Page 73 of The Falcon Laird
“I believe you. But King Edward may not. And he still wants to know for certain where I stand. He has set his watchdogs Hastings and Ormesby on me now. They wait to see what I will do.”
“And what will that be?”
He plucked at a harp string. “I do not know yet. But I know Kilglassie is my home now.”
“You have a castle in France.”
He shook his head. “The property belongs to my first wife’s family. Kilglassie is the only true home I have, Christian, and I mean to hold it. King Edward acted out of spite in giving me this place. But he is right to mistrust me. For I am not one to obey orders blindly.”
She nodded. “Your hurt for mine,” she murmured. “I understand you better now, Gavin Faulkener of Kilglassie.”
He held out his hand. She laid hers in his, palms flat together, heat stirring there. “Once, when we were together in the underground chamber,” he said, “you asked that I be just a man and no English knight.” She nodded. “I ask the same of you now. Be a woman, and no Scot, here with me. Promise me,” he said, his fingers gripping hers.
“I promise,” she whispered.
“Come here,” he said gruffly, and pulled. She came into his arms. He wrapped her in his embrace, as he had been wanting to do for so long. Laying his cheek beside hers, he traced his fingers along the curve of her back. She tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder and clung to him.
Touching the back of her neck, he lifted the silky weight of her hair and sank his fingers into its thickness. She smelled clean and soft, like wildflowers after rain. He inhaled it in, and kissed her brow, then drew back and touched his forehead to hers.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice husky. “I will not betray you. I will not leave you or abandon you within the home we share. I know this was done to you before.”
“You were abandoned, too,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said, and knew it was true. He had felt abandoned by king and country, by his mother’s death, by Jehanne’spassing. He had never quite realized it. “I swear to you I will keep you safe. I will be with you always.”
With a soft cry, she circled her arms around his neck. Her body, her manner, felt soft and giving, wholly trusting. Gavin closed his eyes and thought he would melt in that moment, fall to his knees in gratitude that she was here and in his arms, that she lived and was strong, and was his.
“I will stay with you,” he said again. His mouth covered hers, lifted, covered hers again. He placed his hands on either side of her small, pale face and looked into her wide eyes, their green as deep and verdant as summer. “Will you trust me?”
A somber fold appeared between her black brows. “You will not betray us, nor leave when the English are done here?”
“Never,” he whispered, gliding his thumb over her lips. Then he lifted the leather cord at her throat to slide it over her head and set it aside. “Pretty as it is, naught should remind us of realm or king here.”
He leaned down to touch his lips to hers, holding back an aching need. Her lips were warm and insistent beneath his as he slid his hand along the side of her face. When he took her mouth with hungry force, she parted her lips with a soft, achy moan that matched what he felt, and slipped her fingers through his hair. The incredible softness of her breasts pressed against him, and her hips pushed into his until he groaned and pulled her close, tight, against him, wanting more, quickly, but making himself slow as he slipped his hands over her shoulders, her gown, over the swell of her breasts. He sensed her heartbeat wild beneath cloth, and he cupped his hand there, stroking his fingers over cushioning wool, over aroused peaks, taking her soft little gasp into his mouth as he slipped his fingers inside, beneath the layers of gown and shift to caress her breast. A lightning charge surged through his body as she reached for him, sighed and sagged a little in his arms. She arched against him, offeringherself, and he lowered his head to touch his lips to her breast, to that bud that firmed there. And he drew in a rocky breath, lifting his head to kiss her lips again.
“Dear God,” he murmured into her open mouth. “My love, my lady. I want to feel you against me.”
Without a word, she fumbled at her gown and the thin undertunic and slid them over her head, dropping them at their feet. Gavin sucked in a breath—she was more beautifully made, more lush and desirable than he knew. Weeks ago, when she was ill, he had seen her body, frail and vulnerable. Now she took his breath away. The firelight turned her skin creamy gold, lent a blush to her breasts. Her body was slender here, rounded there, taut with muscle and soft with curves. He touched her reverently, tracing his hands down, following her curves to round over her hips and pull her close. She was an elegant harmony of shape and texture, ivory and velvet and heaven in his hands.
Breathing out, he took a handful of her short, curly dark hair to tilt her head back for renewed kisses, slow and sensual and delicious, her mouth seeking his, her arms encircling his back. He pulled her hips toward him again, against the insistent hardening he felt, and as he did, she was already pulling at the tunic he wore, her breath quickening. Impatiently he pulled at tunic and shirt and sent them swirling to the floor. His need was strong and obvious, each moment adding to the urgency he felt. Her heart beat steadily, rapidly against his chest; his thudded with fervent power. Bending, he lifted her effortlessly and carried her the few steps to the bed to lay her down on the fur coverlet, their combined weight sinking into the feather mattress, the fur sliding against him, silky-cool and soon warming.
Leaning forward, hands to either side of her, he bent for a kiss, tracing over her lips, along her throat and down, sensingthe beat of her heart, the rhythm of her breath. She was all to him in that moment, all for his body, his heart and soul, a gentle comfort and essential component. She moved with him, giving, hands sliding along the length of his back, tracing, exploring muscles, limbs, until he thought he might burst with the need for her. He groaned and took her by the waist and shoulder and rolled with her, pressing her to him, savoring every tremulous breath she took as she swayed and moved against him now, her body eloquent. Then he settled his hips over hers and she parted for him, surged with him, and now she guided him, accepting him, molding over him, surging into a rhythm with him, so that they found cadence together, lambent heat touching off the spark he had held back for so long, his heart beating with hers, his joy merging into hers.
Chapter Eighteen
“It will rainagain before evening, worse than recent days, by the look of it. The wind has a bite like a hungry wolf.” Dominy cast a critical glance at the dark gray sky. “Why you must travel out on such a day, my lady? Here, Will, stop pulling the girl’s braid,” she said irritably.
Michaelmas poked out her tongue at Will, who grimaced in return. The shaggy pony they shared trudged on through the ice-coated mud and old leaves that covered the forest floor.
“We would all rather be by a hot fire than out here in the damp and cold,” Christian said as she and Dominy guided the horses along the forest track. “But it is Friday, and Moira expects our visit.”
“This cold air will bring back yer cough,” Dominy complained. “Ye’ll be sick again and need a warm posset and a tented steam bath.”
“I will not be sick again,” Christian said, “but I will have a posset and a bath if it pleases you later. Now Moira is waiting for us to give us some of her heather ale. It is only another mile to their croft.”
“Sir Gavin asked ye not to leave in this weather. But ye went on about this heather ale until we all were convinced it must be finer than even the faeries could make.”
Christian smiled. “They say that ancient Picts made this recipe, and legend says that an ancient chief died rather than tell the Romans the secret. It is made from heather bells and theclearest water. Not many know how to make it. Moira will not say what she adds to it.”
