils. The sheets sighed and the mattress trembled.
God’s flesh. Did the lass have a death wish? Had he not made it clear further intimacy would be hazardous to her health? Before falling asleep, he’d berated himself for putting her at risk. He should not have indulged his passions. His only consolation was that she’d seemed strong and healthy when they made love. Had the curse been activated by his growing attachment, she would have been far less robust.
In his sleepless hours, he’d resolved to keep his distance until they left for Lewis. There would be no more sessions in the dungeon, no more conversations. Tomorrow, he planned to ask Mrs. King to take her shopping in Inverness while he worked with Tom on his writer’s block.
He pretended to be asleep as she pressed her front to his back, smashing her breasts against his shoulder blades. Her bush tickled his arse as she nuzzled his hair and kissed his neck. He held his breath as her hand came around and brushed across his belly. His cock burned for her touch. So did his heart. He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw against the overwhelming urge to roll over.
“Leith, are you awake?” Her humid breath caressed his ear as her fingertips swept the length of his stiffening cock. “Please wake up.”
He remained as still as a corpse while renewing his resolve. If he gave into
temptation again, he would put her at risk.
Her tongue traced the folds of his ear, launching a fleet of sweet tingles into his bloodstream. The fingers caressing his tarse were even more arousing. Longing bubbled up from his core like molten lava. God, how he wanted her. Not just now, but for always.
Leith, Leith. Let down your hair to me.
He rolled to face her, still determined to expel her. “You’re playing with fire, Miss Darling. I denied your request to sleep in my bed for good reason.”
“Call me Gwyndolen. I like the way my name sounds when you say it.”
Her breath smelled of whisky. Had she been drinking?
“All right then, Gwyndolen, you’re playing with fire.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I love you and want to sleep with you.”
She pushed the hair off his brow, tucked the wayward strands behind his ear, and ran her fingers down the side of his face. The tenderness of the gesture turned his battlements to butter. She looked so lovely in his bed with the moonlight on her face. As he gazed at her, he remembered the dream.
“Do you know the story of Rapunzel?”
“Yes. It’s always been one of my favorite fairytales.”
He should have known. The story’s parallels to her life were obvious. The resemblance to his was clear, too. The tower was his solitude, the evil enchantress was Morgan, and Gwendolen had come with her bewitching song to rescue him. What he didn’t understand was how the dragon fit in.
“I had a dream just now that I was locked in a tower. Outside the window, you were calling up to me, but I was afraid to throw down my hair for fear the fire-breathing dragon that guarded the castle would burn you to death.”
“I don’t remember there being a dragon in the story of Rapunzel.”
“I think my subconscious might have borrowed the dragon from Shrek,” he said, “but where the dragon came from isn’t important. What matters is what the dragon represents.”
“Well, since I’ve always been pretty good at riddles, maybe I can help you figure it out.”
