Page 13 of The Raven and the Rose
He took her firmly but gently by her shoulders and shook her.
“Wake up, my beauty.”
She remained limp, totally unconscious of his urgent voice and hands. Stubbornly he kept trying. He must have her or go mad. The friction of his hardened member against her smooth, supple thigh increased his desire, while her total lack of response to him almost crazed him with frustration.
He increased his efforts, covering her with his body, determined to kiss awake this earthly sleeping beauty. Gem upon gem of his kisses encircled her face, her brow; he kissed one cheek and then the other and then the tip of her nose and eyelids until her face was covered with his offerings, but nothing he did would awaken her. She seemed a beautiful ivory figurine with closed eyes and carved ebony hair.
“Peste!”he swore in fury at himself and at his limp bedmate. He flung himself to his own side of the bed and lay struggling with his desire. Slowly, slowly the red mist of passion cleared from his brain, and he began to see how utterly ridiculous his behavior was. There was no pleasure to be gained in taking advantage of an unconscious female. Love play must be shared to be enjoyed. Like it or not, he had to wait until morning, when they could both enjoy it. He grinned into the darkness. Pleasure for both or neither, it was only fair!
Roger awoke to the fragrance of roses. A rush of memories from the previous night made him turn his head upon the pillow to gaze at the exquisite creature beside him. His physical reaction was instant and powerful. He was fiercely aroused and his loins were aching because she had been with him in his dreams. She had been gowned in scarlet, a color he believed suited her nature exactly. Now she was scantily covered with only her raven hair, and her heavy round breasts were thrust out at him, tempting him to touch them, to kiss them. Slowly he eased up on his elbow and bent toward her. He found himself longing to know the color of her eyes and longing also to awaken her with his kiss, as if they were in some fanciful tale. As his head dipped to hers, her eyes flew open and widened in disbelief, and he saw with delight that her eyes were clear gray pools rimmed with lavender. He saw them sparkle with anger, and suddenly, with the clarity of morning light, Roger realized that this was no peasant girl.
Startled and angry to awaken to find herself in bed with a man, Roseanna screamed and gathered the bedclothes around her. This action uncovered the man’s nakedness, and her eyes flew down his long, hard body, which was insolent in its masculine splendor. She raised her eyes shamefully to his and saw a face so darkly strong, so fierce and primitive that she thought she was looking at an all-powerful god. His pent-up energy transmitted itself to her like a threat. She felt endangered, weak, and wholly at his mercy.
“You beast! What have you done to me?” she cried. His eyes were so dark that night seemed forever locked in them, yet laughter threatened at their brink.
“I have done nothing—yet,” he said, smiling. “But I must admit I find you very desirable.” He reached out to touch her, but she recoiled as if his hand were a hot iron.
She tried to scramble from the bed; unfortunately, her long hair was caught beneath his body, and she couldn’t untangle it without touching his naked flesh.
“Let go of me!” she cried.
He laughed, the rich dark sound sending shivers up her spine. “Not until I’ve made love to you, my beauty.”
She gasped and instantly tore at his face with her nails. In a flash he gripped her wrists and crushed her mouth beneath his. She struggled fiercely but found there was no way she could release herself from his grasp. He imprisoned her in an embrace; she felt small and frail beside his powerful chest and steely muscles. The scent of his body and the pressure of his hard mouth upon hers were aphrodisiacs that ravaged her senses, and she struggled to keep herself from melting into his embrace. What saved her was his rigid hardness thrusting into her thigh. With an age-old instinct of knowing what happens between a man and a woman, she knew he would have her on her back in another moment, thrusting that rigid hardness deep within her. Her sharp white teeth closed upon his bottom lip until she drew blood. He withdrew his mouth sharply, freeing hers momentarily, and she panted, “I demand to speak to Baron Ravenspur!”
“Who are you?” he asked, wiping the blood from his lip.
She lifted her chin and said coolly, “I am Lady Roseanna Castlemaine.”
“Who?” he thundered.
“Rose—Roseanna Castlemaine,” she repeated, frightened at his tone.
He was on his feet instantly. He pulled on hose, boots, and doublet and strode to the chamber door. He flung it open and bellowed, “Tristan!”
The young squire who had been asleep outside the door clapped his hands over his ears as if he’d been deafened. Roger cuffed him and said, “Get my brother. Now!”
He must have graphically communicated Roger’s mood, for Tristan appeared quickly. Roger almost hauled him through the door. “This is a plot the two of you cooked up to put my betrothed in my bed so I’ll have to marry her!” he roared.
“Your betrothed?” gasped Tristan.
“Marry me?” shouted Roseanna, who was in a high rage now that she realized she’d slept with Ravenspur. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth! I came here yesterday to dissolve this distasteful betrothal that hangs around my neck like a millstone!”
Roger’s eyes narrowed warningly.
“Honestly, Roger, I mistook her for a peasant girl,” Tristan said.
Roseanna’s eyes clouded in anger. “Strange,” she said in a menacing tone, “since I told you the moment we met that I was Lady Castlemaine!”
Roger swung around to his brother, who had the decency to look shamefaced. “She speaks the truth.”
Hoisting the slipping sheets around her, she said regally, “I always speak the truth. You are two depraved monsters of lechery! Do you not realize the misery your childish little joke has caused? I have been away from home all night. My family will be frantic. When my father learns of my treatment at the hands of you Montfords, he will issue a challenge!”
Roger, ignoring her impassioned words, said to Tristan, “Keep those whores behind locked doors.”
Roseanna looked startled. That was why the woman she’d seen yesterday had looked so strange and fascinating—she was a prostitute! My God, men were vile. Is this what they did under the guise of hunting? She was overcome by hatred for them. She wanted to shriek her rage and rake their handsome faces to ribbons, but the elder one would likely fell her with the back of his hand.
“I’ll need at least two servingwomen,” said Roger.
