If I were to kiss you. Claire’s whole body froze, numbed by the thought of his mouth pressing to hers. How did he know that while she was alone, her mind left with naught to do but worry and wander, her thoughts had, indeed, drifted to Tye drawing her into his arms and kissing her? Of all treacheries, her body had ached for just that to happen—even though she knew his kiss could never compare to Henry’s.
There was only one way she’d determine for certain, though, that Tye’s kiss couldn’t compare.
Oh, God, what was she thinking?
She faced the fire, her heart beating wildly. If I were to kiss you, you would have my spittle on your mouth, her mind taunted. “Do not speak of such matters,” she said. Her voice sounded meek, and she cleared her throat before she glanced at him.
Tye hadn’t moved from the table. “Why should I not speak the truth?”
“You spoke of kissing.” Claire raised her right hand and pressed it above the hearth, as casually as possible; she needed the solid weight of the stone for support. “Us…kissing.”
“Aye.”
Her fingers curled against the rough stone. “Kissing is not a matter to take lightly,” she said, trying to sound stern.
“I agree.”
He didn’t appear to be mocking her. Indeed, he seemed to be taking their discussion quite seriously.
“Kissing also takes place between men and women who care about each other. Who have a romantic attachment to one another.”
“Usually,” he agreed. “But not always.”
How dare he look so roguishly attractive, so dangerously appealing, when she was struggling to be rational and prove him wrong. Did he know all there was to know about kissing? Unlikely. However, he undoubtedly knew a lot more than she did.
Niggling curiosity welled inside of her, a longing to know just how many women he had kissed. Were the women he kissed beautiful? Did he kiss like the heroes in the chansons she and Mary had pored over? Were his kisses so passionate and skillful that the woman in his arms nearly melted with delight?
Stop it, Claire! Such curiosity is unwise.
Claire watched the smoke rising from the fire. How she hated the feeling that Tye was silently laughing at her. Her life had been so much less complicated before he broke through her chamber door.
Leaning his hip against the table, his broad arms now crossed over his garments in a masculine echo of her posture, he said, “You have gone silent, Kitten. Does that mean you agree with me?”
She struggled to remember exactly what he’d said.
“You said men and women who kiss have a romantic interest in one another,” he reminded her. “I said ’tis usually true, but not always.”
His smoldering stare pinned her where she stood. She felt that keen look as intensely as if he’d touched her. A maelstrom of fluttery sensations arose within her, ones that were entirely new to her and that she couldn’t control. Beneath her sheer linen chemise, the skin across her bosom turned hot, itchy. She wanted to slip her fingers under her gown and smooth the irritated skin, but she didn’t dare.
She didn’t want to agree with him about kissing. His gaze warned her, on a very primitive level, that he was determined to win their battle of words.
“Well.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It does not really matter what I believe about kissing, does it?”
“Why not?”
“You and I are never going to kiss.”
He laughed. The brazen sound taunted her. “Never?”
“Never.”
“Why not? Are you afraid of my kiss, Kitten?”
“N-nay.” Liar, her conscience screamed. In truth, you are terrified, because you crave his kiss. More than you ever wanted kisses from Henry. How very, very wicked.
With a lazy elegance she wouldn’t have thought possible for a man of his size and strength, he straightened away from the table. Purpose, now, glinted in his eyes.
“I am not afraid,” she repeated firmly. “I have kissed a man before. The kiss was perfect, and for that reason, I do not desire any more. Ever.”
Tye laughed again, the sound rougher this time. He had interpreted her words as a challenge. Why would he have done so? She’d merely stated the truth.
He drew near, his arms at his sides, his hands lightly fisted.
Claire instinctively stepped backward, and her heel bumped the side wall of the hearth. Her body pressed to the stone, drawing upon its solid support. Strands of her hair caught in the stonework as her gaze flew to the door. No chance of dashing past him. Even if she did reach the doorway, the guards outside would stop her from escaping.
What was she going to do?
She must keep him talking. Distract him from the wholly dangerous, tricky subject of kissing.
“N-now that we have that matter settled,” she said quickly, “there is another I wish you would explain.”
He hesitated a few steps away. Firelight gleamed on the hilt of his dagger at his hip. Her nervous gaze slid up the front of his tunic, the cloth clinging to the broad muscles of his chest, to meet his gaze. He smiled, as though he knew exactly what she was going to ask. “What is that, Kitten?”
“I cannot help wondering why, if you are Lord de Lanceau’s illegitimate son, you waited until this snowy January day to decide to challenge him.” Tye’s expression shadowed with wariness, but she forged on. “Why did you not speak with him years ago? Why not try to settle your differences long before now?”
“I did confront my sire, months ago, at Waddesford Keep. Yet, the situation did not unfold as my mother and I had anticipated.”
“Waddesford Keep,” Claire said. “I remember hearing of a battle there.”
“A battle in which I had hoped to finally win my sire’s acknowledgment that I am his son—not just a man he wanted slain.”
“He wanted you killed?”
Fury heated Tye’s eyes. “He wanted me dead from the day I was born. I have spent most of my life eluding his spies.”
She couldn’t imagine such a life. “Mercy! Whatever the circumstances of your birth—”
“—a man like de Lanceau would accept his responsibilities? Oh, aye, he wants people to believe he is a man of honor, a man who cares for his subjects and his family, but he is not. Not when it comes to me and my mother. He has wanted her dead, too, for many years. I am very glad he never succeeded in killing her.”
Claire shuddered at the bitterness in Tye’s voice.
The fire snapped, shot up sparks, as he said, “My mother told me of the day years ago that she took me to a meadow. I was but a small boy then. She had arranged a meeting with my father, to present me to him. My mother believed ’twas the right thing to do. Even though my sire had cast her aside, she had loved him deeply, and out of respect for him, felt he deserved to know about me.”
“What happened?” Claire asked softly.
“My sire arrived with a small army. He refused to believe I was his child. He demanded proof of my parentage, which, of course, my mother could not provide. Not to his satisfaction, anyway. Still, de Lanceau wanted my mother to hand me over to him. She refused. She told me she feared I would be slaughtered.”
“De Lanceau would have ordered the murder of a child?” Claire shook her head. “He is said to adore children, especially his own. I cannot believe it.”
“Believe it,” Tye growled. “My mother ran from the field with me in her arms. She saved my life. She remained on the run, traveling from town to town, doing whatever she had to do in order to buy food, all the while trying not to be captured and killed. For our safety, she fled to France, where I grew up. There, my father and his men couldn’t reach me as easily. When I was old enough to hold a sword, Mother made me start training to become a warrior. She said I had to know how to defend myself, to fight in even the most cutthroat battles, because one day, I would again stand face to face with my sire. I grew strong. I entered tournaments to win money for food and lodgings. I became a man, and I became even more determin
ed to fight my father to the death and claim what I had been denied.”
“When did you return to England?” Claire asked, appalled but fascinated. Tye’s tale was akin to one of the heroic chansons she so enjoyed.
“I returned to these lands months ago. I knew I was strong enough to challenge my father and win. Mother agreed. We settled at Waddesford Keep, working on a plot to overthrow my sire, but regrettably, thanks to my wretched half-brother Edouard, our plans went awry. Mother and I were wounded and captured. Luckily, with the help of Braden, my mother’s lover, we both managed to escape.”
The anguish and bitterness in Tye’s tale was hard to witness. Was there any truth in what he’d told her? Could de Lanceau have treated him so foully and still want him dead?
“During your imprisonment,” Claire said cautiously, “you must have seen your sire. Did you not have a chance to speak to him?”
“When he interrogated me, you mean?” Tye snorted, the sound filled with derision.
“That was surely not the only time you saw him.”
A terse smile touched Tye’s lips. “When I refused to answer his questions, he walked out and did not return. No doubt he had hoped I would die alone and forgotten in my cell at Branton Keep, but…”
Branton Keep. The castle where Henry had been slain. A sharp ache pierced through Claire. Was it possible Tye had been a prisoner there when Henry had been on duty in the dungeon? Could Tye give her any new insights into her beloved’s last moments?
She’d memorized every detail of what she’d been told about the prisoner escape and Henry’s murder. The information Lord Brackendale had relayed to her in the privacy of the solar, though, his large hands holding hers and his voice softened by fatherly concern, had been sparse, no more than the barest sketch of what had happened to Henry. His lordship had tried to spare her feelings—a kindness that had been wasted, for she’d cried for days. Tears burned Claire’s eyes now, for she wanted to know all, to understand the true nature of the circumstances that had taken her betrothed from her. She had to know all.
A touch on her arm made her jump. Tye had closed the distance between them. How had she not been aware of him moving closer? He must have moved without making a sound.
Tye was close. Too close.
She was shockingly aware of every aspect of his nearness. He filled the space in front of her, a solid wall of tall, strong, imposing man. Warmth from his body teased her, coaxed her with the possibility of reaching out and touching him, of feeling the heat of his body though his tunic. What wickedness, that no one else would ever know about that touch except the two of them. And for that reason, she wanted it all the more—even though she shouldn’t.
With each quickened breath, she inhaled his scent, the smell of leather strongest, the hint of soap less intense, and most tantalizing of all, the earthy masculine essence that was uniquely his. Her head swam with both anxiety and anticipation.
“Tye—”
His finger pressed to her lips, silencing her. “No more questions. I am finished talking about me.” His hungry gaze settled on her mouth.
He wanted to resume their discussion about kissing.
With a sideways jerk of her head, she dislodged his finger. Still, though, she felt the weight of his skin pressing to hers. “W-what you want, I—”
“What I want, I take. If you learned naught else about me, you must have understood I am that kind of man.”
“You are going to kiss me,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“Even if I am not willing?”
“Aye.”
“Even if I have already had the perfect kiss?”
”Especially if you believe that.”
His face was barely a breath from hers. She pressed back against the hard stone, expecting the brutal and unrelenting crush of his mouth. Instead, the tip of his nose brushed hers in a gentle, teasing caress. Loose strands of his hair tickled her face, while his breath skimmed over her cheek.
“I could be wrong,” he murmured, sending tingles racing across her skin, “but I thought you might be willing.”
His hands settled at her waist. His hold, light but firm, sent sweet fire racing through her veins. Oh, but she mustn’t let him kiss her. If he knew she wanted his kiss, there was no telling how far the intimacies might go.
Her mind whirled, desperately trying to think of a way to stop him. Tilting her chin up, she asked, “Why would you think—?”
His mouth covered hers. His soft, warm lips brushed against hers with the lightest of touches. Her body answered instantly. The heat within her leaped, soared. She suddenly felt hot, weightless, as if she’d been caught up in a blinding beam of sunlight.
She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes until she heard his husky laugh.
Her eyelids fluttered open. The air in her lungs expelled on a sigh.
He grinned. “Well? Was that as good as your perfect kiss?”
“Nay,” she managed breathlessly. A lie. A necessary falsehood. She had to get away, for the kiss had been wonderful. So astonishingly marvelous, in fact, she wanted another, but she was not going to swoon in this rogue’s arms.
If she made him angry, he’d release her and step away. Wouldn’t he?
“Nay,” Tye repeated. His eyes narrowed.
He didn’t look at all deterred. Indeed, he appeared even more determined to prove her wrong.
Oh, God—
Without warning, Tye’s mouth came down on hers. Before, his lips had invited. This time, they mercilessly tempted. His mouth plundered, following hers as she tried to turn her face away.
With a rough growl, his hands rose to capture her face. Without breaking their kiss, his thumbs settled under her chin. He held her firm and kissed her with relentless skill. This wasn’t just a kiss; it was a promise that she would never, ever forget this moment.
A tremor of uncertainty rippled through her. She tried to summon a protest, but a thrilling friction had spread from where their lips met. The exquisite fire rushed like a greedy flame through her torso to her womb, making her whole being come alive with yearning. The force of his kiss pushed her head back against the stonework. With his body crowding hers, she was helpless to stop his onslaught.
And, of all shameful imaginings, she didn’t want to. Never had she felt so incredibly alive.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She could barely draw a breath. Tye consumed her whole focus with the shocking sensation of his lips claiming hers.
Claire gasped, starved for air. Starved for him.
He lifted his mouth from hers, allowed her the barest chance to inhale, before his lips ravaged hers again, the kisses faster, fiercer.
Too much.
A moan welled inside her. As she yielded to his seduction, as her lips opened and kissed him back, his tongue slid inside to glide against hers.
Pleasure.
Her legs buckled. Still kissing him, she sensed her body slowly sliding down the wall, her hair and gown snagging on the stone. His broad arm slid around her waist, catching her, hauling her back up, keeping their mouths locked in a frantic, wet dance as he pulled her forward against his hard, muscled—
A knock rattled the chamber door. “Milord,” a mercenary called from outside.
Claire blinked, startled in Tye’s arms.
Tye lifted his mouth from hers. “What?” he bellowed. As the door slowly opened, he let her go and spun away, leaving her to find her footing. A sudden sense of loss, of having something extraordinary wrested from her, tore through Claire. Sagging back against the wall, she dragged in a breath, tried to clear her muzzy mind.
The maidservant who had delivered the food earlier peered around the doorway. “I have the water you ordered, for her ladyship to wash,” she said, clearly afraid to move farther into the chamber.
“Leave it on the table,” Tye said, striding to the doorway.
Concern etched the girl’s features as she glanced at Claire and then hurried inside.
The lingering bliss within Claire vanished, and she raised an unsteady hand to her lips. She had kissed the conqueror who had led the takeover of Wode. He’d made his intentions clear, and even knowing what was going to happen, she hadn’t screamed for help, or struggled, or rammed her knee into that place that supposedly hurt men so much. Instead, she’d let him do as he’d wanted.
And she’d loved it. Even now, she wanted him to kiss her again. Those kisses had felt so beautiful and right…which only proved just how cleverly the rogue had seduced her. A skilled master at wooing women, he’d known just what to do to make her surrender to him.
Her eyes stinging, she whirled and stared at the fire. How had she let that kiss happen? Why hadn’t she found the strength within her to fight him? Her weakness was a betrayal, especially of Henry.
“There are others behind me,” the maidservant was saying. “They have firewood.”
“Good,” Tye answered. “Send them in.”
A chestnut-haired woman knelt beside Claire and added more wood to the blaze. A younger girl dropped down beside her to stack extra logs on the tiles. “Are you all right, milady?” the woman asked quietly. “We were worried.”
“I am fine,” Claire said. “Thank you.”
As the servants finished with the fire, Claire mentally crushed all lingering thoughts of Tye’s kisses. She was a fool to focus on the pleasure he’d shown her; he was the enemy. Her anger kindling anew, she recalled Tye and the mercenary forcing their way into her chamber, the confrontation with him in the hall, and poor Lady Brackendale being hauled away. Those were the moments for her to keep in the forefront of her mind.
Once the servants had left, Claire faced Tye. His gaze clashed with hers, and again she felt his lips pressed to hers, his hands on her waist, his breath on her skin. Traitorous excitement soared within her, but she stiffened her spine.
Tye’s mouth curved in a knowing grin. His expression suggested he knew exactly how she felt: torn by guilt, but also desire. Had he planned to bring her to such torment? Mayhap his goal all along had been to make her want him.
Resentment prompted her to ask him. Yet, just as she was about to speak, Tye strode out. The door closed behind him with an uncompromising click.
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