Chapter 9

Miles de Vessey had finished viewing the body by the time Rose arrived, the mercenary captain close behind her. The only glimpse she had of it was of a tightly wrapped bundle. As she drew up her mare, Arno was already striding to her side. His face was grim and serious, but his eyes shifted from hers. “Lady…’tis as I feared. The dead man was Lord Fitzmorton’s messenger.”

“Are you certain?”

Even as she asked the question, Rose knew it was a forlorn hope.

Arno nodded. “Sir Miles recognized his sword scabbard.”

He glanced past her, and his expression hardened still more. “You’d do better to listen to me, lady, than the Viking. He is here for his six marks, he cannot advise you on what is best for you and Somerford Manor.”

“No, Arno, he cannot,”

Rose retorted coldly. “That is something I must decide on my own, without interference from him or you!”

He took a step forward, and he looked so angry, for a moment she thought he would drag her from the horse. Arno! He had never looked at her like that before. Shocked, Rose lifted her hand as if to fend him off. At the same moment Gunnar spurred his horse forward, forcing it between Rose and Arno, placing himself as her shield.

Rose gasped, and as she was struggling to bring her frightened mare back under control, she heard Gunnar’s two men draw their swords on her other side. Arno stumbled back, shock and anger fighting for supremacy on his face.

Miles de Vessey laughed. “Brawling over a woman, Gunnar?”

he jeered softly.

Gunnar did not take his eyes from Arno. “Take care, d’Alan.”

His voice was as cold as it was deadly. “You forget yourself.”

Arno’s face was red with his fury, and he spluttered for words to express it. Evidently he could find none, for he shook his head and stomped away to a safer distance, presenting them with his back.

Rose took a shaken breath, lifting her chin a little more. “Thank you, Captain, but I can manage now.”

Gunnar raised an eyebrow as if he doubted it, but nevertheless he moved back behind her, allowing her to resume command. The fact that he had done so was surprising in itself—Rose had found most men less than amenable when it came to being ordered about by a woman. But then Gunnar Olafson was not most men.

Miles de Vessey was still watching the exchange with interest, but now he seemed to tire of it. His voice came brisk and businesslike. “I want to take Gilbert’s body back to Lord Fitzmorton, lady. He has a wife who cherished him and will wish him buried close to her.”

Pity filled Rose for the woman. Thus far she had thought only of Harold and Millisent and Will—she had forgotten that the dead man, too, must have those who mourned him. He might have been willing to attack a young girl, but would his wife know that? Just as Rose’s mother had been willfully blind to her father’s twisted ways, so might this woman have closed her eyes to her man’s dark core.

“Of course, Sir Miles,”

she said quietly. “Take his body with you, and tell her…I am sorry.”

Miles bowed his thanks, though he looked a little surprised by the promptness of her reply. Perhaps, Rose thought, he was not used to having his requests granted so easily—Lord Fitzmorton, she had heard, was a hard master. Miles turned to give his orders, and the men from his troop set about preparing for the journey.

“Sir Arno?”

Her knight still stood some feet away, sulking. At her call he stiffened his shoulders, and Rose thought he might ignore her. But Arno was too loyal for that. With obvious unwillingness he turned, eyeing her under lowered brows, his arms folded. “Aye, lady?”

he asked gruffly.

“Will you stay and see these men on their way?”

He nodded, his mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. The bitterness she had noticed before still clung to him, and there was a look in his brown eyes that spoke of self-contempt. Puzzled, Rose wondered why, and tried to recall what they had been speaking of before they were interrupted. Arno had mentioned seeking help from Radulf or…Fitzmorton? He had spoken strangely, though she had been too occupied with her own troubles to pay him much mind. But now she recalled how he had mentioned their time together in this year since Edric had died, and how Arno thought they might…

Her eyes widened.

Jesu, he was going to ask to marry me!

Arno was still watching her, and she wondered uncomfortably whether he was able to read her mind. If he could he showed no sign, simply nodding and murmuring in reply to her request, “Aye, lady, I will.”

“Thank you, Sir Arno.”

Her voice sounded husky and unsteady. To her dismay, Rose realized she felt sorry for him, and it was more than likely he had seen the pity in her eyes. How an earth was this to be mended?

“Lord Fitzmorton will want to see justice done.”

It was Miles de Vessey’s clipped tones that had interrupted her confused thoughts. Slowly, Rose turned back to him, and found that he was watching her closely, his gray eyes without emotion. Was he merely stating a fact or, as sounded far more likely, issuing a thinly veiled threat? This man was more dangerous than Arno could ever be. Best she keep her wits about her and not be distracted by other matters.

“We all want to see justice done,”

she replied gently, and tried to ignore the fact she was so disheveled, her hair loose all about her like a serf’s, that it must be difficult to believe she was a lady at all. She lifted her chin another notch.

“Sir Arno tells me you have captured the man who murdered poor Gilbert?”

Poor Gilbert! She hoped her face did not betray her thoughts. “It is not yet proven.”

“He has confessed,”

Arno cut in swiftly, evidently keen to impart the good news. His sideways glance to Rose told her that he was also keen to repay her for her treatment of him.

“Lord Fitzmorton will want to oversee the punishment himself,”

Miles announced in a commanding voice. “I will take the prisoner with me.”

“No!”

Rose heard her own fear, and hoped they would think it anger. She waited a moment to regain some measure of control over herself before she continued. “No, Sir Miles. This is my manor, and I will oversee any punishments meted out to my people. Reassure Lord Fitzmorton that justice under Norman law will be done.”

“As you say, lady,”

Miles murmured with another bow, but he didn’t appear to be pleased. Rose very much feared she had not seen or heard the last of Miles de Vessey.

She turned away, urging her mare back through the village, in the direction of the keep. She felt weary and sad and a little frightened, but she did not allow her back to slump or her head to bow. They—Arno and Miles de Vessey and his men—would be onto her like crows on carrion if she showed the slightest weakness.

Since Edric had died, she had fought hard to maintain her rightful position—and all the myriad difficulties that went with it—and she had fought to hold on to her power just now, when Miles and Arno would have stripped it from her as easily as a rabbit’s skin. Aye, she had won this battle, but the victory was not so sweet—it was her right to preside over her manor court; just now Rose wondered if such a right were really worth fighting over. She was to sit in judgment on a good man like Harold the miller, and punish him for protecting what was his from someone who had meant him harm.

And there were still so many questions!

Why had the Norman, Gilbert, been in such a place at such a time? Had Harold mistaken the matter after all; had Gilbert been there to help? But Harold was no fool, and Millisent would not lie about such a thing. Mayhap the Norman had come upon the merefolk attacking the village and thought in the melee to take something that was not his? An opportunity gone very wrong.

Miles de Vessey or Arno could bully her all they liked, but Rose knew she could not judge Harold until she had the whole tale.

Gunnar was watching her profile as they rode. He had been watching her for some time, but she was oblivious to him, too caught up in her own thoughts. He was a man used to reading what went on in his opponents’ minds, and he had no difficulty seeing the anxiety in the pallor of her skin, or the tension in the vertical lines between her brows.

He had done as she asked of him. He had sat behind her, waiting, listening as she fought for, and held, her ground against the likes of Miles and d’Alan. Refusing to let them bully her, answering their bluster with cool authority, and receiving their agreement as if it were her due.

She was an admirable woman, the sort of woman any warrior would be proud to have at his side. ’Twas unfortunate Gunnar was here to take her land from her and catch her out in treason.

If there is any treason.

The voice in his head did not surprise him. Gunnar knew he had been doubting that she was a traitor since the first moment he saw her. As for Arno, aye, he was the kind of man to excuse himself any sort of evil, and then to be quick to blame others for his own weakness. But this woman…no, she was loved by her people and she loved them. Why would she give them up to Fitzmorton, knowing what would happen to them? She could not even bear to give up the wretched Harold!

He noticed that the lines between her brows had grown more pronounced—he wanted to smooth them away with his finger…or his tongue. Her hair, so thick and glossy dark, was long enough to curl against the saddle as she rode, covering her back and hips in a shining cloak. It looked heavy. He wanted to lift it off her neck with his hands, blow softly against the sweet flesh at her nape, press his lips to the tender places there.

Gunnar did not need to look down to know he was near to fully aroused, just from watching her, thinking about her, imagining what he would do to her if he had the chance. And the chance was coming. There was a heat between them that could not be doused by other than a passionate mating. She must know that as well as he.

“Lady Rose.”

She started as if she had forgotten he was there. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. Gunnar waited until their eyes had locked. Instantly she was aware of him—a flush rose under her skin, her breasts lifted and fell more quickly, her lips parted. Desire, need…she felt it, too. Gunnar wondered what she would do…say, if he lifted her from her mare and lay down with her in the sweet summer grass. Would she protest? Or would she welcome the diversion, the chance to soothe the ache in her body? Would she open her arms and her legs, and take them both to Valhalla?

Maybe she could read his thoughts in his gaze, for she said, her voice low and husky, “There is no need for you to be here, Captain. Go back to Sir Arno and the others. I will ride on alone.”

“You are paying me for protection and I will give it.”

She waved a hand dismissively at his calm reply, as if she didn’t care one way or another.

“You do not trust me, lady?”

Her gaze sharpened, she licked her lips. He watched the movement, could not help it. He wanted her to lick his lips. In a moment he would be beyond control—there was a fine sheen of sweat on his skin beneath his chain mail, and it wasn’t because of the warmth of the sun.

The lady seemed to have been considering her words, for now she spoke in a blunt manner that signified absolute honesty. “Aye, Captain, I trust you. I think I must. I think I have no choice.”

He searched her eyes. He had drawn his own answers from the morning’s events, and added them to the various things he had seen and heard since he arrived at Somerford. There was a tale of deceit and treachery to be told there, and Gunnar was almost ready to tell it. Maybe Rose had found answers of her own, but were they the same as his? It was time, Gunnar decided, to find out.

“Sir Arno knows Fitzmorton,”

he said carefully. “He has had dealings with him. He knew Miles de Vessey just now—that he hadn’t even bothered to ask his name was a careless mistake, but Miles is always arrogant.”

Rose turned her face away, her hair falling over her cheek and shielding her from his gaze.

“Fitzmorton’s man, Gilbert, was in the village the night of the attack,”

Gunnar continued. “I think it is Fitzmorton who is behind the attacks, not the merefolk. It has been made to look like it was the merefolk, but no one has ever seen them. Your villagers are already so full of suspicion that they just assumed. Sir Arno and Fitzmorton are in league. They thought to frighten you so much that you would be easily persuaded to hand over Somerford Manor to Arno, and then Arno would allow Fitzmorton to step in. He covets Lord Radulf’s Crevitch estates, and if he had Somerford, he would have an advantage when it came to making war on Radulf.”

“You are stabbing in the dark,”

she said weakly, and pushed her hair irritably back from her face. She looked flushed, angry, but her eyes slid nervously from his. “You don’t know whether any of this is truth, Captain. You are spinning a tale.”

Gunnar ignored her protests, she would naturally be angry and resentful to discover she had been duped. “When your husband died, you were expected to rely more heavily upon your knight—to give up your power to Arno, lady. Instead you held on to it. All this time he has waited and you have remained strong, and now he has given up trying to persuade you with words. Now he has begun to take action.”

She was watching him like a rabbit watched a wolf, as if she expected him to draw his sword and strike her. He understood. He had just torn down her safe little world and left her bewildered and bereft. She must be feeling as if he were her destroyer, not Arno.

“Arno wouldn’t hurt me,”

she insisted, her voice soft and breathless, her dark eyes wide. “I know he wouldn’t hurt me.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Why? Because he lusts after you? Have you given him what he wants, lady?”

Angry color flared in her pale cheeks, fire burned in her eyes. “You forget yourself, Captain,” she said.

Jubilation swelled inside him. She and Arno were not lovers; they never had been. She was an innocent when it came to need, to desire, to the hot ache that drew men and women together. The widow of an old man, she had much to learn, and Gunnar exulted that he alone would teach her.

But now he smiled without any trace of humor, his feelings hidden. “If you have denied him in the bedchamber, too, then he will have grown to hate you. The black and bitter hatred men ache with when they want a woman who does not want them. Has he asked to wed you?”

She glared back at him, but unlike Arno or Miles he was unmoved. Abruptly Rose lost the will to fight him. Was he right? She was heartsick at the thought of it. He had been there for such a short time and already he was turning her safe, comfortable world upside down.

But Arno was Edric’s trusted friend!

“Lady, does he want to wed you?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He may have done. He has been…strange. I think, just now in the village, before you came, he meant to do so. That was why he was so angry when you interrupted him. I fear he thinks you…he believes you…I…”

She did not want to finish the words, but after all it was not necessary. He understood, she realized, casting him a quick glance. He was grinning at her in a way that set her heart bumping about in her chest like a landed fish. How was it possible for a man to be so mesmerizingly handsome? Aye, his mouth was curved up at the corners, his blue eyes gleamed, but it was just a smile. Jesu, just a smile! Was she as weak and foolish as her mother, to allow herself to be so affected by a man’s smile?

“Please yourself, Captain,”

Rose said petulantly, tossing her head, disguising her reaction as best she could. “Come with me or stay here, but I am returning to Somerford Keep.” And she turned her horse and galloped off, as if she were intent on outrunning him. Did she hope he’d stay or follow? Rose didn’t know, but she needed the sanctuary of her keep and the mindless familiarity of the tasks that awaited her.

Gunnar grinned and kicked his gray horse into pursuit, being sure to remain just behind her. Now was not the time for pressure or argument. She was suffering, and she was afraid. She had no one to trust but him, and he was a stranger, a mercenary who did as he was paid. He could not blame her for being suspicious. So he rode behind her all the way to the keep, watching her straight back and the sway of her hips beneath all that dark hair, and pretending not to mind what her innocence of treason would mean to him.

He would lose the chance to have Somerford Manor.

Gunnar looked about him, at the countryside he had begun to consider his own. The golden harvest was ripening swiftly now, almost bursting from the fields, and the soil was well cherished and rich. This was Lady Rose’s doing, he knew that now. She was one of those rare women who understood the earth. Who was willing to be still and silent long enough to hear its soft murmur. She grasped the importance of allowing her people enough time to tend their own crops and beasts, instead of working them to death in the service of her own wealth and glory. And they loved her for it.

She even worked alongside them, when it was necessary.

He pictured her, dark hair bound up on her head, her hem kilted about her smooth legs, bending her straight back as she tilled the soil. A smile tugged at his stern mouth, but he held it back. If he was master here, she would not need to do the work of a peasant. He would do it for her, gladly.

The amusement died, and now he had no urge to smile. Aye, he would be willing to work like a beast in the fields for her, if she would take him to her bed for a single night.

May all his father’s pagan gods help him.

Alfred stood in the alcove near the fireplace. He knew he should be elsewhere—there was work to be done—but he could not seem to pull himself away from her. Millisent. Her red-brown hair was plaited and hung in a long rope over her shoulder, while her too-large gown of homespun was girdled in bulky folds about her small waist. She looked younger, alone and woebegone, as she sat on one of the stools, a length of cloth in her hand. Supposedly she was mending a rent in the castle bed linen, but in fact she did nothing but sit and stare. At nothing.

An old woman sat beside her, crooning to a spotted piglet in a willow basket, but the girl took no notice of her. She was too deep in her own thoughts.

Alfred wondered if it were possible to fall in love in a single instant. A single breath. For that was all it had taken. The swing of a sword, the blink of an eye. He had seen the girl, hurt and afraid, by the burned cottage, and suddenly the urge to comfort had overwhelmed him—the need to help another, which he had thought vanished from his heart. For too long he had felt sorry for himself—there had been the losing of his family, and then the ruin of his face, bad enough now with its puckered scar, but before…Children had run screaming from him, and grown men had held up their hands to shield their eyes.

And now here was someone who needed him, who had turned to him without a second thought. He had felt his own pain melt like frost in the sun.

There was more to it than that, of course. The burnished color of her hair in the firelight, the soft feel of her skin against his hand, the soothing murmur of her voice, her courage in the face of such adversity. All these things combined to make his heart sing whenever he saw her, and for a moment he would forget what he looked like. He was able to pretend he was just the same as everyone else.

Alfred stood in the alcove by the fireplace and watched Millisent, knowing she was presently unaware of him, too caught up in her own travails to recognize his feelings for her. Or to want them. But he was ready; the next time she wanted him he would be there. And as long as she needed his strength he would give it. Soon, he knew, she would blink and wake up, and see him as he really was.

Alfred did not expect forever; he was grateful for just one more day.

Rose tried to close her eyes, but the darkness was not soothing to her. The stillness of the solar was not a balm. Instead of gentle, rocking sleep, she saw again Millisent’s face, when she had told the young girl what Miles de Vessey had said. Pain had etched lines about a mouth still soft and young, and Millisent had cried out in her agony.

“Oh please, please, do not punish my father! He meant only to save me! You cannot punish him for that?”

Rose had felt the tears in her eyes. “If ’tis so, Millisent, he must plead mercy. I will listen. The law will not punish an innocent man…”

“The Norman law?”

the girl had retorted, forgetting herself in her despair. “My father has killed a Norman; how can any Norman justice be fair?”

Rose tossed and turned in her bed, the girl’s desperate voice ringing in her head. Millisent had been right; what could Rose reply that was not a platitude or a lie? Harold had killed a Norman, and Lord Fitzmorton would not believe—did not care—that Gilbert had been involved in something reprehensible. He believed the murderer must be punished, or else chaos would reign in the land.

Mayhap it amused him to cause Rose as much trouble as he could. For old time’s sake.

She felt so alone! And now she could not even trust Arno, because she had begun to wonder whether he was in league with Lord Fitzmorton—unthinkable, and yet the seed of doubt that Gunnar had planted was growing. If she told Arno she had no intention of ordering Harold to be hanged, what would he do? Tell Fitzmorton’s man, Miles de Vessey? And then Miles would come to Somerford and enforce Fitzmorton’s kind of justice. She dared not give them cause to do that. Rose knew she must now tread very carefully indeed.

Distraught as she was, Millisent must have seen in her lady’s eyes that Rose was as helpless as Millisent herself when it came to the question of Harold’s punishment. The girl had turned and run sobbing from the hall. Rose had felt so wretched, she had even contemplated turning to Brother Mark for advice. But one glance into his cold eyes, and she had thought better of it. Brother Mark would tell her she must listen to the advice of the men about her—Arno in particular—to bow to their will. Men, he would tell her, were rational creatures, whereas women were irrational and emotional beings and required a steady male hand.

Even Constance was not available to listen to her fears, and inform her, “I told you ’twas so,”

in a gloating voice. Constance was too busy with the villagers, and had nodded off to sleep over her meal in the great hall. Rose had put aside her own urgent need to talk, and had ordered the old woman to bed.

The night felt airless, so still. Heavy cloud covered the stars, trapping warmth close to the earth, bringing the humid promise of rain. Her edginess increased. Much had happened today, most of it bad. And yet…she remembered the look in Gunnar Olafson’s eyes with a tightening low in her belly. He wanted her. She could not mistake such a thing, surely? Or was it a trick he played on all women, making them think he desired them? How could she trust him, believe him?

Restlessly, Rose turned again, gazing at the narrow dark shape of her window. She had opened the shutters earlier, hoping for a breath of air. Now lightning flickered, startling her into sitting up. Wearily, she climbed out of her bed, pulling a robe about her naked shoulders, tossing back the long braid of her hair as she leaned on the sill.

The air beyond the window seemed cooler, but not much. A light breeze teased her hot skin and molded the thin cloth of her robe against her body. She felt a stirring inside her, a tremor that increased her unease. Lightning came again, illuminating the Mere and its islands. Burrow Mump loomed up in silent reminder of all she longed for and could not have. Rose knew she should be worried for the harvest—storms could flatten the crops—but what could she do? Order Gunnar Olafson to ride out there with his men, and shield the wheat with their outstretched arms?

Rose smiled as she imagined them standing in the fields like big, nightmarish scarecrows. Then memories of the day returned to haunt her, and her smile faded. It was true she could do little about dead Gilbert and the threat of Lord Fitzmorton’s justice, or about the coming storm. But she could offer some comfort to Millisent. Mayhap the girl was still awake, mayhap they could talk…

Rose knew then that she would never allow Harold to hang. The solution was simple after all. She would go to Lord Radulf and lay all before him. He would probably remove her from Somerford Manor forthwith—send her back to her father and all that that meant—but at least she would have saved Harold’s life, for Rose was certain Radulf would not hang Harold for what he had done. Not when he learned that Fitzmorton was involved.

Aye, tomorrow she would send word to Lord Radulf, throw herself upon his mercy, and pray that Lady Lily eased his anger.

Silently, Rose slipped from her solar and began her journey down the stairs, determined to offer this comfort to Millisent. One of the torches on the wall flared up against the darkness, making the shadows jump and jiggle. She pressed her hand to the cold, familiar stones as she made her way carefully downward to the great hall, where Millisent slept behind a curtain with Will and Eartha and her little son.

So intent was Rose upon the curving, uneven steps, she did not see him until she was almost upon him.

He was standing directly before her. A huge dark shape that came up out of the blackness so suddenly her heart leaped in her breast. She opened her mouth to cry out in fear and surprise. No sound came forth, frightening her even more. She turned to flee, her thin robe tangling about her legs. But he caught her easily, gripping her arm and swinging her in a dizzying arc. Rose collided with an extremely large and hard chest, and then a pair of big, muscular arms closed about her. It was like being in a warm, dark cave of male flesh.

Rose opened her mouth, drawing in breath.

“Do not scream, lady.”

Gunnar Olafson’s warning voice was soft and deep, part of the warm night.

Rose doubted whether she could have screamed, for he was holding her so tight. Her heart was knocking inside her, fast and shallow, while, against her cheek, his heartbeat was solid and sure. I should be afraid. He is a stranger, a violent man who hires out death for coin. I should be frightened of him.

But she was not.

This trembling in her body was not fear. This softening of breasts and thighs was not fright. Her fingers, trapped against his chest, crept upward, testing the soft linen cloth of his shirt, feeling their way over the hard muscles beneath. She turned her head a little, and found her nose pressed to bare flesh, where the laces at his throat were untied. Briefly, she felt giddy, like a child playing a spinning game, and then she pressed her palms to that solid wall of muscle and gave a sharp push.

“Release me, Captain.”

Not surprisingly, he didn’t move an inch. “’Tis not safe to be outside your chamber at night, lady.”

“This is my keep!”

she retorted, pushing again without success. “My home. I am safe here.”

He drew her even closer, stilling her struggling with ease. His mocking breath stirred her hair, whispering in her ear. “Are you?”

Was she? Now that she no longer knew whether Arno was friend or foe, was she really safe? And what of the mercenaries? They had sworn to protect her, and she had believed it…until now.

“What do you here?”

she asked sharply, leaning her head back to try and see him in the darkness. The torch farther up the stairs flared in the draft from her open solar door, and the flame seemed to catch in his eyes. He was smiling, but it was not the sort of smile to relieve her anxiety.

“I do not sleep well.”

“If your bed is uncomfortable, Captain, you should ask for another,”

she replied with studied coolness. “Unless it is your conscience that keeps you from sleep.” A man like this must have many heavy matters on his conscience, death and blood and betrayal.

He laughed softly, untouched by her gibe. “’Tis not my conscience keeps me from sleep, my lady. Will I show you what keeps me from my bed?”

She opened her mouth to demand a proper answer, and realized his hands were moving down her back, deftly following her soft curves. With a gasp Rose pressed closer, trying to escape him, but the movement only melded her body more firmly against his. Whichever way she turned, there was no escape. He was everywhere.

Briefly he paused, spanning her narrow waist, and then his chest expanded on a deep, silent breath as if he had come to some decision, and he cupped her buttocks in his big hands, and drew her up firmly against him. The hard, unyielding ridge of his manhood answered her question.

“’Tis you,”

he murmured, his lips hot against her temple and traveling down. “I want you.”

“No.”

She sounded weak, a feeble thing. Her voice, her muscles, her will…all seemed to have been suddenly sapped of their strength.

He nuzzled at her cheek, tasting her, his unshaven jaw abrading her, his narrow braids tickling her skin. Inside, her heart began thudding anew, while outside her skin grew hot, burning wherever he touched her. His mouth had reached hers, almost but not quite meeting, so close that she could feel him, all but taste him. Gunnar leaned down and oh-so-gently, sucked on her lower lip.

She melted.

“No?”

he mocked, his breath hot in her mouth. His hand was sliding up between their bodies, searching for the opening in her robe. His fingers delved and found, slipping inside the thin cloth. The callused tips felt rough against her soft flesh, and so warm. His palm was hard from many years of fighting others’ battles, but she could not think of that. Not now, not now…His hand closed over her breast and she knew she must have found heaven.

“Lady, this doesn’t feel like ‘no.’”

Like the traitor it was, her body responded. Her nipple beaded into his palm, her flesh aching and swelling. He began to rub gently, back and forth, and she gave a soft groan. Rose felt him smile against her lips.

And then, abruptly, he spun her around, making her cry out in surprise. The outer stone wall of the stairwell was against her back, cold against her heat. He placed himself a step below her, his body leaning heavily into hers. The glow of the torch reached them more easily now, like fire in his hair, although with his head bowed his face was in shadow. But he could see her, and he looked long, perusing the dazed glow in her eyes, the pink flush in her cheeks, the tremble of desire in her lips.

“I think you want to say aye, lady. Your body tells me aye.”

He bent and took her mouth with a savage, controlled thoroughness, stealing from her any last chance she had of denying him the truth. She did want him, oh so much, so much. It was as if all her life had been building up to this moment, with Gunnar Olafson, on the cold, dark stairs in Somerford Keep.

Her arms came up, her hands clinging to his shoulders. He brought his thigh up between hers, pressing inexorably against her soft, swollen female flesh. The pleasure was undeniable, and nearly unbearable. Rose went rigid. He lifted his mouth from hers and smiled into her eyes, his handsome face hard with his own desire.

“Tell me you want me,”

he said, an order, as if she were one of his mercenary troop.

But Rose shook her head in denial, as if she weren’t all but lying in his arms, her robe open to the touch of his hands, her mouth swollen from his kisses.

He laughed, as well he might. He lowered his head and began to suck on her breasts, finding the nipples, his tongue doing things she had never even dreamed of. The sensation was exquisite. Quite unable to prevent herself, Rose arched against him, catching at his hair, tangling her fingers in the smooth strands. Her legs trembled so much she rested her weight on his intruding thigh. A dark, voluptuous rapture spiraled through her as her most sensitive flesh rubbed on hard muscle. She moved a little against him, to ease the unbearable ache between her thighs. And made it worse.

“Gunnar, please,”

she managed, her throat dry and tight, her body trembling as though she were chilled and not burning hot.

When he removed his thigh she made an instinctive sound of protest, but he was only shifting her, lifting her, his hand opening her robe until she was bare to his touch from neck to toes. His fingers drifted down over her belly, combing through the dark hair at the juncture of her thighs, and slid into the hot moist core of her.

Shocked, startled, Rose pushed against him, just as he rubbed his thumb against that swollen, wanton part of her. A blazing jolt of excitement rippled through her. She groaned and felt his fingers work their magic again, opening her still further to his touch. No man had ever looked upon her like this before; no man had held her captive with the power in his hand.

“I can give you pleasure, lady,”

her Viking savage whispered teasingly in her ear. “Let me show you.”

“Gunnar, I don’t…”

“You do, Rose, you do.”

“But this is not…”

He rested his brow against hers and sighed. He was shaking, she realized suddenly. And he was burning up. It wasn’t just she who was affected by this violent storm of desire. He, too, was as caught up in its toils. Somehow, knowing that made her feel less his slave and more his equal. Made everything all right.

“You will feel better…after,”

he promised her. “You will be able to sleep.”

“And will you, too, be able to sleep?”

Her voice was breathless, husky, sensual.

He laughed as if he were in pain. “Don’t think about me, my Rose. This is for you. All for you.”

“To sleep would be nice,”

she began cautiously. “But do you not think Constance’s mulled wine would do just as well?”

His thumb moved again, gently, subtly, teasing her aching flesh. Despite herself, Rose moaned deep in her throat, following his movements, allowing him freedoms such as she would never have believed herself capable of an hour ago.

“No,”

Gunnar told her with clear certainty, “I don’t.”

Again that subtle shifting, and the throbbing between her legs was raised to a new level. One finger, two, slid inside her, stretching her, making her long to clench her body about him, hold him close, while his thumb did such things…

Could this be right? Rose asked herself feverishly. Was it possible to feel like this? Her legs were trembling so badly she was resting entirely on his hand, while her arms clung about his neck, afraid if she let go she would fall down. His mouth was on hers again, his tongue tasting her, thrusting into her, tangling with hers. She was moving of her own accord now, rubbing herself against him, unable to help herself, unable to stop herself.

Never before, never before, the voice whispered in her head.

Never before had it been like this.

Outside the keep, thunder rolled, the humidity increasing, but the storm just seemed part of the waking dream Rose now found herself in. And then it happened, a wild uncontrollable clashing of her senses, a tempest inside her as well as out. Rose cried out, a hoarse gasping cry, feeling her body turn as warm and liquid as Constance’s mulled wine. As she fell, he caught her in his arms, holding her hard against him, covering her mouth in a kiss to muffle the sound, and then smoothing the loose wisps of hair back from her face with a tenderness she was too dazed to recognize.

Just for a moment he was her dream, her ghostly warrior, who had finally found her and made her his.

And then he laughed, and spoiled it all.

Rose felt a chill. Had he laughed because he was pleased? Because he had made her into nothing more than another lustful woman, unable to resist his handsome face and hard kisses? Fodder for Gunnar Olafson, and his own high opinion of himself! Aye, she thought blankly, that must be it.

She should be angry. Mayhap in the morning she would be, but suddenly Rose just felt very tired. He was right in that, at least—she wanted only to sleep, and this time she knew she would.

“Let me go,”

she whispered, a catch in her voice, and pressed her palms once more against his chest.

Gunnar went very still; he must have sensed the change in her. He searched her face in the dim torchlight as if he were trying to see inside her. “I did not hurt you?”

he asked sharply, and she realized with surprise that the thought that he might have caused her pain worried him.

Confused, Rose shook her head, and embarrassment came to join the maelstrom of emotions already battering her. To be speaking to a man she hardly knew about matters so personal, so private, was beyond awkward.

“I gave you pleasure?”

For such a confident man, he sounded oddly uncertain, even vulnerable. Surprised, Rose forgot her raw feelings as she met his gaze. There was a hot glitter in his blue eyes; aye, she did not need the bulge in his breeches to tell her he was still very much aroused. He had given her pleasure, but he had taken none for himself.

“Aye,”

she said, “you did.”

He smiled, that dazzlingly beautiful smile. She almost reached out and touched him then. Until she realized that if she did, he would follow her up the stairs to her chamber.

Was she ready for what would happen after that?

Rose had hesitated too long, and doubts swooped in. He was a stranger, a paid mercenary. Aye, he was handsome and she had found ecstasy in his arms just now, but it was not safe to allow a man to take control of you in such a way. ’Twas true this was only lust, but it seemed that even lust had its dangers.

He knew. His face was shuttered, his desire under control again. “Go back to your bed, Rose,”

he told her softly. “I will be here. I swore to protect you, and so I shall.”

Rose licked suddenly dry lips. His control slipped, and he watched the movement with such avidness it frightened her, and yet thrilled her, too. On one level she might have submitted to him, allowed him to teach her some of the pleasures a man could give to a woman, but she had lost nothing by it. Mayhap she had even gained.

She wanted him, but he wanted her, too. And because he was Gunnar Olafson he had given her the power to say him aye or nay, and that was a mighty power indeed.

Catching up her robe, feeling like dancing, Rose fled back up the stairs to safety. And sleep without dreams.