Page 36 of Saxon Blade Norman Blood
She did not understand why William, of all men, should provoke such feelings inside her when no one else had even come close.
At the time of her mother’s death, she had been involved with a young man named Alban. She had never thought their relationship would lead to anything, but when she had found herself alone in the world, her first instinct had been to turn to him for comfort.
One day, he had started to stroke her with unmistakable intent, and she had stiffened in panic.
“No, please. I cannot do this!”
To his credit, Alban had let her go, but she had never allowed him to take her in his arms again. That day, she understood she would never be able to let a man touch her, much less make love to her. The image of the two men assaulting her mother was still too vivid in her mind.
“I will never be able to give you what you want,” she’d told Alban. “You should find yourself another sweetheart, one who is not afraid to let you touch her, one who…”
One who is not about to become a murderer.
Six months later, Rowena had attended his wedding to another girl from their village and known she had made the right decision. Her future was not with him, it depended on William.
The finely wrought ring on his finger glinted in the candlelight when he reached for his cup of wine.
A sudden image tore through her mind. Her father had worn such a ring, on the middle finger of his right hand, just like William. How had she not thought about it before? Her father had told her one day she was his most special girl, that he would love her forever. He had stroked her cheek and, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the graze of the ring against her skin.
A few days later he was dead, killed when a benign wound on his shoulder had turned gangrenous. Not yet eight years, old Rowena’s world had fallen apart.
Struggling to remain composed, she took a gulp of wine and nearly choked when the liquid hit her tight throat. Immediately William was at her side, patting her on the back.
“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed, shooting to her feet.
The concern she’d seen in his eyes had put her in mind of her father. He’d looked at her that way whenever she faced a problem. No one had looked at her thus since he’d died, not even her mother. Why did the first person to do so have to be William de la Falaise?
She took a deep breath and hoped the tears welling in her eyes would pass as part of the coughing fit still racking through her.
Once it had subsided, she did not sit back down. Her appetite had quite deserted her.
“I will go to bed,” she said hoarsely. “I feel rather tired.”
With those words, she fled the room before he could answer.
Later, when William joined her in the bedchamber, Rowena stiffened with apprehension. After what had happened by the river, she had the impression their relation had evolved into something she could not define and she was not comfortable with this new development.
He crawled in the bed behind her and placed his hand on her hip as had become his habit. He did not speak, and soon fell asleep. After dozing for few moments, she found herself nestled in his arms. She concluded she must have somehow edged toward him until their bodies touched, in search for comfort, the comfort she had been looking for since her father’s death.
His early demise had marked a turning point in her life. Young as she had been, Rowena had felt something break inside of her and the only way she’d been able to survive the loss was to build a shell around her. Most people deplored her coldness without guessing it was the only thing keeping her upright. She drew her strength from this hard exterior, as she could not risk leaving her broken self exposed.
The arrival of her stepfather had only encouraged her to hide her inner feelings. A stern, unlovable man, she had never warmed to him, and his sudden death had not affected her anywhere near as much as it should have. In many ways his absence had been a relief.
Behind her, William moved, and she pressed herself even closer to his chest. The comfort it brought wasoverwhelming. It was as if she’d imposed years of fasting on herself and never thought she was missing out, until one day, someone had forced a honey-filled pastry into her mouth.
And here she was, hungry for more.
Now that there was a breach in the shell she had taken so long to build, she feared for the solidity of the whole thing. It would not take much for her will to crumble. She should have hated William for making her see what she’d been missing all this time, but she didn’t because she’d always suspected that deep down, she needed affection, someone who cared about her. What she found hard to accept was that the first person to give her what she needed was a man she should have hated.
What was wrong with her?
She had never permitted anyone to take her in his arms, and the last person she should have allowed to do so was her enemy. Trying to tell herself he had not given her much choice didn’t work, because she had the uncomfortable feeling things were not that simple.
From a young age, she had prided herself on never relying on anyone. Her father’s death had nearly destroyed her, and by not letting anyone become too important to her, she had hoped never to find herself in a position of vulnerability again. She had always thought she was better off on her own.
Now, however, she was not so sure.
William’s arms released their hold slowly. He had fallen into a deep sleep, but she did not want to move away. She stayed with her body curled against his until she fell asleep herself.
