Kitabı oku: «Medieval Brides», sayfa 7

Not that that was about to happen here. Thane Edgar’s youngest daughter was nothing to him. Nothing. His hands curled into fists. Sitting there so pale and so pretty, so demure, Cecily Fulford did not look as though she had any guile in her. But she was Saxon, and he must not forget that. He had hoped she was warming to him, but he’d clearly been blinded by his attraction to her person. He had quite forgotten that to her he would always be Duke William’s man, a conqueror.

‘Sir Adam? Is…have I done wrong?’ Tihell asked, shifting his helm to his other arm.

Adam forced a smile. ‘Nothing’s wrong but the times we live in.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tihell paused. ‘Sir?’

Adam tore his gaze from Cecily. ‘Mmm?’

‘Do I continue my surveillance of Emma Fulford, or do I bring her in?’

‘Continue to watch her. Take careful note of everywhere she goes, of everyone she meets. I’m to marry the younger sister—’ he jerked his thumb towards the small figure on the bench and his lips twisted ‘—and I want to know most especially of any communication between the two of them.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Félix Tihell snapped his heels together and clapped on his helm, leaving Adam to stare through the smoke at his betrothed and wonder what he was marrying. A sweet novice bride with whom he might build a new world? Or a scheming Saxon witch who would thrust a seax in his back the first time it was turned?

Abandoned to her own devices in the great hall while Adam stalked into the upstairs chamber, presumably to confer with the garrison commander, Cecily had never felt so alone. Of course she was not really alone. How could she be when she was surrounded by so many of Duke William’s men? Men. Life at the convent had left her unused to their company. She would have been uncomfortable even among men of her own people, but as for these…these invaders: her skin crawled; her mouth was dry.

The Saxon Palace was alive with hulking Franks in chainmail who thundered in and out, who charged up and down the stairs, oblivious of the graves over which they trampled. On her bench, Cecily held herself as still as a mouse in the presence of several cats, trying not to draw attention to herself. She was not afraid. She was not.

She was the only woman present. Had they murdered all the other women? A wave of nausea swept through her and she buried her face in her hands.

‘Don’t be sad, chérie,’ a strange voice said. It was full of false sympathy and something else—something dark and unknown that had Cecily shuddering behind her hands and her blood running cold. She refused to lift her head. ‘Come here, chérie. I will warm you.’

Covertly, she peered through her fingers. A brace of Norman knights who had been hugging the fire were winking and gesturing in her direction. She sat very straight. They would not do anything. She was betrothed to one of their number, so she would be safe, wouldn’t she? But where were Sir Adam’s men? Not one of them was in sight…

‘Chérie…’

One of the knights was rising to his feet. Cecily closed her eyes—she felt sick, she actually felt sick. That edge in the man’s voice had visions of assault—rape—running rampant in her mind. If he touched her she would vomit. She—

‘My lady?’

Adam’s squire, Maurice Espinay, was at her elbow, and Cecily all but slumped in relief. Politely, he offered her his arm and escorted her to a bench at the far end of the hall. Others of Adam’s troop had staked a claim there, she realised, for men she recognised were dicing on an upturned packing crate. Warriors from another land, to be sure, but ones who answered to Sir Adam. More of her tension ebbed away.

With another bow, Maurice turned and marched back to the Normans at the fire. She could not catch what he said to them, but it proved effective, for afterwards they did not so much as glance her way.

Returning to her side with her bundle, Maurice dropped it at her feet and remained nearby, rooting through a saddlebag that must belong to Sir Adam. Adam must have asked him to watch over her, but whether that was for her safety or because he did not trust her she could not say. Whatever his reason, Cecily was grateful. Being taken from the convent with so little warning was hard enough. She had no experience of fending off foreign knights.

Was she really going to marry one of them? It did not seem possible. Adam Wymark’s acceptance of her wild proposal seemed to have knocked the sense from her head. She glanced towards the fire, frowning at the two knights as she took a moment to absorb the implications of marrying Sir Adam. Like them, Adam Wymark was her enemy. She chewed her lip. She had offered to take her sister’s place on impulse. A foolhardy move, perhaps, but she had not been certain that volunteering to be Adam’s interpreter would be enough to convince him to take her with him. One thought had been clear: her brother and the people of Fulford must not be abandoned to the enemy. In order to be certain to get home she would have offered to marry the devil himself.

And now he had accepted her. The devil—the foreign devil who had sailed with Duke William and stolen her father’s land. By rights she should fear him as she feared those Norman knights. Yet she felt safe at this end of the hall, in the company of his men. How could that be when only moments ago she had looked at his fellow Franks and had feared…?

‘Sir Adam said to tell you that his plans have changed,’ Maurice said. ‘We will not be returning to Fulford till tomorrow at the soonest.’

‘Oh?’ She was uncertain whether to be relieved or dismayed. It would mean her wedding to Adam Wymark would be delayed, but it would also mean not meeting her baby brother for another day. Thank the Lord that Fulford’s new lord did not fill her with revulsion, as those other knights had done. How curious. Adam Wymark had come with the Normans, and yet he did not revolt her or fill her with fear. He was not like those others. How strange.

Maurice was industriously hauling bedding from a heap at the far end of the hall. More soldiers tramped in. Normans, Bretons…invaders.

‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’

Being in the Palace of the Kings in these circumstances was hideously unsettling, with reminders of how life had changed at every turn. By the Minster, in those few brief moments when she had been alone with Adam, when they had kissed, she had been able to forget about the changes. Adam had seemed a different person then—handsome, smiling and approachable, someone who would take note of her feelings and show genuine concern for her.

By the Minster it had seemed that a small miracle had taken place, and that everything might yet turn out well, but the moment they had crossed the Palace threshold Adam’s demeanour had altered. One word with his captain and his smile had gone. He had glowered, positively glowered across the fire at her.

Were military matters so pressing that they drove all finer feelings from his mind? Or, worse, had he somehow found out about Emma and Judhael’s presence in the city? She prayed not. For if Adam Wymark—Adam—were to challenge her on that subject, she did not know how she would answer him.

The key point, though, and the one she must hold fast to, was that she should get to Fulford to see to her brother’s safety. She must also keep an eye on her father’s people.

Were they the only things that mattered? a little voice wondered as she recalled the warmth of Adam’s smile after they had kissed. A genuine warmth, she would swear. And yet, set that next to the way he had scowled and glowered at her only a few moments ago. But, scowl and glower though he may, she did not fear him. She sighed. Life might have been bleak in the convent, but it had been so much simpler.

‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’ she repeated, inwardly praying there was a ladies’ bower. Given that she was the only woman in the hall, it seemed a faint hope.

Maurice spread his hands. ‘Sir Adam didn’t say. You’d best ask him at supper.’

She rose from her bench. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

The squire shot her a startled look. ‘Do, my lady?’

‘I’m not used to being idle. I’d rather do something.’

‘Such as?’

She shrugged. ‘Anything. Is there an infirmary? I could help there. Or I might be of use in the cookhouse…’

Maurice looked shocked. ‘No, my lady. Sir Adam wouldn’t want you wandering off. Besides…’He rolled his eyes towards the knights hogging the central fire. ‘There’s plenty more like them roving the city. You’d do best to keep your head down, if you see my meaning. You’ll be safe enough here, among Sir Adam’s troop.’

Shifting the bench nearer to the men who were dicing, Maurice indicated that she should take her seat.

Sighing, Cecily settled in for a long afternoon. With something of a jolt she realised she would feel happier if Adam was here in person. While she was still uncertain of what to make of him, she did prefer it when he was around, even if all he did was glower at her.

Chapter Eight

By the time Adam returned to the Royal mead hall night had long since fallen. Torches chased the shadows away, candles glowed in beaten metal wall sconces, the central fire crackled and spat. The room was filled with the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter.

Adam’s hair was damp from recent washing, and he was wearing his dark blue tunic, belted at the waist with a chased leather sword belt, and a serviceable brown wool cloak bought from the garrison’s quartermaster. His leather gambeson dangled from his fingers. Slinging it over one shoulder, he rested his other hand on his sword hilt and paused just inside the threshold, searching for Richard and his men and…

No sign of that petite figure in her drab veil and gown. He’d left her alone deliberately, to see what she might do. Where the devil was she? His stomach tightened into several knots. That night’s rations were to blame—not the fact that he didn’t know where she was. He had eaten with the Duke’s commanders in the upstairs solar. Food had been plentiful, but too much bread and ale and oversalted pork after weeks of hunger was not good for a man’s digestion.

He grimaced. Who was he fooling? She was the cause of his indigestion; he wanted to think the best of her. Damn it, how could that have happened already? He’d not known the woman more than a few hours…

Groups of men were clustered in the various pools of light made by the torches. Laughter floated out from under the nearest torch, where men were drinking and dicing. Farther down the hall came the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel. A blue spark flashed—a squire sharpening his knight’s sword. From under another torch came a quiet muttering as friends simply talked.

There—there she was. Perched on a bench at the wall at the far end, in an oval pool of light. Brian Herfu, the youngest in his troop, sat next to her, and she was turned towards him, veil quivering as she listened to what he was saying. A string of rosary beads was wrapped round her wrist, and a missal lay on top of her small bundle of belongings. A missal? She could read? Wondering if Cecily could write—that would be a rare and wonderful accomplishment in a wife—Adam started towards them.

Brian had lost his older brother shortly after Hastings, and when Adam saw that the lad’s eyes were glistening with tears he had little doubt but that they were discussing Henry’s death.

Cecily touched Brian’s arm. The movement made the rosary swing gently to and fro. ‘How did Henry die?’ she was asking.

Brian’s dark head bent towards Cecily’s. ‘Blood loss, my lady. A leg wound. He—’

Not needing to hear the rest, Adam turned away. He had been beside Brian at Henry’s deathbed, and did not begrudge him any comfort that Cecily might give him. Catching Maurice’s eyes, he motioned him over.

‘You’ve eaten, sir?’ Maurice asked.

‘Aye. And the men?’

Maurice nodded.

‘And my lady? You saw to it that she was well fed?’

‘Yes, sir. It was plain fare, but good. She seemed very hungry. I think they must have rationed her at the convent.’

‘Likely you’re right,’ Adam said, glancing across at the slight figure by the wall. Cecily had turned towards Brian and was holding his hand in both of hers. He saw Brian clutch convulsively at the sympathy she offered. ‘Where’s Sir Richard?’

Maurice tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin. ‘Went out earlier. Not back yet. He mumbled something about trying to find a proper bathhouse.’

Adam rolled his eyes, the distinction not lost on him. There was nothing wrong with the wash-house next to the palace. In the main the Saxons had clearly used it for doing the royal laundry, but one could bathe there if one had a mind. He had done so, and doubtless countless Saxon princes and lords had also done so before him. Since it was a Royal Palace there were bathtubs. Richard must have other activities in mind.

‘He might not find much favour with Saxon women,’ Adam said.

‘He will if he pays enough,’ came the dry response.

‘Enough, Maurice! You are not his peer, to speak about him with such familiarity.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

Adam looked pointedly at Cecily. ‘You watched her close?’

‘Aye, sir. She hasn’t stirred all evening—except for a visit to the latrines and the wash-house.’

Adam narrowed his eyes. ‘You accompanied her?’

‘Of course. But I didn’t go into the latrine with her, if that’s what you mean. I simply escorted her to the privy and back.’

‘And she met no one?’

‘No one.’

‘And what about the wash-house? Anyone there when she went in?’ Since Adam had paid a visit to the wash-house himself, he knew first-hand how there was room enough for anyone intent on a clandestine meeting to hide behind the great cauldrons or the washtubs.

‘No.’ Maurice looked affronted. ‘I checked the place was empty before she went in.’

Adam started to chew a fingernail, and checked himself. ‘You are certain?’

‘Aye. She went to wash and change her habit, nothing more.’

‘Very good, Maurice.’ Some of the groups under the torches were starting to break up. Men were rolling into their cloaks, eager to bag places close to the fire. ‘We’ll bed down shortly. Who’s watching the horses?’

‘Charles, sir, followed by George.’

‘Good. Stow this and get yourself settled.’ He tossed Maurice his gambeson. ‘I won’t need you again tonight.’

‘My thanks, sir.’

Adam found a blanket in his pack and took it over to where Cecily was sitting. She was so pretty, with those delicate features and huge dark-lashed blue eyes. Gut-twistingly pretty. If only he could be sure she would not betray him…

At his approach, Brian coloured and tugged his hands free. ‘Excuse me, my lady,’ he said. Bowing, he made himself scarce.

‘You will need this,’ Adam said, handing Cecily the blanket. He pointed at the wall. ‘May I suggest you lie there? It’s farthest from the fire, I’m afraid, but you’ll be safer beringed by my men.’

Her cheeks flamed. ‘Is there no ladies’ bower, sir?’

‘We cannot afford such refinements. This is a garrison. You’ll have to bed down by me.’

A guffaw, quickly suppressed, came from one of Adam’s men.

‘B-by you, sir?’

‘I know this cannot be easy, my lady,’ Adam said, deliberately using her title as a means of demonstrating to his men that he wanted them to use courtesy in their dealings with her, ‘but you truly will be safer by me.’

Rising swiftly, Cecily set about ordering her bed. Absurdly self-conscious, she hoped no one could see how her hands were shaking. Within moments she had made a place for herself near the wall, and had removed her veil and wimple. Her heart pounded. Though she kept her back to Sir Adam, she could feel his gaze on her as clearly as she would a caress—on her shoulderblades, her hair. Burrowing into the luxurious fur-lined cloak, she fixed her eyes on the rough wall plaster, focussing on a crack in the render. A shiny black beetle was scuttling into the crack. Though she could not see Adam, she could hear him moving about behind her.

From the sounds she judged that he must be quite near, but she did not like to look. A knight had come in with his wife at supper-time, but apart from that single woman she had seen no other all afternoon. She was adrift in a man’s world, and the rules were very different from those of the convent. Usually Cecily slept on her other side, but that would mean facing Adam, and she felt too vulnerable to face him while she slept, too exposed.

An amused whisper reached her. ‘Do you always sleep with your hair so tightly braided? Gwenn used to loose hers—’

She risked a glance over her shoulder. ‘Gwenn?’ He was crouching on his haunches, scarcely two feet away, dragging another blanket from his pack.

‘My wife.’

Cecily blinked. ‘You have a wife, sir? But…but—’

‘I have no wife now.’ His lips twisted. ‘Rest assured, little Cecily, you do not marry a bigamist.’

Cecily turned back to the wall and the beetle while she digested this new piece of information about the Breton knight who had agreed to marry her. He had already been married. She sighed, shamefully aware of a bitter taste in her mouth as she wondered if Adam Wymark’s wife had liked his kisses as much as she had done when he had kissed her by the Cathedral. Those kisses had been a revelation to her—those little darts of pleasure shooting along her skin, his ability to make her bones feel as though they were melting, the urge to touch, to stroke, to be stroked—was this what others felt when they kissed? When Ulf and his wife…She bit her lip. No. No. It was shameful, what Adam Wymark had made her feel. He was her enemy.

His wife’s name had been Gwenn. Had he loved her? What had she looked like? And what had happened to her? Had she died or had he put her aside?

In England it was easy for a man to repudiate a woman—even one to whom he was married. It was common practice in Wessex, and there was no reason to suppose matters were arranged any differently in Brittany. A man could have any number of reasons for setting a woman aside—failure to provide the promised dowry, nonconsummation of the marriage, for not producing the required male heir.

She sighed. Would Adam Wymark set her aside if she did not please? If she did not provide him with a male heir? Lord knew she was not providing him with a dowry.

Racking her brains, she could not recall any instances of a woman setting a man aside. Truly, the world was not made for women.

The palace floor tiles were cold, and harder than the straw pallet she had slept on in the convent. As Cecily wriggled deeper into his cloak and tried to get comfortable, she numbered the reasons for making a success of this marriage. There were the villagers and inhabitants of Fulford, and there was Philip, not to mention the pressing need to distract Adam from searching for Emma…

She could like Adam for himself, given half a chance. How much better it would be if she only had that to think about—if the strongest reason for marrying him could be the fact that she actually had a liking for this Breton knight and found him personally attractive. Instead, their dealings must be confused by politics and by her concern for what was left of her family. It was such a tangle.

In her mind’s eye she could see his green eyes gazing into hers, as they had done outside the Cathedral…darkening, softening. She could feel the warmth of his fingers as they had twined with hers, the light touch of his lips; she could hear the huskiness in his voice as he had called her sweetheart and asked her to open her mouth to his…

So much weighed in his favour. If only he had not come to England with Duke William to win lands for himself—if only those lands had not belonged to her father.

Turning her shoulder, she gave him a swift glance. He was shaking out another blanket, making a bed near enough that he could reach her. Near enough and yet not too near. No one can come between us, she realised with a jolt.

He caught her eye and gave her a crooked smile. ‘If you need me, you only have to say.’

Cecily gave him what she hoped was a haughty look to cover a peculiar increase in her heart-rate—why was it he had this effect on her? It was most unsettling. She turned to face him properly. Not because her eyes were hungry for him—most certainly not! No, one simply could not converse peering over one’s shoulder. ‘’ Tis not seemly to lie so close.’

In a trice he was at her side. Drawing one of her hands out of its hiding place in the blue cloak, he brought it to his lips and a frisson of awareness ran all the way up her arm. How did he do that? And why did her body react in such an unpredictable way whenever he came near?

‘My lady, you are my betrothed.’ He gestured around the hall. ‘But if you would prefer some other protector you only have to say the word. I bid you recall that my right to Fulford Hall rests on Duke William’s gift, and is in no wise connected to any union with you.’

She stared past him, her face as wooden as she could make it. The only protector she wanted was looking right into her eyes, but she could not bring herself to admit it. He is your enemy…your enemy. Unaware that her fingers had tightened momentarily on his, she darted a fearful glance towards the fire, towards the knight who had tried to solicit her attention, but he was no longer there.

Her eyes met Adam’s, and for all his hard words she found gentleness in their expression. His pupils were darkening, his smile softening, and she sensed he was waiting for her response. He had washed his hair, she noticed irrelevantly. It was wet and neatly combed, save for one dark lock which fell over his eye. But what could she, a Saxon, say to him, one of Duke William’s knights?

Abruptly, he released her, and pushed his hair back. Jaw tight, he turned away and shifted his belongings a little farther off.

Cecily felt the loss of him like an icy draught. He was only a yard away—the seemly distance she had asked for—yet now he had retreated, perversely she wanted him closer. She did not face the wall again. It was comforting to be able to see him in the gloom. And now was not the time to wonder why this should be so, any more than it was the time to wonder about the extraordinary effect he had on her senses. Later she would think about these things, when she had slept…

The floortiles grew harder, and colder. Fingers and toes were turning into icicles, goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. Cecily shrank deeper into his cloak.

The hall was quietening. One by one torches were doused, save a couple by the door and a lantern or two hanging from the rafters. Shadowy figures hunched around the hearth, faces shiny in the firelight. The knight who had so discomposed her might have gone, but her unease remained, and a low murmur of voices ran on, broken occasionally by a crack of laughter. Male laughter, predatory male laughter. Duke William’s men.

Cecily’s eyelids closed, but her nerves were stretched tight as a bowstring. She had had four years in the convent, with scarcely a glimpse of a man, and suddenly she was sleeping with a roomful. What penance would Mother Aethelflaeda impose for that?

A mild commotion near the door had her eyes snapping open. A drunk staggered in, held upright by two companions. Drawing in a shaky breath, she stole another look in Adam’s direction. He was lying on his side, head on his hand, watching her. His face was in shadow, but she thought his eyes were cool.

‘Be at peace, Cecily,’ he said softly. ‘If you mean to make me a good wife, you will want for nothing.’

His long, sword-callused fingers lay relaxed on his blanket a few feet away. Never had so short a distance seemed so large.

‘I want…’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t leave me here alone,’ she whispered. ‘Tonight—that’s all I want.’ Tentatively, she reached across the ravine.

Warm fingers closed on hers. ‘Be loyal to me and I will never leave you. But fail me…’ His voice trailed off.

A cold knot made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach even as she clung to his hand. Did he know about Emma?

But the contact must have soothed her, for very soon after that her eyelids closed of their own accord and sleep took her.

Some time later, she stirred and came slowly back to consciousness.

Warm. Warm.

What a delightful, impossible dream. She had not been warm at night in winter since entering the nunnery. Giving a comfortable little moan, she wriggled closer to the source of that warmth. Willing the dream to continue, she tried to slide back into sleep, but instead came more awake.

Her breath caught. Adam. It was he who was giving her his warmth. She was lying next to—no, her head was pillowed on Adam’s bicep, and her nose was pressed into the warmth of his ribcage. His scent surrounded her: alien, male, seductive. And until yesterday absolutely forbidden. She had her arm over his chest, which rose and fell gently under her palm.

Warm, so warm.

Fully awake, she readied herself to pull away if he made the slightest movement. Lying in a man’s arms like this was so far beyond unseemly that Mother Aetheflaeda would have had her drummed out of the convent for even imagining such a thing.

Carefully, she lifted her head. Yes, he was asleep. She allowed herself to relax. His arms were linked loosely about her, and at some point he must have wrapped the blankets round them both. The warmth—oh, dear God, the warmth. One could marry a man for the warmth alone, she thought with a wry smile.

In the dim light of a glass hanging-lamp that had miraculously survived the Normans’ depredations, she studied his face. He was a joy to look upon—particularly now, when he was unconscious of her gaze. Usually she felt too shy. Dark eyelashes lay thick on his cheek. She gazed at the high cheekbones and the straight nose and frowned, for she longed to touch, to stroke, but such longings were surely sinful—and in any case she did not want to wake him.

Staring at him like this was a secret, private pleasure. She had not been outside the convent a day, but already she was learning that other men did not draw her gaze in the same way. Adam Wymark muddled her thoughts; he muddled her senses. He disturbed her, but it was by no means unpleasant…

A dark shadow was forming on the strong jawline, telling her that Adam’s beard, were he to grow one, would be thick and dark as his hair. How often did he have to shave to keep his cheeks smooth, in the Norman fashion? His lips were parted slightly in sleep—beautifully shaped, firm lips—lips that could…

He stirred, turning his head and nuzzling her. That stray lock of hair fell across his face.

Repressing an impulse to nuzzle him back, Cecily lifted her palm from his chest and lightly stroked his hair out of the way. Then she replaced her hand on his broad chest and slowly lowered her head back onto that warm bicep. Softly.

It might be sinful, but they had come together thus in sleep. His warmth, and the long, strong length of him next to her was so delicious she did not care if it was a sin. And in truth it did not feel wicked or depraved, which surely sin always did? It was comforting to lie thus with Adam. It was…cosy. The palace floortiles might be hard, but she would lie on nails if it meant she could awaken again like this.

Someone coughed. Belatedly, Cecily was reminded of the others in the Old Palace. Normans for the most part—men who had used Duke William’s disagreement with King Harold as an excuse to come to England to plunder in the wake of the Duke’s conquest, men whom Cecily had cause to fear. Adam Wymark had come with them. This she could not deny. But now, lying at the side of the hall, wrapped in his arms, she felt safer than she had ever felt. The irony was not lost on her.

Snuggling closer, safe in the arms of the enemy, breathing in the comfort of his forbidden, alien scent, Cecily slid back into sleep.

Some time before dawn someone slipped stealthily into the hall and found a place among Adam’s men. Stirring in Adam’s arms, so full of sleep that she didn’t realise he was still holding her, Cecily lifted her head from his chest.

Sir Richard. Returning from whatever business had kept him last eve. With a sigh, she let her head fall back, and sleep took her again.

At cock crow, gentle fingers were playing in her hair, loosening her braid. Green eyes smiled into hers. ‘Good morning, betrothed,’ he murmured.

‘G-good morning.’ Cheeks hot, Cecily steeled herself to ignore the dark warmth of his gaze. He was looking at her lips, with no trace of the coldness of manner that she had noticed on their arrival at the palace. Her chest constricted, and she thought of the kisses they had shared outside the Cathedral. Breathless. His look made her breathless.

Catching her braid, Adam gave a small tug and realigned her body against his. ‘A good-morning kiss,’ he whispered. His lips met hers, warm and soft. Lazily, his tongue outlined her mouth.

For a moment, hazy with sleep, Cecily let the disordering pleasure wind through her—then she stiffened. What was she doing? She had to keep her wits about her.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘For shame, Sir Adam. Remember where we are! And in any case we are not wed that we should lie this close.’

Eyes laughing, he pulled her tight against him, so she could feel the length of his strong, lean body from breast to thigh. Despite herself, she gloried in it—she actually ached with wanting to press even closer. He seemed to sense it, for under cover of the cloak and blankets his hand ran lightly down her back and came to rest possessively over one of her buttocks.

She gasped. Never had she been touched so intimately.