She grew sensitive to the slight touch upon her face and the gentle pressure of his thumb. For a moment, she closed her eyes, uncertain of whether she should pull away. But his palm lingered upon her face, learning the lines of her jaw and chin. A thousand warnings crashed through her, of what could happen while she was alone in the forest with a strange man.
And yet, not once had he threatened her. His touch was inviting, drawing her closer. She felt an invisible connection with this man, making her crave more.
Then he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his. It started out gentle, a slight brush of his lips against hers. She was shocked to feel herself responding to the kiss, tasting his mouth in return. The unexpected kiss heightened her awareness of this man. The cold and the heat mingled together, and he cupped her face with his wet hands, stealing the very breath from her. His lips were firm, claiming her kiss as his own. Never had she imagined a moment like this, but Warrick de Laurent was clearly a man of actions, not words.
He did like her. And with the way he was stroking her wet hair, plundering her mouth, she hardly cared that he wasn’t speaking. All she knew was that she wanted this kiss, wanted to know more about this man. His mouth had tempted her, drawing her closer to him. Heat and need poured over her like water wearing down the resolve of her virtue.
‘I think we should—’
‘No. Don’t think.’ He stood from the water and lifted her off the rock, bringing her to the banks of the stream. And when he lowered her to stand, she found that he was right. She couldn’t think at all. Her thoughts slipped away like grains of sand.
‘Why did you kiss me?’ she murmured. ‘We’ve only just met.’
‘Because I wanted to.’ He leaned down and stole another hard kiss, and it was all she could do not to embrace him, pulling him as close as she dared. She didn’t understand the desires he evoked in her, but this man reminded her of an ancient conqueror, seizing what he wanted.
‘Why did you kiss me back?’ he asked against her lips, nipping them lightly.
She didn’t know what to say, truly. In the end, she was honest with him. ‘Because I wanted to know what it was like to kiss a man.’
‘I was your first.’ His words weren’t a question.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. Her cheeks bloomed with the flush of embarrassment. ‘They will be looking for us now,’ she said, feeling the rise of anxiety. ‘We’re both soaking wet, and you’re hurt, and—’
‘Rosamund,’ he said, touching his finger to her lips. ‘Do not be afraid. I’m not a threat to you.’
She grew silent, and Warrick led her back to her horse. His hands lingered upon her waist a moment before he helped her mount. He swiped at the blood on his head and winced before he returned to his own horse. So he had been hurt but was hiding his pain from her.
When they reached the path beyond the edges of the forest, she saw that the travelling party had stopped and everyone was staring. Shame suffused her, and she felt as if her actions were branded upon her face. ‘What should we tell them?’
Warrick led the way and shrugged. ‘The truth.’ His eyes grew hooded as if in memory of the shared kiss. But there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
‘We cannot tell them that.’ She was aghast at the idea. ‘I will say that I wanted to see the forest, and you accompanied me. I fell into the stream, and you rescued me.’
‘But you rescued me,’ he contradicted, bringing his horse alongside hers.
‘They will never believe that,’ she argued. ‘My father certainly won’t. For my sake, please don’t deny my story.’
‘I will say nothing.’ But as they drew closer to the group, he lowered his voice. ‘Will you meet with me again?’
His words slid over her in an invisible caress. And although she knew she shouldn’t do this, she felt a rush of forbidden desire for this man. She hardly knew him, and it wasn’t at all wise. But her lips still tingled from the kiss.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘My father would be angry.’
His expression sobered as if he had expected her to refuse. In his blue eyes, she saw the guarded look of a soldier who possessed no emotions at all. Looking at him now, she would never have imagined he had such hidden passion.
Someone had hurt this man in the past, she decided. And he had closed himself off from everyone because of it.
‘All right,’ she answered. ‘Where?’
He appeared taken aback by her sudden change of heart. The coldness receded, and in its place was a look of disbelief. Then he answered, ‘Meet me by the stream. Tomorrow at dawn.’
* * *
Over the next few weeks, they continued to meet in secret. Warrick was well aware that Rosamund’s father, Harold de Beaufort, did not want him anywhere near his daughter. He had made it clear that Warrick was not to speak with her again.
But the man’s insinuation, that he wasn’t good enough for Rosamund, burned through him, igniting the desire for rebellion. Rosamund was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. From the first moment he’d seen her, one word had been branded upon his soul: Mine.
Her black hair held a slight wave to it and curled to her hips. Her green eyes held joy, and by the bones of St. Christopher, the woman never ceased talking. She talked enough for both of them, which was fine by him. He preferred to listen and to judge people by their actions.
But after Rosamund had rescued him from the stream, he’d given in to primal instincts. He’d craved the taste of her lips, and he’d taken them without any regret. What startled him was the fact that she’d kissed him back. Why this exquisite woman would grant him her favour was impossible to understand.
He knew better than to imagine she would care for a man like him, landless and hardly more than a soldier. But he savoured every moment of their meetings, knowing they would not last.
Today, Rosamund was seated upon the stone stairs that led towards the battlements. She had brought her sewing, and the light summer breeze lifted strands of hair back from her face. The very sight of her was a distraction that quickened his pulse. He knew she had come to watch him train with his brother and the other men. When he stole a look at her, there was a faint smile upon her face.
He wore chainmail armour this morn, and his brother Rhys came up behind him. ‘Are you wanting her to watch, Brother?’
He turned and saw the knowing smile on Rhys’s face. ‘It matters not if she is there.’
‘I’ve seen the way you stare at her.’ Rhys handed him a quarterstaff. ‘Spar with me a moment. I’ll make you look good.’
‘Her father would be furious if he saw her here. It’s dangerous with so many men about.’
‘That is her risk to take. And she does want to watch you.’ Rhys grinned. ‘I think we should show her more.’
He had no idea what his brother was talking about. Then Rhys stripped away his chainmail hauberk and tunic, until he stood bare-chested. ‘If she’s going to look, shouldn’t you give her something to look at?’
He wasn’t at all certain of this, but Rhys was already reaching to help him with his hauberk.
‘I’ll wager her gaze is upon you this very moment,’ his brother said in a low voice.
‘This is foolish.’
‘Not for quarterstaffs,’ Rhys argued. ‘You don’t need heavy armour.’
He was right. Although Warrick felt awkward about it, he stripped to his waist. Just as Rhys had predicted, he caught Rosamund eyeing him. She gave a secret smile and continued sewing.
At that moment, Rhys lunged at him, and Warrick deflected the blow out of instinct. His brother was merciless, striking with speed and strength. Warrick dodged a blow and followed up with a hard strike to his brother’s ribs.
Rhys grunted and retaliated by slicing the quarterstaff at Warrick’s knees. He jumped out of the way, o
nly for his brother to strike his back and knock him to the ground. He rolled away and caught his brother across the ankles, tripping him. ‘I thought you were going to make me look good.’
His brother cursed and got to his feet just as Warrick did. ‘I lied. But even so, she’s watching you.’
Warrick turned his head and moved out of the way at the same time. His brother’s blow missed him entirely, and Rosamund smiled.
He struck Rhys’s quarterstaff over and over again, moving with speed and intensity, until his brother was forced to retreat. He lunged hard, about to knock his brother to the ground, but Rhys dodged the blow, laughing.
‘Go and talk with her.’ His brother clapped a hand on his back, half-pushing him towards the beautiful maiden.
Warrick gripped his quarterstaff, pausing a moment. Rosamund remained on the stairs but set her sewing down. Her face softened at the sight of him with the hint of another smile. God above, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He couldn’t think of what to say to her, for his tongue tangled up.
The sparring match had ignited his desire for this woman. When he crossed the inner bailey, she stood to meet him. A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she never took her gaze from his. He stood two steps below her, and glimpsed the fallen sewing. It was like nothing he had seen before, with all the colours of the sky and clouds blended into a scene. It reminded him of a stained-glass window, with all the colourful pieces creating the whole.
‘You fought well,’ she said quietly.
Her face was so close to his, he could imagine sliding his hands through her thick dark hair and bringing her mouth to his. She was the sort of woman men would fight for, hoping to win her as a conquest.
Warrick wanted to tell her this or to compliment her sewing. But the words were caught in his throat, stifled by his own awkwardness.
Rosamund reached over her shoulder to pull a ribbon free from her braid. Her green eyes studied him with interest as she ordered, ‘Hold out your arm.’
He obeyed, and she tied the ribbon to it. The light touch of her fingers against his bare skin evoked a searing ache. He wanted to press her back against the stairs and kiss her until she could no longer stand. But he was aware of the others watching over them.
When she had tied the ribbon, she let her hands linger a moment before she lowered them to her sides. The small scrap of silk was a visible binding to this woman. In a low voice she murmured, ‘Now you have my favour.’
Warrick reached for her hand and held it a moment. His thumb brushed over the centre of her palm, and he answered, ‘Just as you have mine, my lady.’
A blinding smile crossed her face, and she gripped his hand in answer. Several seconds passed before she released his palm. ‘I should go now. My father will be looking for me, as will my mother. Or my sister Cecilia.’
Before he could speak a word, she grasped her skirts and walked down the stairs past him. ‘Farewell, Warrick.’
Only after she had gone did he realise that she’d left her sewing behind. He picked it up, not knowing whether to follow Rosamund and return it.
He studied it, and his brother approached. ‘Are you thinking of picking up a needle yourself, Warrick?’ Rhys’s tone held a teasing air.
‘She dropped it,’ was all he could say.
‘Did she? Or did she leave it on purpose, to give you a reason to see her again?’
The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but it was possible. He was about to pursue Rosamund when Rhys caught him by the arm. ‘Not yet, Brother. Wait another day.’
Warrick reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. ‘I’ll give it to one of the servants to return to her.’
‘Why would you? She deliberately left it to you.’ His brother shrugged. ‘Claim a kiss from her as thanks.’
He wanted nothing more. But he was also a man of reason. ‘Her father would never allow a match between her and a man like me.’
‘You desire her. Just as she desires you,’ his brother answered. ‘At least one of us might have a good marriage.’ Tension slid over his face, the tension of a man who welcomed execution over his own betrothal.
‘Lianna MacKinnon is a beautiful woman.’
‘With a heart of ice,’ Rhys finished. ‘She despises the air I breathe, and with good reason.’ He shrugged. ‘Were it possible, I would take her to Scotland and leave her there. That would make her happy.’ But then he masked his frustration. ‘One day, you will understand what it is to be powerless to command your own life. God help you then.’
* * *
Later that afternoon, Rosamund stood still while her maid braided her hair and tied it up with a new ribbon. Her mother shook her head in exasperation. ‘Really, Rosamund, how could you lose a hair ribbon?’ She chided her about being more careful, but Rosamund paid her no heed.
She hadn’t forgotten the sight of Warrick sparring without his tunic. His skin held a darker cast, and every muscle appeared carved from stone. A sheen of perspiration had beaded upon his chest, and she had been spellbound by him. Though he spoke little, his eyes had burned into her as if he’d wanted to kiss her again. She had never experienced a kiss like his, and perhaps it was a sin to long for it again.
‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’ her mother demanded.
‘Of course,’ she lied.
‘Now remember, if you are among the women chosen for the game, you may grant a cake as your favour, but nothing more. And Cecilia may not be chosen. Even if she begs it of you, tell her no.’ Agnes de Beaufort sent her a strong look of warning.
Rosamund mumbled her assent, though she had no idea what game her mother was speaking of. She was accustomed to games of skill like archery or swimming, but nothing involving a favour. It might be a game that was meant to kindle the courtship between Rhys de Laurent and his bride, Lianna MacKinnon. She knew that something had caused hatred between the pair of them, but could not imagine what it was.
‘You look beautiful,’ her mother pronounced, and took her by the hand to lead her from the chamber. ‘And by this time next summer, you will be celebrating your own wedding to Alan de Courcy. He will make a fine husband for you.’
Rosamund slowed her steps, startled by her mother’s words. Although her sister had mentioned it earlier, she hadn’t paid Cecilia much heed. ‘I have never met the man.’ And he isn’t the one I want. Her attention was caught by the stoic, handsome warrior who made her heartbeat quicken.
‘He is wealthy and is a strong ally of King Henry. That is all that should concern you.’ Agnes’s clipped tone brooked no discussion on the matter. ‘Trust that your father and I will choose an appropriate man.’ She touched Rosamund’s hair, adjusting the ribbon. ‘My father chose Harold as my husband, and I have never lacked for anything.’
Except love, Rosamund thought.
‘Was there never anyone else you wanted to wed?’ she asked her mother.
Agnes stiffened at the question before she shielded her response. ‘Of course not. I was content to be an obedient daughter. Just like you.’
But she questioned whether her mother had ever held any secret desire of her own. Or whether she had ever loved anyone else.
Rosamund fell silent and walked alongside her mother until they joined the other guests. Lord Montbrooke was seated at the high table upon a dais with his wife beside him. His eldest son Rhys sat with his betrothed wife Lianna MacKinnon, while Warrick sat on the far end, furthest from all of them. Lianna was tall and beautiful, with long red hair that curled to her shoulders. She wore a deep green kirtle and a circlet made of beaten silver. A simple cross hung around her throat. But it was the expression of grief and misery that caught Rosamund’s attention. The young woman appeared devastated at the prospect of this marriage, and she would not even look at Rhys.
Heaven help them both.
The thought
of her own marriage troubled her, and she prayed her father would change his mind. She had no wish to marry Alan de Courcy, whether he was wealthy or not. And it felt as if she were becoming a pawn in a game she could not win.
Rosamund joined her parents at the table closest to the dais, fully aware of Warrick’s presence. Despite being at the high table, he appeared distracted and separated from all of them. It almost seemed that he would have preferred dining among the soldiers. Even his father never spoke to him at all. It was as if he were invisible.
Strange.
Men and women raised their drinks to toast the health of the betrothed couple, but the veiled enmity between Lianna and Rhys was undeniable. The young woman never spoke to him, only to Lord Montbrooke and his wife.
For a moment, Rosamund let herself imagine what it would be like if she were betrothed to Warrick, sitting in their places. The very thought warmed her, for she liked him very much. Not only was he a strong fighter and handsome, but she would never forget his words—I like listening to you.
The feasting continued, and her sister Cecilia leaned in. ‘Let him go, Rosamund. I don’t want to see you hurt.’
‘Why could they not arrange a betrothal with Warrick?’ she whispered. ‘He is the son of an earl and from a noble family.’
‘But he is the youngest. He will have no property of his own.’
‘Surely he has something,’ she argued. ‘They have vast holdings.’
‘Rhys has everything,’ Cecilia said. ‘And their sister Joan has the rest as part of her dowry. His father left him nothing at all.’
It made no sense at all. ‘How did you learn this?’
‘I eavesdropped when Mother was sewing with Lady Montbrooke. She told her everything. Did you know that Warrick didn’t speak for nearly two years, after his baby sister died?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ And yet, it didn’t surprise her. A grieving brother would have little to say. But she couldn’t understand why his own father had cut him off. When she lifted her gaze to his, Warrick met it with his own intense stare. In that moment, it was as if everything else disappeared and it was only the two of them.
Forbidden Night with the Warrior Page 5
