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Nan’s habit was to wait, hidden in the dark, watching for an hour after the sun had set to be sure no villain lay in wait to attack them in the night. It was long past an hour, and she could hardly see anything for the steady stream of water that ran off the eaves. Still she stood and listened to the rain fall as she tried to forget the heat that rose off his body, the huskiness of his voice offering to light a fire.
She was pressed against the outside wall of the cowshed in the narrow strip of dryness, afraid to ask herself why she had invited him to journey with her. It was not like her to do so. But then again she no longer knew herself at all. It had started from the moment he kissed her, this unravelling. Perhaps even before, from when she first saw him starving at the side of the road.
She had always known who she was, sure of her place and her purpose. But now she could not say she was sure of anything. No more was her purpose to save her sister from imagined suffering. No more did she shun the idea of a man’s touch – of this man’s touch. She felt weightless, untethered from the life she knew, from all her ideas of how she should be.
Fuss was curled near the door, looking out at her from a nest of waxed cloth. The Welshman had put it there, not needing it himself when the floor was dry and knowing that Fuss must always dig at something to make a bed for himself. He had smiled as the dog pawed at it, that warm smile that made her heart glow, so she had looked away – only to steal a glimpse of his body under the cloak, the firelight filtering through the linen tunic to show his form clearly.
As well cut out her eyes as lie to herself. She wanted him, that was the truth of it. She should not. Better to want something that would not risk her body and her heart, that had no dire consequences. Better to want something that was easy, for once.
She slipped inside the shed and saw him lying in the faint glow of the tiny lamp. She had left it burning in hopes it would prevent her stumbling over him in the dark. His breath was slow and even, but she knew he did not sleep. He never slept until she returned from her vigil.
A divided mind, a divided conscience. She wanted him. She should not. It was foolish. It was tempting.
Be selfish, came the whispered answer of her heart.
The stout branches against the wall where she had spread her dress and his tunic to dry, damp hose laid atop it all, took up nearly half the dry space available. She took off her belt and set it beside the arm braces, then held her cloak close over her linen shift as she stood over him.
He looked up at her, calm and waiting, all that unending patience in his eyes. When she knelt beside him, he did not startle. When she tugged at the cloak laid over him like a blanket, his breath caught – but he stayed still.
Beneath the cloak was the warmth of his flesh, the beat of his heart accelerating as her fingertips moved over his chest, an exploration and a question. What a strange thing, to want a man so badly. To want him to want her. To see that he wanted this, and be glad.
She sensed his intention to reach for her, so she leaned back from him to prevent it. Immediately, she felt the intention fade. It was...different, unexpected, a relief. This was new to her, how he did not impose his will in any way, ceding everything to her. All she had known of coupling beyond the hated groping of strange men was what her husband had done to her. And though he had been careful and kind, her only role for those few nights they had been together was to lay pliant beneath him until it was finished.
That was not what she wanted with the Welshman. She wanted things she could not name. She wanted his kisses and his touch, but she did not want her desire to be drowned by his.
Her hand slid over the rapid pulse at the base of his neck and then under the linen, over his heart. She marveled at the feel of the soft hair against her fingers as she put her lips to his. It was as she remembered it – better than the memory, the way his mouth opened hot and inviting, the way her tongue knew now how to taste him while her hands moved over him. The same liquid excitement ran through her as before, the same prick of pleasure at the tips of her breasts, the same urgent need to press her body against him.
Now his hands drifted up to untie her cloak and move into her hair, pulling the strands of her braid free as she let her cloak fall away. It left only the thin layers of linen between them, a realization that was at once exhilarating and unnerving. She deepened the kiss, reveling in the harshness of his breath against her cheek, the feel of his hands in her hair, his body laid out beneath her.
He did naught but touch her hair, her cheek, and kiss her. All the while, she let her hands move over him. The hollows caused by hunger were gone, leaving only lean muscle. Never would she have thought to take pleasure in a man’s body like this, to touch it and explore, to learn the curves and lines of his flesh while he lay still. It made her want the soft and hidden places of him. She tugged his linen tunic upward, then pulled loose the ties of his braies and smoothed a palm over his bared hip.
A shot of raw and carnal pleasure raced through her when he responded with a gasp, his fingers tightening against her scalp. His excitement ignited her blood. Never had she felt anything like it, and her teeth raked against his lips, hungry for him, craving more. Then his hand was at her breast, a firm stroke, a squeeze of her flesh while he held her mouth pressed hard to his and the knife was in her hand as she jerked away.
She hovered over him, ragged breaths, body still feverish and wanting him even as she held the blade to his breast. The knife – she had drawn it almost without conscious thought, muscle and bone reacting to threat.
She would not hurt him. She never would. Only he must not grab at her like that, so sudden and controlling.
He was holding his breath, his whole body tensed. She could feel the confusion in him beneath the alarm. The dagger between her breasts remained, hanging heavy inside the linen. It was the little silver knife from her garter she had pulled, one that he probably did not even know she wore. She waited until his eyes moved from the gleam of metal to her face, and then tried to conjure words to answer his look, to explain.
But she did not have to. He seemed to understand without words. He held her gaze and took his hands away from her hair, her body, a slow retreat until they rested at his sides. He lay there prone, undefended, an offering. His eyes moved to her mouth, a hungry look that beckoned her to kiss him again. And she wanted to, more than she wanted to try to explain anything. She bent down to his lips, inviting the warm thrust of his tongue, keeping the blade in her grip but moving it away from him as she stroked her other hand over his hip again.
She pushed the linen away to bare all his body to her touch, her look. The curve of muscle on his chest fascinated her, the plane of his abdomen, the hard flesh jutting out at her from the join of his legs. She touched him in gentle exploration, marveling at the feel of him, solid and warm. When her fingertips scraped across his nipple, he let out a harsh breath that thrilled her. Her hand moved along the curve of his inner thigh, soft and vulnerable, and she could feel how he held himself taut, all the power and desire in him restrained, held in check. For her.
It aroused her, sent heat through her until she almost could not bear it. She guided his hand to her breast and sighed to feel the same touch that had frightened her only moments ago. What a mystery it was, all of it – how it satisfied but stoked the flame higher, how it made her want to lean down and put her mouth to his chest, his belly, run her tongue across his skin while he fondled her.
When her fingers curved around his cock, he gasped again and jerked as though touched by fire. A groan of pleasure came from him and seemed to echo all through her. It must be a sin to delight in it so much, this feeling of holding all his lust in the palm of her hand, to stroke the length of him and hope to hear his gasp again. He gripped her wrist, hard, stilling her hand as air hissed through his teeth.
She looked up at him and watched his throat work to gulp air. It only made her want him more.
“God save,” he gasped, his voice strained to the breaking point. “I cannot... You must stop, or I....”
She slackened her hold but did not take her hand away. She leaned closer, pressing her breast into his hand and her lips close to his ear. “I want you to.”
Her mouth pressed along his jaw and then his lips. She pulled back so that he might see her face and know she understood that he would spill his seed, and she wanted it. His eyes fixed on hers, dazed, and she knew at last a little of what it meant to wield beauty like power. She had always rejected it, knowing the beauty they said she possessed could be used in that way. But the way men looked at her never made her feel powerful; it only frightened her. Until now.
His palm circled hers around him, guiding her in a firm stroke of his flesh. His other hand grasped her breast tighter, pressing the stiff tip between thumb and forefinger, pulling a sound of lust from her. She felt him grow impossibly harder as her hand moved with his, rhythmically, the excitement in him building to a frenzy. His hips lifted – a powerful thrust as an animal groan rose from the back of his throat. She put her mouth on his to catch it, her hand moving on him as he convulsed beneath her.
When he lay still, panting, she savored his mouth, dimly amazed at herself. She felt wild and reckless. Ravenous. She only pulled back from him when his hand slipped off her breast and moved to pull the linen over his head. He wiped it across his belly, cleaning himself, his eyes refusing to meet hers.
She did not have room for shame in her. Not now, when there was still so much desire. A melting heat had settled between her legs, and all her skin felt alive and aching for him. She did not know what to do with it if he would not look at her. The blade was still in her fist – it seemed impossible to let it go when she was so exposed – but with her other hand, she brought his touch back to the ache at her breast and waited.
He turned his face to her then, rising up on his elbow. When he brought his mouth to her breast over the linen, her whimper made him clutch her tightly. She shifted to bring her leg over him, rucking up her shift to her hips to straddle him as he sucked at her, fingers twisting in his hair. Already she could feel his manhood stirring again, a gentle pressure on the inside of her thigh that she could not help but rub against.
She grew frantic as his mouth moved on her breast, her throat, his hands brushing leisurely up and down her sides atop the linen. Her hips rocked against him and found pleasure there, a discovery that left her breathless. She slid herself along the length of him, the cleft between her legs gliding across the same path her hand had taken earlier, and felt his moan vibrate through her. God save, she had not thought it could be like this, that her body could feel such things.
It was what she wanted, what her body pleaded of her, when she pulled back and fitted him inside her, hard and hot. She almost sobbed with the pleasure of it. Then his hand came forward to touch her in the place that stole her breath and she bucked against him, uncontrollable waves of sensation that blotted out everything but the feel of him as the pleasure burst inside her. It went on and on, and she groaned as he had done – as he did again now, his hands gripping hard at her hips as he thrust up into her.
The lamp had died out when she came to herself again. His breath was a harsh panting against her neck, her knees around his hips, the rain still falling.
She felt even more untethered from her life, floating free, holding onto him in the blackness. The strong beat of his heart seemed the center of the world. He was a soft place, one where she might at last rest her head and feel safe.
The early morning light was flooding the ruined shed when he woke, naked and alone. His cloak was tucked around him securely, though his last memory was of her body covering his, her cloak spread over them both as he savored the feel of her and thought he could not possibly sleep. Obviously he could.
When he sat up, he saw he was not alone. Fuss was keeping watch by the door, and gave a single bark before running forward to bid Gryff good morn. Relief surged through him at the sight. There was no sign of her at all – the lamp, her clothes, her bag were all gone – but if her dog was here, then she could not be far.
Beside him was his flask of water and two oatcakes set atop his folded tunic. He dressed quickly, though he could not find his linen, and slipped the food into his bag before setting off to find her. Fuss bounded ahead to where she knelt on the ground not far away. Her hair caught all the morning light, a flare of gold against the green.
He approached slowly, wary of startling her from behind until he realized this was the dog’s purpose: to watch over him, to alert her to his movements, perhaps even to safeguard him when she was not there. Her arms and shoulders were working at something, some task on the ground, and she did not pause as he stepped near.
It was his linen. She had it stretched across a broad stone, rubbing soap into it. As he watched, she lifted her flask of water and rinsed it, washing all the foulness away. She folded it into a square and carefully pressed the water out, all her movements practiced and sure.
When she stood and held it out to him, she did not look directly at him. He thought of the food and clothes left beside him, how she had spent her morning attending to his needs as he slept.
“You are not my servant,” he said roughly, as he took it from her. “Nor would I have you act as one.”
“I am accustomed,” she answered with an air of apology. “Some are born to serve.”
So well was he learning her silences that he knew the stiffness in her was not a rejection of him. It was uncertainty, the strangeness of returning to a life of daylight together when they had shared the night. She turned to practical things and tried to make the day ordinary, as though the entire world had not changed.
“Nan –”
“There’s little food left and no town near,” she said quickly, a frown of determination between her brows. “We must hunt today.”
But she did not move from where she stood. He lifted a hand to push the loose strands of hair from her cheek and rested his palm there, cradling her face. “Nan,” he said again, soft.
Her hand came up to curve around his wrist. She turned her face and pressed her lips to his palm, holding him there. “Welshman,” she whispered against his skin. Sunlight fell on her face, illuminating the curve of her mouth as she smiled.
