Samantha James (27 page)

A bowl of water and a linen cloth lay on a narrow bench near his elbow. Kathryn dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, then blotted the blood away. When the wound was cleaned to her satisfaction, she picked up her needle and threaded it, marveling that her hands were so steady. She bent slightly. Guy didn't make a move when the point of her needle punctured his skin. Instead it was Kathryn who winced, wanting nothing more than to jump up and abandon him. Willpower alone fixed her there at his side.

It occurred to her that she was finding this more painful than he. She glanced at his unyielding profile. He remained as still as a statue. If the dip and pull of needle and thread caused him any pain, his features bore no trace of it. She tied and cut the last thread, then sighed. "There," she murmured. " 'Tis done."

He flexed his shoulder. An involuntary shiver shook her body as she watched. Candlelight from the wall sconce flickered over his shoulders, outlining sleek muscle and sinew. Her gaze strayed helplessly to his chest; he had bathed recently. The scent of soap still clung to him. Water glistened in the dark hair on his chest, glittering like tiny jewels. Kathryn swallowed, her mouth dry as parchment.

His hands had come out to steady her waist as she worked. She could feel their warmth burning through her kirtle. Guy was caught up in that very same current of awareness, aware of a brooding ache inside him. For weeks now he'd run the gamut between rage and confusion. He had possessed her, as he had sworn he would do. But it had not banished the longing inside him. Her aloofness and distance only made him want her all the more.

Her lips were dewy and damp, the downy curve of her cheeks as petal-soft as roses. The tip of her delicate pink tongue darted out, betraying her nervousness. A shaft of longing, desire like a sword of molten steel, cut through him. He longed to touch her, to hold her, to mold her sweetly curvaceous body naked and tight against his own, as he had once before.

She made as if to straighten. His fingers tightened around her waist, just enough to remind her she wasn't free. Kathryn froze, torn in two very different—and conflicting—directions. She wanted to run and hide, to seek refuge in her chamber. Yet another part of her bade her stay and wait—wait for what the moment would bring—

The air was suddenly close and heated. His eyes did not free her. Nay, he watched her with an intensity that made her tremble. His mouth was unsmiling, yet was not so very grimly forbidding. A frisson of panic raced through her. Kathryn was not sure if she was relieved or not. His expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and unfathomable. With him seated, her looking down at him, she should have felt she had the advantage. Alas, that was certainly not the case! Never had she felt so exposed and vulnerable.

"What do you wish of me, milord?" Her voice was no more than a tremulous wisp of air.

He tipped his head to regard her more fully. The silence heightened to a screaming pitch

before he finally spoke. "Methinks you already know, Kathryn." For all the softness of his voice, his eyes seemed to delve even further into hers, as if he sought to reach inside her, clear to her soul. And she could not stand it. She could not! She gave a muffled sound and tried to step backward.

His uninjured arm caught at her waist. He checked her movement and brought her down onto his lap in one fluid move. Her hands came up instinctively. One arm slid around his neck for balance. The other caught at his shoulder. Beneath her fingertips, she registered the feel of firm resilient flesh, the shape and feel of him. She drew a deep, startled breath and sought his eyes. To her dismay, he turned his head and her lips brushed the raspy hardness of his cheek. The contact was fleeting, but all at once her senses were thrumming.

He stared at her mouth.

She stared at his.

His head began to lower. Closer. . . so close it seemed they shared the same breath. "No," she whispered, as if to deny it, as if to deny him. "Oh, no. . .

Like a thief in the night, his fingers plied their way across her nape, then came up to weave in her hair. As if he sought to stop himself, he pulled her head back slowly. Riveted by the undisguised hunger on his face, she could not tear her eyes from his.

A quickening heat stormed through her. Kathryn could not fight it—she could not fight him. His mouth trapped hers, both hungry and tender all at once, eroding any notion she might have had of resistance. The intimate glide of his tongue against hers set her heart to pounding. Her lips parted to allow him access to the honeyed interior of her mouth.

With a surge of power he was on his feet. Kathryn's head was whirling, along with her senses. She clutched at him as the only solid object in a wildly spinning world. Without breaking the searing fusion of their mouths, he crossed to the bed.

The mattress was soft beneath her back. Above her, his body was hard and heavy against hers, silent testimony that spoke of years of swordplay and hours at the tiltyard. With an ease that robbed her of breath, he tugged her kirtle to her waist and freed the naked bounty of her breasts. Inexperienced as she was, he had taught her well the pleasures he could heap upon her body. Even before his hand encompassed the weight of one breast, it was taut and tingly and aching; he kissed her endlessly, all the while his fingertips toying and skimming first one nipple and then the other into tight little buds. It shocked her to realize that she wanted not only his hands on her breasts, but the play of tongue and lips, tugging and laving and teasing.

She broke free of his mouth with a low moan— a sound of frustration? Protest? Or surrender? Her mind was churning so that she could scarcely think. God help her, she didn't know!

He raised his head. She tried desperately to drag her scattered wits about her, but for a timeless moment all she could do was stare in vague fascination at the dark hand that lay claim to the burgeoning softness of her breast—as if it had a right to be there—as if he had a right to her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sight. She did not want this. She dare not want this.

"Let me go." She despised the pleading in her voice, yet within was a fervent demand.

The silence was overwhelming. He did not move. Indeed, he did not even appear to hear.

Kathryn's eyes flicked open. She had expected anger. At the very least, his familiar, cutting sarcasm. In truth, she expected anything but the hint of defeated resignation that flitted across his features.

"You are a witch," he said slowly. "A sorceress who seeks to work her spell of enchantment over me." He searched her face as if convinced some damning evidence could be found there. "You tempt me, Kathryn, though you scorn me outright and pretend I do not exist. You tempt me when I am miles away and—"

Disbelief shot through her. "I tempt you! Oh, I think not, my lord, for I have done naught but try to stay clear of you!" Her cry verged on anger. "You blame me, milord, but 'tis you who seek me out— always! 'Tis you who bind me to you, you who refuse to let me return to Ashbury!"

Something dangerous flickered in those strange silvery eyes. His fingertips moved ever so slightly on her breast, warm and tormenting, even as his gaze grew cold. "And that is still your wish? To return to Ashbury?"

Kathryn was beyond heeding any warning, verbal or otherwise. "Aye!" The sound tore out of her throat. "How can you believe I would wish to stay here?"

His mouth twisted. How indeed, he thought. But even as the dark shadow of some nameless emotion gripped his soul, his body throbbed with desire. She stared up at him, her features delicately exquisite. His avid gaze swept over her, lingering on her breasts. Her skin was smooth and creamy, her nipples pure enticement, a deeper darker rose than he recalled. With his eyes he traced a path over her swelling softness. His memory failed him again, for though she was still small, she was fuller than he remembered.

Never had he felt a passion so deeply, so intensely that it robbed him of sanity, stripped him of pride and reason and controlled his every thought. . . as
she
controlled his every thought.

Let her go? he thought in amazement. He was awash in indignant outrage... and a despairing bleakness. Did she really believe that he would willingly send her back to Ashbury?

Not now. Not yet. And maybe never—

Though her chest ached with the force of her scrambled emotions, Kathryn swallowed and lifted glistening eyes to his.

"Please." Her voice was very low. There was a faint catch in her voice. "Please do not do this. You do not want this any more than I—I see it in your face!"

Tension gripped his features. He closed his eyes, as if he fought some gut-wrenching inner pain. When they opened, his expression was curiously hollow.

He bent and brushed her lips with his, a touch so achingly gentle she nearly cried out. "This thing between us," he whispered, "'tis more powerful than both of us. I cannot stop it, Kathryn." He nuzzled the baby-soft skin behind her ear. "Nor can you."

His lips returned to capture hers, and this time the contact was firmer. Deeper. Intimately knowing. . .

"I want you," he said into her mouth. And then again, "I want you..."

Her lips fluttered against his; her tongue shyly touched his. It was all the invitation Guy needed. His mouth opened wide, his tongue dueling with hers in an unbridled skirmish that made his heart leap anew. She could deny him with mind and heart and soul, but she could not deny her physical need for him. His arms came around her. Tightly he pulled her against him, suppressing a groan at the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest.

Kathryn yielded with a low sobbing moan. Her feeble resistance could not rival his strength. Her feeble resistance could not rival or her own forbidden yearning. She forgot everything but the hungry heat that raged between them. She caught his head and guided his mouth to hers, her kiss tinged with a dark desperation.

Her clothing was a barrier neither could tolerate. He stripped her kirtle from her hips and cast it aside. She quivered as he traced a flaming line from her hip to the pouting crest of her breast. Her body arched. Her fingers dug into the binding hardness of his arms, communicating a wordless plea. His laugh was low and throaty, for he well knew exactly what she craved.

His thumbs raked across her nipples; they felt swollen and engorged. Her breath spilled out in a rush. It was an exquisite torture to wait while his mouth slid with slow heat down her throat. He blew gently on the sensitized peak. Kathryn thought she would drown in sheer sensation at the slightly abrasive texture of his tongue curling around the pebbled nub.

A whimper rose in her throat. Her legs shifted restlessly. He inhaled sharply as her untutored movements brought her slender thigh flush against his straining fullness. Christ, she was driving him mad! He levered himself away and raised his head to stare at her, silver eyes aglow, aflame with wanting.

His shoulders loomed above her, wide and sleek and golden. He possessed a dark magnificence which should have frightened her, yet did not. Indeed, it robbed her of breath. He was so tall, so powerful, she thought wonderingly. With the candlelight flickering over his bronzed skin, he seemed more god than mortal. She knew a shocking urge to weave her fingers in the curling mat of hair on his chest and abdomen. He set her on her feet. Her gaze slid helplessly lower, just as he stripped off his chausses.

His manhood sprang free of its confinement, stiff and rigid and swollen.

Her eyes widened. Her golden haze of pleasure evaporated, like mist on a blazing morn. To her horrified eyes, he was shockingly—brazenly—aroused. She shuddered as the memory of their first time together came crashing down around her. She'd not soon forget the fiery prelude that promised so much, but delivered only pain. He would invade her body with his mighty weapon, a thrusting blade that split and tore. Too late she realized where her passion had led her.

He caught her by the waist. With a gasp her hands came up against his shoulders, thwarting his forward movement. "Nay," she said faintly. "Oh, please, I cannot—"

His lips swallowed her breathless little cry. "Hush," he murmured. "I'll not hurt you, Kathryn."

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her heart beat furiously. "I fear you cannot help it!" she cried wildly. Just thinking of his size made her tremble. "You are so..." She could say no more. With a ragged moan of distress she turned her head aside.

Regret seized him, even as her innocent words sent his ardor spiraling. A finger beneath her jaw dictated that she meet his eyes; hers were huge and frightened. Beneath him, Guy could feel her shaking.

His hand slid down her throat. "That pain you felt, Kathryn. . . it was naught but the pain of first love."

The timbre of his voice sent a shiver through her. Love? she thought wildly, vaguely alarmed. It spun through her mind that she felt many things for this man who so dominated her life... but love? Nay, not that. . . never love...

"Please—" Her fingers curled and uncurled in the springy dark hair on his chest. What she pleaded for, she did not know.

"I thought I could forget that night, sweet witch. But a thousand times I've heard that tiny little cry you gave." His whisper was low and vibrating; it swirled all around her, reaching clear inside her. "And a hundred times I've wished it could have been different." He raised his head to stare down at her with burning eyes. "I don't want you to remember that night as it was. I want you to remember this night instead. I want you to know the way it can be between us. I want you to know the way it
will
be."