The Warrior's Reward Page 13
“See, I am well.”
“A fine thing too. Don’t ever do anything like that again.” He stood, swept the dust from his chausses and offered her a hand. She winced as she came to her feet and he noted a faint red stain seeping through the side of her gown. He turned and sought out Gwen with his gaze before scooping Rosamunde into his arms. “Have water and cloths brought up,” he barked at the maid as he carried her up to the solar.
Chapter Fourteen
The pain in Rosamunde’s side wasn’t all that bad but she wasn’t sure how to tell Ieuan that. His grave expression as he carried her upstairs stole any chiding responses. He’d been terrified for her. She’d realised that as he’d checked her over. Was it because he thought her so delicate that she might not survive a tumble and his investment would be gone or was there something more?
His strong arms enveloped her and his chest flexed against her side. From this angle, she had a fine view of that dark hair surrounding his jaw and the stern set of his brow. Everything about him said warrior and man. Even the sting in her side couldn’t stop a warm rush of excitement from darting through her.
Ieuan set her down on the bed and began tugging at the laces of her gown. This put him directly above her while he pushed his hands beneath her back to tear the laces free. If he moved just a little bit, he’d be fully on top of her as he had been the previous night. Warmth arrowed down through her.
Like a man possessed, he wrenched her gown from her. It was a fine thing it was only a day gown and certainly not her favourite. It was also covered in dust and grime from her work cleaning the castle that day.
When he’d tugged it off her ankles, he set to work lifting her chemise. It didn’t matter he’d seen every part of her the previous night, heat still flared in her cheeks as he bared her thighs to him, then her stomach, then even her breasts.
“Ieuan,” she protested but he ignored her.
Cold air flowed over her skin in spite of the fire lit in the room. She studied the concern on his face when he came to her side and lifted her arm away to inspect the scratch. She supposed she ought to be more bothered by her injury but with Ieuan touching her, it hardly hurt at all. All she could focus on was the touch of his rough fingers and the way it sent tingles racing through her body.
He expelled a breath. “’Tis a mere scratch. A large one but the bleeding has ceased already.”
“I know.” She couldn’t help the tender tone to her voice. No one had ever showed so much care for her apart from her father. And she always felt his care was suffocating and so very unlike Ieuan’s slightly brisk and harried manner. As though he was truly terrified of anything happening to her.
Footfalls indicated Gwen had entered the room. The maid had helped her bathe and dress and Rosamunde rarely felt uncomfortable with her nudity around the servants but being like this with Ieuan in the room made her want to draw up the blankets and cover herself.
Thankfully Gwen deposited the fresh bowl of water and cloths and gave a quick dip. “Is there anything else, milord?”
“Nay, thank you.”
She left and Ieuan turned his attention back to her. His gaze locked onto hers and she saw regret etched deeply into the lines around his eyes.
“I won’t clean the wound. ‘Twas protected by your gown and I have no wish to start it bleeding again.” He turned his head to the side and stared out of the open shutters for a moment. “I should never have left you alone, should never have even—” He broke off with a rough curse.
“Have even?”
Twisting back to face her, he ran a finger down her side. Her nipples—already tight from cold and excitement—seemed to peak further. “Should never have brought you here.”
A lump gathered in her throat. He regretted marrying her then. Mayhap she had done nothing but prove him right. Instead of revealing herself to be brave and useful, she had merely shown herself to be clumsy and in need of rescue.
“A half-ruined castle...” He snorted to himself. “What was I thinking? This place isn’t suitable for you. God almighty, if you’d been killed, I never would have forgiven myself.”
“’Twas my fault,” she said quietly.
“I promised your father I would look after you. I have done a poor job thus far. You must forgive me.”
Rosamunde reached to him and smoothed a hand along his rough jaw. His words—their sincerity—did she dare believe it was not so much taking her as a wife that he regretted but their circumstances? He had the look of a wounded dog and, sweet Mary, he tugged at her heart better than any pup could.
He even eased into her cupped palm and closed his eyes as though savouring her touch. When he opened his eyes, the regret had cleared slightly and he seemed to recall she was almost naked save from her stockings.
“You must be cold.”
His eyes had darkened. Mouth dry, she shook her head.
“In pain?”
Shaking her head again, she brought her other hand up to cup his jaw. She held this tough warrior’s face in her hands and saw vulnerability there. There her heart went again, doing an odd dance in her chest.
She licked her lips. “I am hot,” she told him huskily.
Ieuan ran his gaze over her, focusing on her nipples and between her thighs. “Do you need anything?”
Did he know? Was he trying to make her say it? Her bones felt like liquid and she had no shame now. She would say it if she had to. “I need you.”
A groan rumbled up from his chest and he placed a hand to the side of her so as to let his weight lower gently onto her. His surcoat chafed her nipples beautifully.
“You are temptation,” he said gruffly, the words whispering across her neck.
A light kiss landed on her jaw, then at the pulse fluttering underneath, then the dip above her collar bone. Her breaths rasped in her chest with anticipation. He lifted his head and gave her a firm kiss.
Rosamunde kissed him back with a boldness she’d never felt before. She moved her mouth with his rather than just accepting his kiss. When his tongue slipped between her lips, she met it with hers and relished the exploratory sweep. Everywhere was so hot, so needy. She ached for more.
“Need to feel you,” she said against his mouth.
Ieuan broke their kiss and blinked at her. For a moment, she feared she’d said something wrong and he would leave her so uncomfortable and desperate. Then a grin cracked his face and she couldn’t help smiling back. Here was the charming, flirtatious knight she had met that night in Tynewell. It warmed her heart to see him coming out from his hardened shell.
He moved away and made a show of studying her naked form. His eyes glinted with appreciation in the candlelight. A warm flush travelled up to her neck and she glanced down to try to understand what he saw. The golden light flickered over her limbs and curves and skimmed the silk of her stockings. She lifted a leg to draw them down but Ieuan made a sort of tortured noise that made her pause.
“Ieuan?”
“Leave them on.” The words came out like an order, yet the rough quality to them made them sound like a plea.
She let her brow furrow and dropped her leg. While he began tugging off his surcoat, she laid her hands either side of her head, unsure what to do now. She was no temptress but she had no wish to lie there like untouchable treasure she was reputed to be. Rosamunde longed to show him that she was more. Look, she wanted to say, I can be your equal. I can pleasure you just as you pleasure me.
But she didn’t know how.
The thud of leather on the floor signalled the dispersal of his surcoat. Next came his padded gambeson and now she could appreciate the form of him against his linen shirt.
“Sweet Lord,” he said through gritted teeth while he untied the laces at the nape of his shirt.
Unsure what had caused those words, Rosamunde followed his gaze and realised one of her hands and traipsed down her body and she was leisurely stroking the valley between her breasts. He enjoyed this?
Experimentally, she mov
ed her hand over one breast then the other. The ache in her nipples increased and they seemed to strain for a touch. When Ieuan let out another string of curses to the vein of his damned useless shirt and who made shirts so hard to remove? she continued her exploration. Each heated look and fumbling movement of his fingers increased her boldness.
Once he was down to his braies, she had no choice but to press her fingers against the damp heat between her legs. She had seldom touched herself there, knowing it was not something a well-bred lady did. But the hard press of her fingers eased the ache somewhat and she moved her hand in a circle to experience a delightful rush of pleasure. Several times more, she circled her fingers while Ieuan’s divested himself of his braies. Every hard part of him flexed and tightened for her.
For her.
He came to her side, all muscle and burnished skin. Scars littered his body—scars she hadn’t had the chance to notice the previous night. She wondered at the tales behind them. One large slash across his ribs, one small puckered mark just under his collarbone. Many, many smaller ones. There was no doubting she had a fighter and a warrior in her bed and that excited her just a little. Were these battle scars or from the knightly arts? She had to believe they were from the former.
Ieuan laid his palm over the back of her hand. He urged her fingers down again, brushing the curls and dampness there. She instinctively arched into the touch.
“Hell, Rosamunde, you are enough to drive a man to lunacy.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
He urged her hand to move once, twice then a third time, each time ramping up the sensations stirring within, before he answered. “For a beautiful woman, you seem to have little idea how tempting you are. You touch yourself with such curiosity that it makes my blood boil.” He released her hand to touch her bottom lip. “And you bite your lip whilst doing so, making me want to kiss you until you forget your name.” Then his hand dropped to grasp her thigh just above her stockings. “And your long, luscious legs in silk...” He groaned. “Rosamunde, you are no good for my self-control.”
Reeling from his words, it took her many instants to gather a response. When it came her voice was thin and reedy. “You do not need control.”
“I have need of much control around you.” He skimmed a hand over her outer thigh and up her side to hold her to him.
“Nay, you need not behave so around me. You will not hurt me. I am not this delicate creature as you think.”
Ieuan considered her. She wasn’t sure he believed her but something entered his expression. Admiration perhaps. Not the usual admiration she garnered. Nay, something deeper, more intense.
Their gazes clashed, connected. The warmth in her chest became too much, and she reached for him. However, he pressed her hand back to her breasts, his eyes smoky with desire. “Touch yourself again.”
She did as he bid, running her fingers over each swell and touching her tight nipples. His breaths came harshly as he watched. She noted the bobbing of his throat and the way the hand at the side of her head began to coil into her hair. When she skimmed a hand down to the apex of her thighs, the grip on her hair tightened and the movement of his throat increased. Slowly she was learning how to weaken this warrior.
It was a heady sensation.
“Gently,” he told her when she pressed the heel of her palm to her folds. With gentle direction, he helped her find that sweet spot with her fingers and showed her how to trace circles and shapes over that nub until she was gasping for more.
“More,” she begged.
But she didn’t want more of her own touch. Her soft fingers couldn’t compare to the coarse touch of his and they couldn’t fill the emptiness. She longed to be joined with him.
Her husband brushed aside her fingers and used his own clever ones to bring her closer and closer to the edge. When he pushed one finger, then a second inside her, she writhed against him, no longer in control. She no longer held the power.
Or so she thought. When he withdrew his fingers, she opened her eyes and the look of marvel and appreciation brought back her sense of power. For once, no man dictated to her. For once, she was in control.
And Ieuan had granted her that. She rose up onto her elbows and beckoned him close with a finger. Latching her hands around his neck, she drew him down onto her and he hissed at the touch of flesh on flesh. Her curves moulded to his hardness.
The press of their bodies cracked something inside her. She scrabbled her hands over each sinewy part of him, feeling the hard ridges of his body and the tight curve of his rear. He groaned and claimed her mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. She wasn’t sure who this man was. Ieuan ap Rhys—the chivalrous knight? The Welshman—the bold, brave warrior? Or Ieuan, the man she had shared her first kiss with?
Either way, she relished his lack of control as his hands sketched a path down her body to cup her rear and draw her tight against him. His arousal rubbed her flesh and she arched her hips to meet him.
In one swift movement, he had her on top of him. Her hair spilled down over her breasts and he brushed it aside to view her while she adjusted to the position. Before she could fully appreciate the sight of all that muscled torso laid out for her, he grasped the hair at the nape of her neck and drew her down to meet his kiss.
Palms flat against his chest, she kissed him and rocked against his shaft while the deep, soul-consuming longing ate through her. She couldn’t wait much longer.
When their breaths grew ragged and his hips seemed to take on a movement of their own, he eased up and coaxed her legs around his hips. They sat face to face, wrapped around each other for a moment.
“Rosamunde, Lord above... you consume me.”
A smile spread across her face, unbidden and unplanned. Here was the man who gave her her first kiss. Tenderness sat in his gaze while desperation appeared to govern his movements. His mouth came to her ear, nipping at her lobe, before landing on her neck and shoulder. He bit down on the flesh between her shoulder and neck and the slight possessive sting sent a fresh flood of arousal through her.
With his hands on her hips, he eased her forward. He was gentle at first, inching into her, spreading her, invading. He stole her breath and muddied her thoughts. Then when he was buried to the hilt, he began to move. Rosamunde kept her hands latched around his neck for purchase and he guided her. He took her deep, fast and passionately.
Her breasts crushed against him and her sensitive spot rubbed his body. It was almost too much. Sweat glistened on his skin and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. With a muffled cry, she fell apart. Her body tightened, tightened, tightened, then released. Tingles and warmth coursed through her to her very fingertips. She kept her eyes open, staring sightlessly at the carved headboard behind him. She was fairly certain a small fragment of her soul splintered away and joined with his.
If she’d had any doubt about the feelings burning inside her, when he spilled they vanished. He clutched her tight as if fearful of letting go and issued her name in a harsh whisper. To her ears, her name had never sounded more charming and exquisite. In that instant, she felt like more than a beautiful face, more than a prize to be won. She wasn’t a treasure—she was treasured.
Chapter Fifteen
Ieuan couldn’t help a languid grin from spreading across his face. It was rare he woke with a grin. Most mornings, he woke rapidly, a mind full of concerns and worry. This day, he couldn’t help pause to admire the woman bundled up against his side. She had splayed an arm across his chest and her mouth was open. With her hair spread across her face and her lips only just peeking out from the strands, she had likely never looked less attractive—so very far removed from the refined woman he had brought to Wales.
Yet her mussed hair and rosy lips were testament to their active night. His grin widened. Inexperienced, yes, but so eager. He would never have expected it. She moved naturally with no thought for seduction or games. They’d made love two more times during the night and no doubt she’d be exhausted.
A rattle from outside drew him from his damnably love-sick state. The portcullis. But who was arriving at this hour? He scowled and sat, coaxing her off him. She slept on. Rising from the bed, he paced across the cold floor. Cold air wrapped around his naked body and he lamented not being able to remain in the warm blankets next to an even warmer wife.
He peered through the gap in the shutters but was unable to make out the visitors so he eased open one shutter and winced as it creaked. Behind him, sheets rustled and he heard Rosamunde release a long sigh.
A hollow sensation sat inside his gut when he noted the gathering of men at the gate. Several men entered the bailey while around half a dozen lingered outside the gate. His men closed the portcullis to them. At least they had made some negotiations with the Englishmen to grant access only to a few of them. He recognised their crests and he knew what they wanted.
His father.
And him, if they knew of his birth.
As he began to dress, Rosamunde roused fully. The sweetest smile graced her lips making his duty to speak with the men even less appealing. If they knew of his identity, they could well take him away and hang him for treason. And if they didn’t, they had to suspect something or else why would they be here?
It put his wife in a dangerous situation. Even her father couldn’t protect her if connections would be made between his father and the Earl of Tynewell. They’d all be hanged and Rosamunde would be left unprotected.
“’Tis early,” she said with husky tones.
“’Tis indeed. But we have visitors.”