When Sorcha woke, it seemed hours had passed. She sat up in alarm, unease prickling along the nerves under her skin.
Were they safe? Had the assassins found them?
But when she glanced at the sun, it was still high in the sky. Apparently, she’d slept only a few moments.
Yet Arnou was gone.
She spotted him standing at the crest of the hill, the place where she had stood to look across the countryside and where she had imagined she could see all the way to Beaumontagne.
Like her, he’d discarded his outer garments. He stood in his thin wool shirt, absorbing the sunlight, his head tilted up, his arms outstretched.
He didn’t notice her, but she took the moment to study him: his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his long legs. He was obviously a fisherman, his strength inherited from years of lifting nets and fighting storms. He was strong, brave, and gallant. Perhaps not clever, but the royal princes she’d met were not necessarily brave and almost never valiant. She was lucky to have Arnou.
Making her way to his side, she slipped her hand in his. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than beautiful. It’s crucial.” Arnou’s fingers felt cold and still. His voice was harsh with agony. “A man must lift his eyes to the horizon or the whole world shrinks to the size of a coffin and life becomes nothing more than a living death. A man can pound his fists on the unforgiving walls until his hands bleed and cry for help, until he has no voice, but without the wind and the sunshine, the grass and the birds, he’ll never break free.”
She didn’t understand his words. Didn’t understand his mood. “It sounds as if you were in a prison.”
Gradually, he turned to look at her. His single eye seemed not a window to his soul, but a shutter to hide his pain. Then, as he stared at her, he came to life. His voice grew rich and benign like the Arnou she knew. “There are prisons of rock and prisons of the soul. A man can chip rock away, but only a miracle opens the prison of the soul.” His fingers hovered the barest space below her chin. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a slow, steady motion that soothed and aroused her.
“What kind of miracle?”
To answer, he kissed her. Again.
He spoke to her with his lips, but without words. He spoke to her of all the marvelous wonders Madam’s ladies had promised, and he used his tongue to express nuances they had not mentioned.
His tongue…he pressed it between her lips, opening her to his breath and his taste. He taught her things with his tongue. He drew her out, showing her how to duel and how to soothe. She would start to feel comfortable, think she understood what to do. Then he’d angle his head differently, use his teeth, change the pressure…and she followed as if he were her professor and she his student.
After long moments of suspense and exhilaration, he drew away, apparently satisfied with such an imperfect contact. He smiled as if he’d conquered some special madness. He pinched her cheek as if she were his favorite cocker spaniel.
Didn’t he know? She couldn’t stop now. His kiss was temptation itself, drawing her into him. She pressed her body against his, seeking the warmth he promised.
His arm hovered above her, then reluctantly slid around her waist. “I shouldn’t…” he muttered.
“Only for a moment,” she coaxed. “Just show me again.”
He lifted her up on her toes, up against him, her chest against his chest, her hips against his. Layers of clothing separated them—his clothing, her clothing, but that didn’t seem to matter. After so many years of the cool, cloistered isolation of the convent, touching another human being, really touching him, was part delight, part torture. Her hands rested on his forearms.
She stood on her toes to return his kiss, and at first that was enough. Gradually, she moved her hand up his biceps, exploring his strength. It wasn’t an actual thought process, more of an instinct that made her want to hold him in her arms as he held her.
Sinking her fingers into his shoulders, she kneaded them like a cat and moaned into the sweet cavern of his mouth.
Something broke in him, some restraint he’d put on himself, for he yanked her more tightly against him. He deepened the kiss and moved her hips against his, a slow grinding motion that seemed animalistic—and embarrassingly arousing. She broke the kiss. She whispered, “Arnou, I don’t think we should do this.”
“I don’t think you should think.” He kissed her again, his tongue creating a steady rhythm into the depths of her mouth and somehow, that rhythm echoed in her belly.
She wrapped her leg around him, trying to get close enough to alleviate the itch between her legs.
With a gasp, he lifted his head.
He stared down at her. The skin of his face was taut across his cheekbones. His chin thrust forward determinedly. And his eye was dark and focused—on her. Ruthless—about her. Determined—to kill her.
She caught her breath in an onrush of fear.
No, not to kill her. To take her.
Yet her body seemed unable to make the distinction. Violence shimmered in the air around him, and she was afraid. Her blood darted about frantically, seeking oxygen from nonfunctioning lungs.
He wanted, meant to take her. To put her under him, to thrust inside her and possess her.
The ladies had told her about that. They’d described sex and all the trimmings in great detail. But she hadn’t understood until now. Intimate? Yes. Beyond any imagining. She backed away from him, pressed her knees tightly together, trying to keep him out…trying to relieve the anticipation that built regardless of the fear.
It didn’t work. Rather, this Arnou dominated her, taking her on a journey whether she wished to go or not. He stared as if he wanted to devour her.
Her anticipation built. And she was still afraid, but for once in her life, she faced her fear and the challenge life presented her.
Was she willing to follow Arnou’s lead? Was she willing to take this man into her body and find pleasure, give pleasure in equal measure?
She had to marry a prince, yes. She had to have children for her country. She had to sacrifice the rest of her life to duty. But she was trained to be a princess, to recognize opportunity and use it to her advantage.
This was a moment of opportunity. The sun shone. The breeze blew. She was alone in the middle of the wilderness with a good man, an honest man, a man she liked and who, it seemed, worshipped her.
Opportunity. She would seize it.
Or rather—he seized her. He pushed her over onto the grass. There was no finesse about his gesture; he moved efficiently and without any worry for her delicate sensibilities. When she was stretched out, he knelt beside her and took away her clothes. The two shirts, the breeches, the hose, the shoes. She was naked in the sunshine, not knowing where to look, how to act, where to put her hands.
Yet at the sight of her reclining before him, his wild, fierce expression faded. Touching the silver cross that hung from the chain around her neck, he said, “Pretty.”
She touched it, fingering it uncertainly. “My sisters wear one, too.”
“A timely reminder.” Sitting back on his heels, he looked at her body. Stared as if she had lived in his dreams and now lived in his reality.
She thought she saw the glint of tears in his eye. Lifting herself onto her elbows, she scrutinized him. Yes, those were tears. In a voice soft with concern, she asked, “What’s wrong? Are you weeping?”
“Have you ever cried for pure pleasure?” His voice rasped as it dragged across a powerful emotion. “I have never seen anything as beautiful as you are today.”
Flattering? Exhilarating? Yes, and yes. He was so kind, so gentle. The lump of her fear melted.
He gave her what she wanted before she realized that she wanted it.
She wanted this place and this time, hidden from real life and guarded by standing stones. She wanted to be nude, bathing in sunshine, reveling in the wonder of her warm skin on the cool grass. She wanted to display herself for Arnou and see this rough-edged, straightforward man wipe the tears from his face.
He was handsome. And tortured. And desperate…for her.
Reaching out, he used one finger to leisurely circle her breast.
That single contact raised all the tiny hairs on her body. Her nipple contracted. Her eyes half closed and she was aware of every smell, every sound, of the heat of the sun above and the cool of the ground below. This man sharpened her perceptions, and through his touch she could feel the earth rotating, the seasons changing, the stones around them aging in a process so slow no one could know it.
But she did.
Because of him.
From beneath her, the scent of crushed grass rose around them. She let the weight of her braid tilt her head back, lifting her face to the sun.
She heard him take a deep breath.
She lifted one knee, knowing full well she lured him in a manner he couldn’t resist.
He chuckled, a sound of pained amusement. At once, as if he feared her thoughts, he said, “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. I’m laughing at this day. My God, how did we get here? To this moment?”
“We rode here.” Digging her toes into the grass, she waited and watched him.
His breeches bulged in a marvelously demanding way—the sign, Eveleen had told her, that meant arousal. Yet he seemed frozen in place, staring, clenching his fists….
Arnou was trying to gain control! This sweet, simple man didn’t believe he had the right to touch her.
Placing her palm in the middle of his chest, Sorcha asked, “Would you like me to blow the hornpipe?”
“Blow the…you want to…Dear God.” His heartbeat accelerated beneath her palm. “Yes.”
Sliding her hand down, she pressed it against that bulge. Through the layers of clothing, she explored the length of him from the tip to the base. There was more than she could have imagined, and the thing moved beneath her touch, growing longer.
Arnou groaned and thrust into her palm. A sweet madness seemed to possess him. He rose onto his knees, caught her around her shoulders. He tipped her backward so she was off-balance. He cupped his hand against her throat.
He stopped. He wrapped his fingers around her chain. He looked at the cross in his palm—and a pang crossed his face. “No!” He rubbed his eye as if trying to block the sight of her. “Stop. Don’t offer something you know nothing about.”
“But I do know about it. Madam’s ladies told me, and if it would relieve your discomfort—”
Lowering his hand, he fixed her with a gaze so wickedly intent she caught her breath. “Did the ladies also tell you that a man can blow a woman’s hornpipe?”
Just when she thought Arnou seemed smarter than he appeared, he said something as ridiculous as that. In a patient tone, she said, “Now, now. You shouldn’t discuss matters you don’t understand. Women don’t have a hornpipe.”
“You’d be surprised.” Placing his finger on her breastbone, he gently slid the tip down, down into the small nest of red curly hair between her legs and into the naked flesh hidden within.
Holding her gaze, he lightly touched the nub there. “There’s a bit of a hornpipe here and when a man plays this instrument, his woman sings.”
“I don’t think that you ought to touch me like that.” She wet her suddenly dry lips.
“Watch me.” He wasn’t challenging her. He was commanding her.
What had started out as a simple impulse had grown into an event far beyond her puny experience. Her insides rioted with a frantic tempo. It was amazing to discover, after all those sterile years, that her body was susceptible to the physical. That her body, in fact, had a vitality of its own, disengaged from her brain and defiant of reason. Caught by disbelief, she watched as, with great deliberation, he placed his hands on her knees. As his rough palms glided along the inside of her thighs, he flushed as if heat had flashed through him.
She understood that, because his touch sent a surge of warmth through her veins. Her skin grew sensitive to each brush of the breeze. Her nipples tightened to the point of pain. And her…her hornpipe ached with anticipation. “Arnou, don’t.” Her voice was so faint the wind blew it away.
“An almost silent protest.” He slid between her legs and in the sunshine, he could see her private parts. “When you were alone, did you ever…?”
“Yes,” she said hastily. Of course she had. She thought, sometimes, that that was the only thing that kept her sane in the isolation of the convent. But she didn’t want to talk about it.
Unfortunately, he did. He caressed her thighs, breathed on the tight curls, touched her so delicately she almost couldn’t feel him…and had never felt anything so acutely. “So at the convent, you touched yourself. Like this?” He slid both his thumbs along the crease of her womanhood.
She jumped. “Really, Arnou, I don’t think you should…or I should…”
As she stammered out her protest, he watched his own thumbs moving, swirling, probing. “Should what?”
“Should, um, do things out here that I…” She caught her breath as he slid inside her a bare inch.
“That you what?”
“What? Oh. That I did in the deepest, darkest…” He made her feel so weak, so liquid with desire, she couldn’t get enough air.
“Deepest, darkest…?”
With great effort, she finished, “Deepest, darkest moments of the night.” Then she concentrated on breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Dipping his head, he used his tongue to caress her.
She whimpered. Nothing she’d ever done for herself equaled a single touch of his mouth. His heat, the dampness, his tongue, so rough and practiced….
His lips moved against her as he said, “Tell me what you did at the convent.”
She could no longer hold herself up on her elbows. She slid flat onto the grass. “I…ah…I touched myself where you have your tongue.”
“Did you press?” He demonstrated. “Or pluck?” He wrapped his lips around her and used a gentle suction.
Instantly, blood thundered in her ears. Desire clouded her vision. She arched up, supporting herself on her shoulders and her bottom.
He eased the ache with a gentle lapping motion. “Tell me,” he murmured, his warm, deep voice inviting confidences she’d never told another soul. “Tell me.”
“I was alone. The nuns…they prayed and served God, but I…I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t even their religion. But I wasn’t…in the world, either.” She could scarcely articulate the words, but she needed to explain herself to him. Arnou would understand. “During the winter it was dark so much. No one spoke and I…oh, I would imagine a man….”
“A prince?”
“No.” She half laughed, focused on the escalating sensation between her legs and barely aware of what she was revealing. “Just a man…who touched me and told me I was beautiful….”
“You are beautiful.” His voice was enticement itself.
“And who lived with me my whole life and talked to me, and who did things to me…oh, Arnou, please!” Her fingers curled into the grass. The tiny stalks broke under her tension. “Please, Arnou. You have to…just a little more and I can…”
“In the deepest, darkest moment of night, did you make yourself shudder and come?”
“Yes!”
“Like this?” With his lips and his tongue, he suckled on her. He seemed to know how much pressure to use, what pace to maintain, how to spin bliss from chastity.
Great tremors swept her. She cried aloud, spasming, the whole of her being concentrated on that center he had found so easily and ravished so skillfully. He nourished her climax, teasing her along until she thought she would die of joy.
Finally he let her subside.
She lay gasping on the ground, and all the stress of long lonely years evaporated in the heat of the fairy ring.
But he didn’t take his fingers away. Instead one circled the entrance to her body, over and over again, and little by little she found the demands within her building again.
His voice sounded as smooth and intoxicating as whiskey itself. “Did you put your finger inside?”
He was going to…going to…and she couldn’t bear it. It was too much: the sapphire sky, the jade grass, the frisking breeze, the forceful man…her startling nudity, her shocking admissions, her insatiable lustiness. “Arnou, please, don’t—”
He didn’t listen. She knew he wouldn’t.
His finger pierced her body.
She was damp, swollen, and ready, and as her passage closed around him, sensation, only just subsided, roared to life again. He set a rhythm her body somehow recognized—the rhythm of the ocean waves, the changing seasons, the passing stars. At his direction, her body surged and moved, rising and falling as his finger slid in and out. She shuddered in a completion that built and built…and paused…she hovered between disappointment and pleased exhaustion….
His finger remained inside, caressing her, but her perception of fullness increased. Increased to the point of discomfort. Even to…pain.
She squirmed, trying to find her way back to delight.
“Two fingers, that’s all. Sweetheart, let me…”
“No!” She tried to scoot away.
He held her in place with one arm around her hips—and once again, he put his mouth between her legs.
At that moment she realized—everything he’d done before had been nothing but an hors d’oeuvre. He thrust his fingers in and out, in and out, and at the same time he sucked on her, creating heat and desperation. He was hurting her, yet at the same time, he fed her pleasure with his lips and tongue. She struggled against him, strove with him, wanting to be free, wanting to submit. Passion—inappropriate, marvelous passion—had vanquished the self-contained princess and Sorcha both fought the change and reveled in it.
Best of all, Arnou offered her no choice. He controlled the moment and she had to surrender.
When she did, the anguish and the glory exceeded everything that had gone before. She came in a magnificent rush, whimpering and moaning, coiling and fighting, spasming again and again until exhaustion brought her to quiescence.
When she reclined panting on the ground, unable to move, covered with perspiration and so exhausted she could no longer think, Arnou rose up and covered her with his body.
He weighed her down. The fastenings on his clothing dug into her skin. He held her in his arms and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, and her lips. “Shhh. Sweetheart, you’re splendid. You’re beautiful. All I want is you.”
She appreciated his praise, yet all she wanted was him, and she had not had him. She wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t realize that.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed herself up to him.
He answered, but the pressure of his clothed loins only drove her a little wilder. And it seemed he moved reluctantly.
Teetering on the edge of humiliation, she whispered, “Don’t you want me?”
The arm under her head trembled. Against her chest, his chest heaved. “Not want you?” That marvelously attractive voice rasped with need. “I’m dying for you.”
“Then take off your clothes and—”
“No.” Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. “No!”
“But I want—”
“One of us has to show some responsibility, and apparently that person has to be me.” He laughed harshly. “I should be stricken by a bolt of lightning for calling what I just did responsible, but we’ve got to stop, Sorcha. We’ve got to.”
“I felt that bolt of lightning.” She undulated her body against his.
“Dear girl, you were barely close enough to be singed.”
“Then show me.”
He stared at her as if stricken by a revelation, and not a pleasant one.
She didn’t like being viewed as if she were the first ant at the picnic. “You’re worried that I’m a princess and you’re a common man, but there are precedents. Catherine of Russia took lovers—”
He placed his hand over her mouth, and if anything, his gaze grew more horrified. “We aren’t going to make it all the way without…”
What was the man talking about? “Without…?”
His lips moved silently, as if he couldn’t quite say what he meant. Then he heaved a huge sigh. Wetting his lips, he said, “We’re going to have to make a little detour. You need to spend a night in an inn.”
“A detour?” She lay naked in the grass with a man on top of her. The echoes of passion had barely subsided. And he was talking about their route. Urgently she tried to bring the conversation back to the now. “There was an English queen of French origins, Isabelle by name, and she took lovers, too.”
“A detour will take precious time, which we don’t have, but I can’t fight this.”
If he’d reacted with anger or interest or with any great emotion, she’d have continued to argue. But he sounded absentminded.
Mortifying.
She shoved at him, rolling him off her. With the painful care of a woman who’d recently suffered—and enjoyed—an initiation of madness, she donned the first of her shirts. “What about the man who attacked me? You’ve been worried he had compatriots, and I’m sure he does. If we take a detour, we give the assassins more time to catch us.”
“We also throw them off the track.” Arnou handed her shirts to her as if he wanted her to get dressed, yet watched with such brooding attention she knew he hated every moment. “I know just the inn. It’s run by a fellow I think you’ll like.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Who don’t you like?” He shook his head as if exasperated by the fact she enjoyed meeting people after so many years hidden in the convent. “You have to stop trusting everyone.”
“Madam said that, too. But it’s so uncomfortable to look at everyone as a possible enemy.” And Sorcha knew what it was to be uncomfortable. The touch of her tight breeches against her swollen tissues made her break into an unappealing sweat. Frustration made her malicious, and she said, “Besides, if I have to distrust everyone, shouldn’t I distrust you, too?”
He stood, leaned down, and brushed off his knees.
Feeling vaguely ashamed of herself and sure she’d hurt his feelings, she whispered, “Arnou?”
He straightened. “Of course you should trust me. Don’t you trust me?”
Relief rushed through her. He wasn’t angry about her misgivings. “You know I do. I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever met!” Standing, she gestured widely, flinging her arms out to embrace the world. “You may be a simple sailor, but you’re my noble cavalier.”
As if he couldn’t resist, he pulled her toward him.
She melted into his arms.
Then he thrust her away as if he didn’t dare hold her. “Very well. You trust me. I say we go to this inn. So we’ll go.”
She surrendered. “All right, Arnou. We’ll go.”