Read Rexanne Becnel Online

Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe

Rexanne Becnel (8 page)

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
7.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
As if one of the black clouds out of the west had settled over her, the weight of Josselyn’s responsibilities pressed even more heavily upon her. “If he finds out, he will want to prevent any marriage I might make which could be detrimental to his interests.”
“That is likely.”
“Then I must … I must cease my role as his teacher. And stay well away from his encampment.”
“Your uncle will want you to make your decision about Owain.”
Josselyn looked away. “Yes. I know.”
They sat in silence a long while. The wind blew in cold, erratic bursts, chilling her to the bone. Depressing her further still. Despite the cold, spring had arrived. The seasons changed, often with much struggle between them. So were
the seasons of her life changing. She’d remained a child, an innocent, for far longer than most. But now she must make the painful transition to womanhood.
She must do what she knew was right.
“I shall leave you now,” Newlin said. In a moment he was gone and she was alone—and colder even than before. She sat down, huddled, actually, with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. She stared out at the sea and thought about Owain.
Perhaps time had softened him. Perhaps, despite the bad temper of his youth, he had matured into a better sort of man.
But then, there was still Tomas’s death to explain. While no one could prove Owain had been involved, she’d heard Dewey’s suspicions and seen her uncle’s grim expression. How could she possibly marry a man she suspected to be a murderer?
“Josselyn?”
For the second time that afternoon Josselyn jumped in alarm. But this time it truly was cause for alarm, for this time it was not Newlin. The voice was too low. The shadow that fell across her was too long. Fearful—aware—she lifted her head to find Randulf Fitz Hugh standing but three paces to her right. How had he come so near without her hearing him?
“Is aught amiss with you?” he asked, while his eyes devoured her. She shivered with sudden awareness. She’d glimpsed that look in his eyes before, the hungry look of a man wanting a woman. Those other times, however, he’d quickly quashed it, and they’d gone on to speak of nouns and verbs, of adjectives and sentence structure.
Cymraeg
was a complex language and, to his credit, he seemed intent on mastering it. Whatever desires he might have for a woman—for her—he’d kept reasonably well hidden.
But he wasn’t hiding it now.
She stood, her knees shaking, her heart racing. “I am fine. I thought I was alone.”
“As did I,” he answered, stepping closer.
Josselyn moved back a pace, then two. Tension fairly crackled in the air between them, and she knew she must get away before it erupted. The worst part of it, however, was that the tension was not solely of his making. That was what terrified her most.
For his part, Rand felt anything but terrified. And though he recognized the fear in Josselyn’s eyes, he saw also her awareness of him. Had it been only fear she felt, he could have controlled the lust that surged within him. But that awareness, that spark that stretched to the breaking point between them, was too compelling. Too powerful. So he stepped forward, caught her by the arms, and held her still before him. He would not let her flee, not until they explored the source of this awareness they shared.
“What—What do you think you’re doing?”
She tried to shrug out of his grasp but he wouldn’t let her. Beneath his hands her arms were slender and strong. And warm. His gloves and her wool garments could not disguise that fact.
“I wish to learn a new facet of your language, Josselyn. Teach me the words a man says to a woman.” He pulled her a little nearer. “How does a man say ‘your eyes are bluer than the sky’?”
She stared up at him with those huge blue eyes, stared up at him as if he were a madman. And indeed, he was behaving like one. Where did those words come from? He sounded like a lovesick lad, gushing poetic nonsense when all he really wanted was a quick tumble with a pretty wench. He must still be in the grip of the prodigious quantity of wine he’d consumed last night.
But her eyes
were
bluer than the sky. And her hair … “Your hair smells of sunshine. Sunshine and snow.”
He bent his head and nuzzled her thick, raven-wing locks. “Teach me those words, Josselyn. How do I say ‘I want you’?”
He heard her soft gasp. He felt the quiver that vibrated
up through her body and sent a responding quiver through his. He knew she considered him her enemy. He knew she had her own secret reasons for working for him. But she wanted him nevertheless. He had not been wrong in that.
He pulled her up against him so that her thighs bumped against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, and her belly pressed warm and womanly against his arousal.
He groaned against her fragrant hair. “I want you, Josselyn. How do I say the words so you will understand how much? I want to make you mine. Here. Now.”
S
he didn’t know the words. That’s what Josselyn tried to tell herself.
I want you.
She’d never said those words to anyone—at least not with the particular meaning he implied. And no one had said them to her. Most certainly not in Norman French.
But Randulf Fitz Hugh was saying them to her now, and like a green girl, she was succumbing to the seductive lure of them. The seductive lure of
him
.
Then again, she
was
a green girl, a voice in her head reminded her. If she was succumbing to him, it was because she had no experience with men.
Perhaps it was time she gained some.
“Admit that you want me too.” His words were a slow, hot whisper in her ear, a thrilling caress against her neck.
Josselyn let out a little moan in spite of herself. “
Fi dymuno ti,
” she said, in Welsh.
“
Fi dymuno ti.”
His arms circled her, fitting her even more intimately against him, and to her shame, she did not protest.
This was so wrong, and yet she could not stop herself. She was curious. The fact that he was her enemy did not matter. Soon enough she would be wed to Owain and forced to suffer his repulsive touch. Was she not entitled
to at least one encounter of her own choosing before she submitted to a man she despised? Could she not just one time embrace a man she also desired?
But she should not desire him. He was English, and an enemy of the Welsh people. Added to that, there was no affection between them. How could she be so drawn to him? How could she desire him?
But she did desire him. So she arched into his embrace and wound her arms about his neck. And when his mouth sought hers, she rose to his kiss and surrendered herself to the fearful thrill he roused in her.
It was not what she expected, but then, she did not truly know what to expect. He was big and broad and hard with muscle. But his lips, though demanding, were warm. He was forceful and possessive, the most dangerous man she knew. And yet it was that very danger that drew her. He was forbidden to her and yet she wanted him. And he wanted her.
His mouth moved over hers and compelled her to respond. His tongue traced the curve of her lips, the seams where they joined, and she let out a hungry little sigh. Then one of his hands cupped her face and he somehow teased her lips apart. Without warning, his tongue slid inside her mouth and at once everything spun out of control. Every least portion of her body came alive in a way she’d never before experienced. Her blood ran faster, her skin burned hotter. With every stroke of his tongue, something leapt to life in her belly, something terrifying and intriguing and completely illogical. He was devouring her and, heaven help her, she wanted to be devoured.
There was little she was conscious of, save the erotic play of his mouth upon hers. But she felt his one hand tangle in her hair, freeing it of its Sabbath coiffure and releasing it to the caprice of the winds off the sea. She felt the movement of his other hand down past her waist, to curve over her derriere and press her almost violently against his thickened maleness.
She knew about arousals, about how mating occurred between animals and how it must occur between men and women as well. But the hard length of it burning against her belly was nevertheless a shock. For a moment she faltered and turned her face away from his.
“Ah, Josselyn. You are sweet. Sweeter even than I had guessed.” He tilted her head back so that their eyes met. “
Fi dymuno
ti. I must have you.”
She was drowning. This was how it must feel to sink down, to know you were going under. To not be able to help yourself. His eyes were so dark—the color of the night sky, nearly black and yet with enough light in them to make them gray. The jagged scar on his cheek fascinated her. The arrogant slant of his brows, the proud line of his nose … The husky demand in his voice when he said he wanted her.
A sensible woman would stop. A wise woman would take this new wealth of emotions and consider them a while; she would try to understand them and comprehend why this particular man roused them in her. But at the moment she was unable to be sensible, and she’d never been terribly wise.
“You taste like honey, sweet and warm,” he murmured. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and gave a gentle tug. When Josselyn opened for his kiss, however, he slid his mouth instead along her cheekbone, trailing kisses up to her ear, then down the side of her neck.
She’d never known how sensitive she was there, she realized as she gave herself up to the exquisite pleasure of that simple little caress. She swallowed and he immediately moved the kiss to the hollow of her throat. She swallowed again and felt as if he drew some portion of her up into himself when she did. It was astounding. He but touched the surface of her skin, and yet it connected to something so much deeper. She felt as if she were just now discovering the most basic knowledge about herself.
“Wait,” she breathed when he tilted her back in his
arms. Her whole world was off balance, tilted away, spinning out of control. She knew he would not actually let her fall, but she feared at the same time that she would never quite regain her balance again.
“I don’t think I can wait.”
“But … But you must.” A small bit of reason returned. She was in the arms of her enemy, behaving in a way she’d done with no man before. Like a wanton. Like a harlot. “No, I cannot—”
He silenced her protests with a kiss, and though she struggled, she was crushed by the wave of desire he summoned. One of his legs insinuated between her knees and she felt the new sensation of his leg abrading her thighs and pressing erotically against the secret place between her legs.
Meanwhile his kisses grew bolder and his tongue delved deeper until she responded with an equal boldness. She kissed him back, discovering the pleasures of possessing a man’s mouth—this man’s mouth. She withdrew her tongue, then he thrust his in. Like a duel. Like a dance. They teased and roused one another until Josselyn was on fire with a desire for more.
Even so, she was not prepared for the touch of his hand to her breast.
“Oh!” She squirmed against him, trying to pull away and yet not pull away.
“Do you like that?” He whispered the hot words in her ear as he thumbed across the peak of her incredibly aroused nipple.
“I … I don’t know,” she gasped.
He laughed at her candor. “Has no other man taken the time to rouse you there?”
She shook her head. “No. No man has ever touched me there.”
He started to laugh again, then stopped. His hand stilled as well. When she looked up at him his brows had lowered in a faint frown. “Do not say that you are a virgin.”
His words were like cold water, cooling the quick flare of her desire, chilling her with a sudden dose of reality. What was she doing with him?
“Let me go.”
“Answer me first. Are you a virgin, Josselyn, untried by any other man?”
She glared at him. Her foolish passion turned blessedly to fury. “Of course I am. I am not yet wed. Do you think all Welshwomen whores?” She tried to twist away, but his hands were like steel, holding her in place.
“In England a man keeps a close eye on his virgin daughter. He does not allow her to wander the fields and forests, alone and unprotected.”
“Unfortunately, my father is ten years dead,” she cried. “And at the hand of an Englishman like you. But even were he alive, I would have the freedom of these hills. Until you English came, a Welshwoman had nothing to fear on her own lands. Now let me go!”
“Why? Because you fear me?”
Fear him? She’d be a fool not to fear a man who, beyond being her enemy, could also render her a mindless fool with merely the strength of one kiss. She stared up at him, unnerved, but determined not to reveal it to him.
“I have not thought you a man to force an unwilling woman.”
He considered her words. “I am glad for your high regard. You are right, I take no pleasure in rape. But you, sweetling, are hardly unwilling.”
“Perhaps … perhaps before I was not. But now I am. Let me go!” she demanded once more.
“And if I do not?”
He pulled her a little nearer and she had to beat back a wave of panic. “If you force me I will fight you. And I will hate you.”
“You already hate me,” he reminded her.
“But I will hate you more. Much more.” She broke off, for she knew her threat sounded worse than ridiculous. He
did not care how she felt about him. To her surprise, however, he released her and took a step backward.
“I would not have you hate me, Josselyn. Anything but that.”
Josselyn stumbled back a pace also, confused. Relieved. Uncertain now how to behave. “What happened just now … It was a mistake,” she finally said.
“And you are sorry it happened?” When she did not immediately respond, he laughed. “If there was any mistake, it was only that I assumed you were more experienced than you are.”
Josselyn stared at him across the space of the little glen. Did that mean he would not have taken such liberties with her had he known her an innocent? Did it mean he could no longer desire her because she had not the experience to adequately sate his hunger? A profound disappointment settled over her. No, a
perverse
disappointment. Why should she care
what
he thought or
why
he’d stopped?
“I must return home,” she muttered, needing to be alone, to think on what had just happened.
“Wait. You said your father was killed. What of the rest of your family?”
A prickle of unease crept over Josselyn. She had already revealed too much. He did not need to learn anything further about her, most especially that she was the niece of Clyde ap Llewelyn.
“I live with my mother—and my brothers and sisters,” she lied.
“The little girl Harold caught. Is she your sister?”
“Yes. Now I must go.”
“Will you come on the morrow to continue my lessons?”
His gaze was dark and warm upon hers and she understood at once that her innocence was not a complete impediment for him. The tiny thrill that knowledge gave her confused her further still. “I cannot say,” she answered.
“I cannot say.” Then she turned and fled, never looking back.
She felt his gaze follow her though. Even when she was far from his view, she still felt the imprint of his gaze.
How could she ever have let matters get so out of hand? she chastised herself as she hurried home. Now she could never return to the English encampment. Most certainly she could not continue to teach Randulf Fitz Hugh her language. She must stay strictly out of his path.
For if she did not stay out of his path, she feared she might fall straightaway into his bed.
 
Rand was amused—and frustrated. What a sweet armful of a wench. To find her to be a virgin had been a sore disappointment—at first. The more he thought on it, however, the better pleased he became. Josselyn was a virgin. He would be the first man to taste of her sweetness.
The very thought sent blood surging to his loins.
“Bloody hell,” he swore.
Osborn looked up from the sword he honed to a razor’s sharpness. “What ails you?” Then he laughed. “’Tis the wench, is it not? We’ve all of us been restless in our sleep of late. But at least we do not spend the day in the company of so fair a lass as that Josselyn.” He chuckled at Rand’s silence. “Have you offered her coin?”
“She’s not a whore.”
“She consorts with the enemy for coin.”
“’Tis a different thing entirely. She’s teaching me Welsh,” Rand grunted.
“And patience as well, it would seem. But have you never wondered why she’s teaching you her tongue?”
Rand shot him a warning look. “No doubt she hopes to spy on us, to tell Clyde ap Llewelyn what we plan.”
Osborn snorted. “If that’s so, then these Welsh are a branch of coward I’ve never seen before. Sending their women to spy on their enemies. Who is she that they would value her so poorly—or else trust her so well?”
Who indeed? Rand had no answer for his captain’s troubling question, and it preyed on his mind the remainder of the cheerless day. When Josselyn did not appear in camp the next morn it disturbed him even more. Gladys came, as did the two other women who now worked in the kitchen with her. But Josselyn stayed away.
It was just as well, he told himself. He would not question Gladys about her, for Gladys would carry those questions back to Josselyn and she would be even further alarmed. But he meant to learn more of this Josselyn ap Carreg Du. What they’d begun in the quiet wildwood would not be ended so easily as this. Not so easily at all.
 
Josselyn folded her best wool gown, a finely woven shawl, and an extra kirtle, and rolled them together into a neat bundle. As she rolled, she tucked her comb, stockings, indoor slippers, and a length of embroidered cloth between the garments.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
7.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Pretty Kitty by Desiree Holt
Rivals (2010) by Green, Tim - Baseball 02
Halloween Treat by Jennifer Conner
If You're Gone by Brittany Goodwin
The Lost Catacomb by Shifra Hochberg
03:02 by Dhar, Mainak
Secrets of a Side Bitch 2 by Watkins, Jessica
SEAL Of My Heart by Sharon Hamilton