Diana Cosby (19 page)

A life alone.

On a curse, he turned toward Rois. A very naked Rois. His body hardened further. Bloody hell!

He strode to the bed, caught the hand-stitched quilt, and pulled it up to her neck. Except the image of her naked remained etched in his mind. Nor could he dismiss that if he lifted the covers, he could see her every curve.

Griffin smothered the erotic thoughts that could well lead to disaster. Hours remained before dawn. These past few nights in Lochshire Castle with her but a hand’s length away, he’d not touched her. He would not break his resolve now. He nudged her shoulder.

“Rois?”

Her nose wrinkled in a dainty slant.

Blast it. Griffin sat on the edge of the bed. His weight against the lush coverings tilted her body, and she slumped against him, her breasts pressed against his thigh.

He burned for her. “Rois, wake up.”

Thick lashes swept open. Within the cast of firelight and moonbeams, vivid green eyes studied him. Her lips curved in a wide smile, one that spilled over into tipsy wobble.

“Griffin,” she hiccupped.

God give him strength.

She laughed, the sound rich of drink and seduction. “’Twas a secret wish of mine that you would come.”

He would not think of her naked, nor of making love with her.
“Rois, I am going to carry you back to our chamber.”

Eyes confused, she frowned. “You do nae want me?”

Griffin took several deep breaths. She wasn’t going to make this simple. Neither was he foolish enough to answer. Already he wanted her too much.

Her lids drooped closed.

He shook his head, grimaced. He reached down.

At his touch, her eyes flew open. “What are you do-doing?”

Patience, by God he would have it. “I am taking you back to our bed.”

Desire darkened her gaze. “You didna answer my question. Do you want me?”

“Rois . . .” Blast it. “’Twould be unwise.”

“Unwise?” A frown deepened on her brow. “To have such a memory of us would be a grand wish.” On a tired exhale, she rolled to her other side, and the coverlet inched up, exposing an incredible view of her tempting bottom.

On a curse, Griffin jerked the finely woven material lower, his hand skimming across her skin.

“Mmmmm,” she sighed. Her hand moved atop his, her thumb gliding across his skin with a silken stroke.

He froze.

“Griffin?”

The wanton purr of her voice had him looking up.

Eyes wide with questions and need, she watched him.

His heart pounded. God he loved her, wanted her more than his next breath. Except, war cared naught whom you loved.

“You have changed your mind?” she asked.

The situation was hopeless.

At his silence, her brow rose. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Aye.” Rois brushed her finger across his hand in an erotic slide. “So, husband, will you join me?”

“What?” he replied, his voice strangled.

Rois tugged the sheet off, sat up and began dusting kisses along the soft hollow of his neck, her breasts sliding against his skin.

His breathing coming fast, Griffin caught her shoulders and drew her away. “’Tis not a good idea.” He struggled to keep his focus on her face, not her lips, or the soft curve of her throat, or the way her naked body would tempt the will of the strongest man.

Her fingers crept up his chest, her eyes closed as if savoring a treat.

Griffin caught her hand, and her body slumped flush against his. Bedamned! “Rois.”

Her lips grazed his neck. “You taste wonderful.”

He pushed her back, and his skin tingled where her tongue had trailed. “Rois.”

Slumber-laden eyes met his. “Do you nae want me?”

“Too much.”

Confusion illuminated her face with awkward appeal. “Then why do we nae make love?”

His throat worked. “’Tis a long story.” One he wished not to discuss now. “’Tis time we return to our chamber.” With enormous will, Griffin disengaged himself from her and stood. “I am going to help you stand.” He reached out for her.

Rois fell back upon the daisy coverlet with a laugh, her breasts like tempting mounds of gold illuminated in the brush of firelight. “Why would we leave? We have a bed here.”

He gulped another deep breath. “Rois, our chamber is below.”

“Then why am I here?”

Why indeed.
A question his family would find amusing. “I will tell you in the morn.” Griffin clasped her hand, fighting to ignore her breasts swaying with bold appeal, and the soft curve of skin leading to her alluring bottom.

“Wait!”

He cursed. “What is wrong now?”

“The bed, ’tis spinning.” On a gasp, she pressed the back of her hand upon her forehead, closed her eyes. “Pl-please make it stop.”

A tinkle of laugher drifted through the chamber.

Griffin scoured the richly adorned room with a critical eye. A shift of movement had him glancing up.

A fairy wearing a dark green gown stared down at him. Mirth twinkled in her eyes.

He rubbed his eyes, then glared up at the vibrant colors crafted by a brush. The fairies on the ceiling were paintings, far from real. Any shimmer of light he’d seen was reflected from the hearth.

“Griffin?” Rois said, her voice thick with sleep and wine, “are you coming to bed?”

Bed, where they both needed to be. But not in the grandmother’s chamber. Regardless if he believed the brothers’ stories, their grandmother’s chamber left him on edge. But, if he moved her now with her head spinning, ’twould make her retch.

As if a man sentenced, he leaned closer. “I am going to tuck you in.”

“Griffin, are you leaving?”

“No, I will stay beside you this night.” If she became ill, he needed to be there to tend her.

A pleased sigh fell from her lips. “My thanks . . . husband.” She closed her eyes, and a soft snore escaped.

Asleep. His throat strangled on a frustrated laugh. How fitting. Griffin’s body burned with need as he gently tucked the coverlet around her, surprised to find a sense of peace in the mundane task.

For long moments, he watched Rois lost to her slumber, and found himself wishing he could be with her every night.

Unsettled by his thoughts, he stood, ambled about the room. Over the years, never had the luxury to linger existed. Before, he’d ridden to Lochshire Castle to complete a mission, his visits with his sister enjoyed, however short. Neither would he be here now if not for Lord Brom’s injuries.

On a sigh, Griffin paused before the small table. He ran his finger around the ivory-framed mirror, and then followed the outline of the simple gold ring. Intrigued, he lifted the circle of gold and laid it on his palm.

Odd how the MacGruder brothers had left their grandmother’s chamber untouched since she’d died, as if one day she would return. He shrugged, returned the ring. Their decision held little consequence for him.

He focused on the bowl. A lone halved stone sat inside, infused with a mix of grays and stark yellows. With a smile he lifted the Magnesite. Until the day the brothers’ grandmother had presented him the pendant crafted with the matching half for his service to Scotland, never had he seen such an unusual mix.

Griffin lifted the gemstone from around his neck, and pressed it flush against its mate.

A long sigh whispered behind him.

His body tightened. Rois. Somber, he donned his pendant, then returned the halved stone to where it would forever rest. Unlike the MacGruder brothers, whose wives wore the respective mate of each stone around their necks, Rois would not remain in his life and wear his.

With a heavy heart, he returned to the bed, lay atop the blanket, and drew Rois against him, the coverlet her only defense. Given his resolve to leave her untouched, it may as well have been a stone wall.

Determined to cull a few hours of sleep this night, Griffin closed his eyes. Rois’s soft breaths whispered against his cheek, lulling him to dream, to wish that she loved him, and that somehow against every obstacle they could find a way to be together.

Whimsical thoughts indeed. On the morrow and with the rise of the sun, he would leave.

Without Rois.

The distant clatter of hooves from the bailey rattled through Rois’s mind. Her thoughts sleep-laden, she shifted, and the scenes of hard travel, the worry for her father, and the longing for a mysterious man who made her want his touch faded.

A dream, naught more.

On an exhale, she tugged the covers up. Her hand bumped against a very solid form, and her eyes flew open.

Griffin.

Her husband.

And this morn he would depart. Last eve he’d assured her that once her father had recovered enough to travel, she would return with Lord Brom to Kincardan Castle.

She should be thankful the madness incited by challenging Griffin in the war chamber of Dunadd Castle would end. Now, she could return to her home, to her life. With her country victorious at Stirling Bridge, until the English regrouped in the future, she could find peace.

Rois awaited the relief of imagining Griffin out of her life.

And found naught but emptiness.

Frustrated, she shifted on the bed.

A soft throbbing pulsed in her mind, bordering on the edge of pain. She lifted her hand to her brow, frowned. Why would her head ache so?

The events of last eve came to mind. Of drinking wine with the MacGruders. Nay, ’twas more than a simple gathering. Last eve she’d shared the night with her family, savored their complete acceptance of her and her father within their fold.

Caught up in enjoying everyone, ’twould seem she’d drank a wee too much. A small price to pay for a family gained.

She blinked against the flicker of flames, thankful for the blackness filling the sky. But hints of dawn trickled through the arched window with the promise of day, a day when Griffin would depart for England. Rois frowned.

An arched window?

Pain seared her head as Rois sat up too fast. She winced. With care, she examined the richly adorned chamber exposed by the gentle flicker of flames.

Against the far wall hung a finely crafted tapestry, an intricate forest scene woven within. Where had she seen that before?

In the turret below.

As with the other woven scene, fairies peeked through the breaks within the leaves. They must be related.

Why would a fierce warrior such as her cousin adorn his home with such touches of whimsy? Nay, with the extremes within this chamber, more than whimsy lay behind the decisions. Whoever selected the items within this room and the remainder of Lochshire Castle did so with love.

As Rois took in the luxurious setting, contentment sifted through her, a sense of peace so complete, ’twas as if she’d lived here forever. Ridiculous, never before had she stepped foot inside this room.

Where was she?

’Twas nae the chamber Seathan had given her and Griffin for their stay. She vaguely recalled departing the MacGruders around the table last eve and heading for the turret. After, she remembered naught.

Had Griffin brought her here in her inebriated state? That made little sense. Why would they have retired to the wrong room?

A shimmer of light glinted from a hand-carved table.

After one last glance to ensure Griffin still slept, curious, she pushed away the covers and rose. With cautious steps, she walked over to the table. Atop its sturdy frame laid a mix of intricately carved jewelry, a simple gold band, a bone comb, and an ivory framed mirror. Amidst the clutter sat a bowl, inside which rested a halved stone. The unusual mix of stark yellows and a swirl of grays was identical to the pendant Griffin wore around his neck.

Intrigued, Rois lifted the halved gemstone. Warmth shimmered from the stone, and images of her and Griffin appeared in her mind, of them laughing, making love, and embracing their child.

She gasped. Fingers trembling, she returned the halved gemstone to the bowl. They were naught but the wishes of a brokenhearted woman.

Light pulsed from the gemstone, the same as when she and Griffin had almost made love.

Trembling, Rois stumbled back. ’Twas a dream. She was inside her room at Kincardan Castle and would awaken any moment.

A soft snore resonated behind her.

She spun.

Griffin remained sound asleep upon the bed. Spears of the breaking dawn severed the sky, its brittle purple fingers like claws of dread.

The reality of the moment, of what this day’s arrival indicated, shattered her musings. Never again would she see Griffin, feel his warmth against her skin. More devastating, never would he know how much she loved him.

Until this moment she’d accepted his intent to procure an annulment. With the day having arrived, the thought of a life without him left her shattered.

“Destiny is yours to choose.”

At the soft, lyrical voice, Rois peered toward the fireplace.

In the chair near the hearth, an elderly woman sat, her wizened eyes regarding Rois with keen interest. She clasped in her hands the near complete embroidery of a fairy. Flames surged in the hearth as the woman watched her, the soft yellows of light caressing her skin.

Rois shook her head. She was still dreaming. On a steadying breath, she closed her eyes, opened them.

The age-softened mouth widened to a smile. “Lass, I am far from a dream.”

“Wh-who are you?”

The woman secured the needle and thread into the side of the embroidery. “Someone who cares about you, and who holds regrets.”

“Regrets?”

Her smile wavered, tumbled into a frown. “Aye. Regret to be the cause in separating our families. Never would I have wished that.”

“Our families? We are related?”

The elder watched her in silence.

Rois shook her head. She must be asleep.

“A part of me wishes indeed ’twas a dream,” the elder said, “but I came across the Earl of Grey due to circumstance.” A wistful smile touched her face. “Or, mayhap ’twas our destiny.”

“The Earl of Grey? You know Seathan?” she asked, latching onto any fiber of normality.

Warmth etched her time-wrinkled face. “Aye,” she replied, her rich burr thick.

Heat rose up her cheeks. “Of course you would, you are in his home.”

Laughter twinkled within her eyes. “Rather, he now lives in mine.”

Rois touched her brow, the low throbbing growing as she struggled to understand.

“It matters naught. Now, ’tis Seathan’s hand that guides Lochshire Castle and the MacGruder lands.”

“But you said you know the Earl of Grey?”

Mischief creased her face. “Indeed, but Trálin.”

“Trálin?” Why was this woman speaking of Seathan’s grandfather, of her great grandfather? Regardless of what the woman said, Rois was either asleep or had gone mad. No other explanation existed. She closed her eyes tight, took three deep breaths, and opened them.

The woman remained.

Surprised by her lack of fear, of the comfort this woman’s presence wrought, Rois shook her head. “My apologies, none of this is making any sense.”

“I know . . . but it will.” She picked up the embroidery of the fairy, withdrew the needle, and made one stitch, then another, before looking up. “Remember, Rois, destiny is yours to choose.”

“But I—”

The flames within the hearth flared and then receded to sway upon glowing embers. In the bleakness of the morning, the chair sat empty.

Rois rubbed her hands over her trembling arms. ’Twas a dream. Naught more.

A tinkle of laugher had her looking up.

Fairies shimmered above her.

They were nae real, but paintings, the artist having a clever hand. Again she scoured the images.

None moved.

With the last dregs of sleep mulling her mind, she’d imagined the fairies as real. Whoever the artist of the fey on the ceiling, they had matched those woven within the tapestry with a master’s hand. Unlike the wall hanging, which crafted but eyes and a hint of wings, on the ceiling the artist had exposed the entire fairy.

Shimmers of light pulsed from the left.

Rois looked over.

A fairy wearing a dark green gown watched her.

Nay, ’twas the recklessness of her dream that invented such a crazed thought. Unsure of anything, Rois turned. Outside the window, sunlight peeked over the ridge, the richness basking the curve of land.

Griffin’s exhale had her glancing at the bed, and her heart ached. Soon, he would awaken.

And leave.

Without her.

She whirled toward the hearth. The flicker of flames remained unchanged, but the woman’s whisper echoed in the chamber. Rois touched her brow, found the earlier headache gone. Heaven help her, she had lost her wits.

Linen shifted.

Griffin.

On a deep breath, she faced him. Dream or nae, the elder was right. Destiny was hers to choose. If she and Griffin made love, their marriage would be real. But if they made love, would he accept her into his life?

Over the years she’d acted on her passions, followed her heart, but now was different. Love guided her, that of knowing a woman’s yearnings, of wanting forever with the man she loved.

A man who wanted her.

Determined, Rois stepped forward. A sheen of golden light grew, filled the chamber. With her mind emboldened, she released the finely spun sheet, and it puddled into a heap upon the floor.

On a nervous exhale, she sat next to Griffin. How was she to seduce him? However much she wanted him, the choice must be his. But she would surely try and make refusing impossible.

With one last glance up at the fairies on the ceiling, she leaned over and slowly kissed his neck. Savoring his taste, she caressed his face as she moved up, and with her each kiss, her body warmed, ached with the need of him.

“Griffin,” she whispered as she lay her body flush over his and feathered kisses upon his neck, along the soft curve of his mouth.

His eyes slowly opened, clouded with pleasure. On a groan he drew her against him and was kissing her back, hot, hard, taking her every demand, giving until she was wonderfully breathless.

“I want to make love with you,” she whispered between heated kisses as his hands found her naked flesh, stroked her with a knowing touch until her entire body ached.

His mouth demanding on hers, he turned her over until she lay beneath him, his hands skimming along her skin with mastery, his every touch igniting her desire more than she could have believed.

Rois gasped as he cupped her breast, slid his thumb along the hard tip, then again, sending her mind into a blistering spin.

At her unsteady breaths, through the haze of pleasure, Griffin smiled, savoring her gasps of pleasure, her trembles of need—for him. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the dream. He was making love to Rois. It was so real he could taste her, feel her move against him with a wanton slide.

“Griffin!”

He stilled, and his entire body screamed at his hesitation, but ’twas as if she’d spoken. It could not be. “Rois?” He waited, prayed he was wrong.

Her body slick and hot trembled against his. “A-aye?”

God’s teeth! He opened his eyes, met her gaze burning with need. “I—”

“Make love with me.”

At her sultry request, heat surged through him, blurring the lines of sanity, of why it was important to leave her untouched.

Her slender hand slid down his chest, freed him.

Cool air slid over his fullness, and he groaned against the pleasurable ache. “I—”

“I need you, Griffin.”

His breaths coming fast, he caught her hand. “Rois, we cannot do this. We both agreed.” And he damned his every word.

Rois’s body trembled as she pressed her face against his neck.

Griffin drew a ragged breath, then another. Warmth slid down his skin.

She was crying.

Shaken to the core, he caught her face within his hands, staggered by the rush of emotion pouring through him. He wanted her, desperately, always. Bedamned his blasted position with King Edward!

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Griffin rasped.

A fat tear rolled down her cheek, then another. “’Tis too late. I love you.”

His heart slammed. Words he’d longed to hear, words he wished to return. “You cannot.”

She wiped away the next tear with the back of her hand. “As if what we feel is up to either of us to choose?” Hurt wrapped her voice. “Think you I wanted this? Wanted you?” Anger creased her face, then utter hopelessness crushed her expression. “Damn you, Griffin, you are my enemy!”

The passion in her words tore him apart, her vulnerability more so. “No, I am not.”

Unsure eyes stared at him, the edge of hope tearing him apart. Should he tell her of his secret life as
Wulfe
? Dare he? And God help him if she knew he loved her as well.

On a shaky breath, he swept his thumb across the velvet of her cheek. “You are an amazing woman, Rois.”

“Do you want me?”

The doubt within her words shook him. He held her gaze, needing her to understand that he struggled to hold himself back. “Very much so.”

“Never before did I understand loving someone so much that I ache with it.”

“Do not,” he breathed, savoring her every word.

Another tear wobbled upon her lid, then rolled down the curve of her cheek. “Too late. I—”

“Rois—”

“Nay,” she whispered, her words raw in their passion, “let me finish. I want you, more than I ever believed I would want a man. But I willna beg. If you leave this bed, ’tis your choosing, nae mine.” Eyes as green as Scotland’s fields blurred with the rush of more tears.

Griffin drew her against him, her each shudder like an arrow to his soul. “I want you as well,” he whispered, his lips tasting her skin, the essence that would always be Rois, the only woman who’d ever drawn him. “Never will anyone fill my heart as you do.”