Chapter 11

“Harold?”

A large hand clenched about the bars on the window in the door of the cell. A torch flickered in the draft, deepening the shadows. Harold the miller, pale and woebegone, peered out at them.

“Lady?”

whispered Harold, seeing Rose. “You have come to free me?”

The hopeful spark in his eyes was tentative at best, and when she didn’t answer it died into dull acceptance. Harold had prepared himself for death. Rose knew then that Eartha had been right in insisting that she come to see the miller.

“Aye, how can you?”

he was answering his own question. “I killed a Norman and I must hang. ’Tis the law.”

“Norman law!”

spat Eartha, and gave Rose a half-frightened, half-defiant look.

“You forget yourself, Eartha,”

reproved Harold. “Lady Rose is our lady. Norman or English, she has always taken care of us, watched over us. It is not her fault that I killed a man.”

“Yes, but it is why you killed him!”

Eartha declared. “Should you die for saving your daughter, sweet Millisent?”

Rose came closer, meeting his gaze through the cell bars. “Eartha has spoken to me about letting you go free, Harold. She says that you promise, if I do, I will never see you again. Is that what you want? To run and hide for the rest of your life? Never to see your children again?”

Harold glanced into her eyes, and then sighed and shook his head. His own eyes filled with tears. “No, lady, it isn’t what I really want. But neither do I want my children to see their father hanged. To run and hide seemed to be best of a bad lot.”

Eartha shook her head. She had spoken long and eloquently in the great hall, asking Rose to set Harold free. He would vanish, she had said, he would hide. They could pretend he had escaped and no one need ever know, and no one would ever find him.

Rose knew of other escapees from Norman justice. Freedom might be a much lauded thing, but where was the freedom in hiding in caves and forests, forever fearing that the next person you met could be there to drag you back to face your Norman masters?

She could not see Harold—thoughtful, careful Harold, who loved his children—living such a life. She could not reduce a decent, honest man to such a fate. But neither could she see him hanged.

Suddenly it seemed a simple matter to obey her heart and ignore the warnings her mind was screaming at her. Rose reached up to the bars, and her voice was firm and authorative, as if she really was in control of the situation. “I will not allow you to die for a man like Gilbert, Harold. You were justified in what you did, and so I will tell Lord Fitzmorton. But…”

She took a deep breath. “If he is not to take matters into his own hands, we must win Lord Radulf to our side. I will send word back to him with his messenger. At such a time as this, he will be in a mood to grant favors.”

Harold looked away, but she had already seen the grave doubts in his eyes. “There is danger for you in that, lady,”

he murmured uneasily. “Are you sure—”

“Aye! She must send word to Lord Radulf!”

Eartha was breathless with her enthusiasm, her pretty face aglow. “He is a man, and only men have power over life and death.

“Women, too,”

said Rose. “Remember, tonight we celebrate the birth of Lady Lily’s son.”

But Eartha seemed incapable of making the connection, far too single-minded. She came forward to the little barred window. “I will tell Millisent. Fear not, Harold, I will care for her and Will. You were always kind to me and my little boy, and now I will repay that kindness.”

Watching them, Rose felt hollow. Lord Radulf might well grant her her wish, but he would no longer see her as a safe vassal to hold Somerford. He would speedily replace her, and how could she blame him? She would save Harold’s life, but at the expense of saving herself.

Rose stumbled as she climbed the last step from the cell, her legs heavy, her heart heavier. Would Radulf return her to her father or would he marry her to another of his vassals? Whatever fate he decided for her, it amounted to the same. She would be given away like a counter in a game. A game she had tried so hard to play to the advantage of her people, and had now lost.

She remembered again her father’s face, half illuminated by the candles upon the table.

“You will marry this Edric, although he is not worthy of you. Radulf and I have agreed upon it.”

“And you swear to leave me be, Father? You swear you will not use me in your games?”

“Games?”

he mocked. “War is no game!”

“I want to live my life quietly. I want to pretend I am no longer your daughter.”

He laughed harshly, and she might have thought she had hurt his feelings.

If he had a heart.

“Lady?”

Rose started. Turning swiftly, she found one of the mercenaries standing behind her, a shadow in the shadows. Gunnar? The longing in the thought shocked her, and she tensed defensively, drawing herself up to play the part of indifference. But it was not Gunnar who came toward her with intent dark eyes.

“Ivo? What do you here?”

“I am obeying Captain Olafson’s orders, my lady.”

Rose frowned, trying to ignore the manner in which he towered over her—why did all these mercenaries have to be so tall! “And what orders are they, Ivo?”

“I am to keep you safe, lady.”

Something trickled through her, something warm and comforting and completely unfamiliar. Gunnar Olafson wanted her safe.

Of course he does! Fool. You are paying him to keep you safe!

The mocking voice brought her feet back to the bailey with a jolt. Ivo was watching her with a carefully blank look in his eyes that made her wonder whether she had just given herself away.

“I doubt I will be carried off in the midst of my own keep,”

she said coolly. “Your captain would do better trying to catch the attackers than watching me.” And she set off briskly back toward the great hall.

But Ivo simply ambled along beside her. “He has his reasons, lady, and I would trust him above all other men. He is good at what he does.”

Rose glanced at him curiously. There had been a great deal of admiration in Ivo’s voice but, more than that, there had been affection. The question was out before she could stop it. “You have known him for a long time, Ivo?”

He smiled—he had a nice smile. It completely transformed the fierce angles of his face. “He saved my life, lady. I would be dead now if it were not for Gunnar. The others will say the same, Alfred and Sweyn, Ethelred and Reynard. He has saved all our lives, in different ways. We would give those lives back, if it meant saving his.”

He was completely serious, thought Rose with wonder. What sort of man was this, to inspire such complete and total loyalty?

“You were in Wales before you came here.”

It was not really a question.

Ivo nodded. “Wild country and wild people. Somerford is better, even if my brother is here.”

He stopped, as if he had said more than he wanted.

“Your brother? Who is your brother?”

Ivo took a deep breath. For such a fearsome-looking man, he had very soulful eyes. “Miles de Vessey, lady. He is my brother, although I wish it were not so. He is not to be trusted, ever.”

“Oh? Is he so bad, Ivo?”

Ivo held up his hand, the one he wore the glove or gauntlet upon. “Lady, Miles did this when we were boys. He thought to cripple me so that never again would I best him at swordplay.”

Rose’s throat felt dry. “And did you?”

A smile glinted in Ivo’s dark eyes. “Aye.”

They had reached the hall and Ivo was bowing as she moved on past him, into the smoky, noisy warmth.

Rose was relieved to see that Arno had moved to one of the tables in the body of the hall, and was playing a drunken game of dice with the two fair-headed mercenaries, Sweyn and Ethelred. Brother Mark had gone and Constance, too, had retired for the night. Gunnar Olafson and Steven were standing together, heads close. The expressions on their faces belied any pretense at polite conversation. Gunnar made an angry gesture and Steven nodded, his brown hair flopping forward over his eyes.

In a moment Rose knew she would be near enough to hear what they were saying. She quickened her step.

As if sensing her presence, Gunnar glanced up. His expression changed, the calm mask slipping over the anger, his eyes growing cool and watchful. At the same time, Steven bowed and backed away, merging into the shadows by the dais, and leaving them as private as they could be in the crowded hall.

“What were you speaking of?”

Rose said sharply, close enough now that they could not be overheard.

“Of Wales, lady. Steven’s family hold lands on the Marches.”

He was lying and she knew it, but what could she do? If she accused him he would laugh in her face. Too late she remembered last night in the stairwell and felt a low, deep ache in her belly. Why had she not walked straight through the hall and taken herself to the safety of her chamber?

“There is no need to set your men to watch me, Captain,”

she said grumpily.

He raised his eyebrows. “I seek to protect you, lady.”

“It feels like watching.”

Her voice was icy polite, although her cheeks felt over-hot. She was disturbed, agitated by his presence. The memories of last night had risen up between them, and Rose was finding it difficult to breathe.

And he was aware of it. He must be. How could he not be? There he was, standing before her, broad-shouldered, legs set firmly, his mouth saying one thing while his eyes said another. And Rose understood with a growing sense of despair that last night in the stairwell hadn’t been enough. She wanted him again. Tonight.

Time for them was running out. When she did as she had promised Harold, and sent word to Radulf…

Gunnar smiled, a tug at the corners of his lips. He was beyond handsome, and she had to stop herself from swaying toward him. Without taking his eyes from hers, Gunnar indicated the chair upon the dais. “Tell me about this chair, Lady Rose.”

The change of subject confused her, but she was happy to follow it. Her chair seemed a far safer direction for the conversation to take than the images swirling through her head.

“If you like, Captain. This is the Somerford chair, and it is very old. An ancestor of my husband’s brought it here, and it has been treasured ever since. There is a legend…”

“Tell it to me.”

That sounded more like a command than a request, but Rose let it pass. She was happy to talk about the chair if it would take her mind off her fears for her future, and the hot, passionate memories probing at the edges of her mind.

“It is said the chair came to Somerford by itself, floating across the Mere and washing up on the shore. Before that…’tis a mystery.”

He nodded, but his eyes were aglow. As if he were aware of a secret, as if she amused him. Defensively Rose crossed her arms and frowned.

Again Gunnar smiled, that breathtaking smile. “Let me show you something,”

he said, and he held out his hand.

She did not want to take it, truly she did not, but somehow she already had. His fingers closed over hers, large and warm and strong, and he led her up onto the dais and around the table, to her chair. Bemused, Rose stood and watched as he crouched down on his haunches, closely examining one of the side panels. Her eyes flicked over the muscles of his thighs, the way the stuff of his breeches strained over all that hard flesh, the way his hair fell forward as he leaned toward the carvings, gleaming with a mixture of bronze and gold and chestnut.

Touch him. See if he feels as good as he looks. As good as you remember.

This time the whispering voice in her head bore a remarkable resemblance to Constance’s. Rose swallowed and managed to ignore it.

“Look,”

he said softly, forcing her to lean closer to hear him. She followed the movement of his finger as he swept it across a swirl of tendrils and vines, and rested it lightly, almost affectionately, on one of the cleverly wrought little creatures.

“’Tis a face,”

Rose said matter-of-factly, trying to break the sense of intimacy he had created.

“That is the hero Sigurd. He learned to speak to the birds. See, they are all about him.”

He smiled at her surprise.

“I see them.”

Had she noticed the myriad of winged creatures hiding among the foliage before? Probably, but she had not known their significance until now, until Gunnar Olafson explained it to her.

He pointed again, his finger steady, his touch on the wood gentle despite the many scars upon his hand. How could a man who lived such a brutal life be so gentle? And was he scarred all over? The picture rose in her mind, taking what little composure she had managed to gain. Gunnar, his body bronzed and gleaming, wearing only a smile. She had only ever seen Edric naked, but then she had not allowed her eyes to linger, had no wish to. She had seen enough of Gunnar that day in the bailey to know he would be different, young and handsome. A man like no other.

Rose held herself stiff and still; she prayed for the strength to be indifferent.

“And there is Idun, with her apple tree,”

he said, his voice warm with humor, evidently oblivious to Rose’s difficulties. “If you eat the apples, so say my Viking ancestors, you can never grow old.”

Idun had long tresses of hair, they twisted about the trunk of the apple tree and through the branches as if she were a part of it. There was something wanton in her smile, as she held out her apple and offered eternal life.

Touch him. Go on. Take his hand and lead him up the stairs to your solar. To your bed. Make him yours before someone else does. Before you are forced to leave Somerford and wed another. You may never have another chance. Is that what you want? To forever dream of what might have been? Is Gunnar Olafson to become another of your ghostly warriors, no more than a wisp of smoke in your arms? This man here is warm and real—a real warrior. Take the chance!

The voice had filled her head so loudly, Rose was certain Gunnar must have heard it. But no, he was pointing to the back of the chair now, saying, “And look, this is Yggdrasil, the largest of all trees. Its branches reach the heavens, and they are heavy with the dead.”

The dead? Blinking in shocked surprise, Rose moved even nearer to him, looking where he indicated. ’Twas true. The leaves and branches had been carved beautifully, and yet among them were the unmistakable shapes of hanged men.

She shivered. “Why have I never noticed this before? I do not understand. This chair is from Wales! Are the Welsh legends not different from the Vikings?”

“This is no Welsh chair, lady. These are Norse gods. I know them well.”

His eyes were warm and intimate, as if they were much more than lady and mercenary. He was so close, his breath touched her, she felt the heat of his body. Shakily, Rose reached out a hand to grasp the back of the chair, her legs on the verge of crumpling.

“Oh,”

was all she managed in reply.

He moved closer again, and now his shoulder brushed against her. The tingle ran down her arm into her fingers. Was that intentional? Was he seducing her? And yet he didn’t appear to notice.

“See here? This is Freyja, the goddess of love. Of lust. Of desire.”

He was looking directly at her now—she could feel his gaze on her cheek as if he were touching her skin. Rose dared not turn her head, afraid he would see what she knew was in her eyes. “Do you see there? She is with one of her lovers.” His voice was a warm murmur, the sound rippling through her like a warm ocean, and just the timbre of it made her breasts ache.

God help her, she wanted his mouth on them. She wanted his hands holding her, stroking her, setting her free like one of Sigurd’s birds, high above Yggdrasil and the clouds. Far away from all that kept her weighed down here, at Somerford Manor.

She didn’t want to look where his finger was touching, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Rose turned and stared at the little carving. Legs and arms intertwined, the rounded curve of a plump breast, a smooth thigh, long snakelike hair whipping about bare torsos. It was simply done, and yet incredibly erotic.

Rose took a small sharp breath and wondered if her face was as heated as it felt. She folded her hands tightly together in case she was tempted to reach out and touch Freyja and her fortunate mate.

“And there, lady,”

that wicked voice continued, “is the goddess Freyja’s mortal lover, Ottar, before she turned him into a bull.”

This time Rose stared without blinking, shocked into silence. It was as if she were seeing the carvings for the first time, and in a way she was. She had always thought them strange and wondrous, but now she realized they were also extremely sensual. Pagan. No wonder the old Somerford priest had looked at them askance.

Her eyes focused on Ottar, where Gunnar pointed now, and she understood clearly why it was Freyja had favored him. He was carved in profile, tall and strong, his hair long at his back, and between his legs…Rose doubted that was a spear he was holding in his hand.

“Jesu!”

she gasped, and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

Gunnar laughed, as if he were genuinely amused and delighted with her. He rose to his feet and stood half behind her, blocking any chance of escape. Rose felt flushed and crowded—she desperately needed to move away from him, and yet she was unable to move without touching him. And she was afraid that if she accidentally brushed against him she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to…

Take this chance, it may be your last!

Her heart was thundering in her breast. Last night he had held her in his arms and she had reveled in what he did to her. Rose could not deny those brief moments were filled with an intensity she had never experienced before. But it had not been enough—she could admit it now. She wanted him to take her as a man took a woman, to lie with her as Freyja was lying with her Ottar. And the voice was right. This might be her last opportunity to be with a man she found attractive.

Who knew what corner of hell the future might find her in?

Gunnar had moved in, bending over her, and now his breath stirred against her throat, the sensitive flesh reacting, prickling, making her shudder. Rose had to grip the chair back with both hands.

“You seem likely to fly to pieces, lady.”

His voice was as soft as a caress. “Do I frighten you so much? Or is it yourself you are afraid of?”

She was no weakling. It would never do for Gunnar Olafson to believe the way to power lay through sharing her bed. Until Radulf removed her, she was lady there, and any order she gave he must obey. Somehow Rose forced her chin up, turning stiffly to face him despite his proximity. “You are mistaken,”

she managed, although her voice shook. “I am not afraid of you.”

He was looking down at her, his eyes so blue and vibrant. The heat in them burned her skin.

“I am not afraid of you,”

she repeated, more to convince herself. “I am the Lady of Somerford, and you are a mercenary. I give the orders. Do not forget it, Captain.”

He didn’t seem angered by what she had said; his smile grew broader. “Then order me to show you what the mercenary can do for the lady.”

There was no doubting his meaning, it was there in the glitter of his eyes, the curl of his hips. He wanted her. He was offering to give her as much pleasure as he had last night. More. And she had only to ask…Well, wasn’t that exactly what she wanted?

“Have you shown many ladies what you can do, Captain?”

she asked.

Some other emotion flickered in his confident blue eyes. Surprise? Confusion? Annoyance? The timbre of his voice cooled. “Are you interested in my fidelity, lady? Or my prowess? I can give you my body, I can give you the pleasure you crave, but be warned…my heart is my own.”

“I’m not interested in your heart,”

Rose said, and was sure she meant it. She needed him as a lover, and he was offering himself to her. Some devilment made her ask, “This was not in our original agreement. How many extra marks would you charge me, Captain, for this service?”

“No extra, lady. It would be entirely my pleasure.”

Briefly, Rose wondered if she had lost her mind entirely, and then she didn’t care. There were probably far worse things to come. Just for now, let pleasure reign.

“Very well, Captain, we have a bargain. Come to me…later, when everyone is abed.”

He bowed as if he were her obedient servant, when Rose knew very well that he was not. She had not promised, she told herself, as she whirled away. She could always change her mind and not let him in. But she knew, deep in her heart, that it was too late to go back.

Too late, because she did not want to.

The air was still and sweet with summer. Rose stood a moment, staring into the night. Across the Mere, Burrow Mump rose against the star-filled sky. Tonight the island seemed a long way away. Tonight she had put aside dreams and ghosts. Soon they might be all she had to comfort her, but for now there was a flesh and blood man to be enjoyed.

You want him. Constance’s voice sounded in her head. And yet you are afraid of him.

I am afraid of how he makes me feel.

Like a woman? scoffed Constance gently. You should not be afraid of that. Every woman should feel such pleasure at least once in her life. Some feel it not at all. I was lucky with my husband. Now is your chance, Rose. Do not allow it to slip by.

And if he has changed his mind?

He won’t. I have seen the way he looks at you.

Rose felt the color in her cheeks and turned again to the window, her dark hair smooth as a velvet cloak around her. She had combed it and left it unbraided, wrapping her thin robe about her nakedness. There was only one small candle flickering by the door. She sat in darkness by the window, knowing that when he came she would see him first.

Rose had few advantages where Gunnar Olafson was concerned, but that was one.

She did not feel like herself. Just now her body might be cooled by the evening air, her heartbeat even, her thoughts measured, but as soon as he touched her all that would change. She would lose her equilibrium. She would become nothing more than another willing woman in his arms. So any advantage was worth pursuing. Aye, she would sit in the shadows and watch him in the candlelight, and pretend she was in charge of the situation.

Rose’s mind drifted back to the moments by the Somerford chair, and the Norse carvings whose meaning he had explained to her. Gunnar was like those carvings—in some ways he was brutal, in others he was beautiful, and always intensely seductive…

The knock on her door was soft, but still Rose jumped. Her breath sounded very loud in the silence, and she pulled her robe closer about her, suddenly wishing she had not undressed. And yet how foolish to think another layer of cloth could protect her from Gunnar Olafson!

“Lady?”

His voice was muffled. He knocked again.

Rose did not expect him to wait indefinitely. He would think she had changed her mind, or he would feel foolish and leave. No man liked to feel foolish. Mayhap it would be best if she did not…

The door opened wide.

He stood on the threshold, the candlelight catching in his hair and eyes, playing shadowy games with his handsome face and impressive body. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he had it half out of its sheath, ready. He was frowning into the chamber, trying to pierce the shadows.

“Captain Olafson.”

His gaze moved swiftly to the window. Slowly, he returned his sword to its scabbard, and came further into the room, closing the door behind him and dropping the bar in place. The candle flame wavered, darting crazily on the walls and ceiling beams. He did not seem to care that she could see him and he could not see her.

When he spoke at last his tone was ironic. “Were you sleeping that you did not hear my knock, lady?”

“Did you think I had gone back on my word, Captain?”

“I wondered.”

He stepped further into the room—he was so big, he crowded her despite his distance. “You called me Gunnar last night…lady.”

Rose had set out her words in her head, but he was making it difficult for her to remember them. She licked her lips and tried to regain her composure.

He took yet another step, looking directly at her, one hand still resting on his sword hilt, the other loose at his side. Was he stalking her? A wolf edging closer to its prey? Rose rushed into her speech before her courage could fail her entirely, but her voice was hurried and breathless.

“A man like you, Captain, must be well versed in what women like most. That is why I have chosen you—I require the best.”

His face was beyond the soft light of the candle now, but she thought he smiled, as if the shambles of her carefully prepared speech had amused him.

“I have been a wife, so do not think I am innocent of the ways of men,”

she went on with grim determination. “I want a bedmate, nothing more. Do not think to win me to your ambitions, whatever they be. I will not give you gifts, Captain, nor will I promise to further your career or sing your praises to those high in the land. This is a private matter, between us, and whether it lasts for one night or…or more, we will not speak of it beyond these walls. Do I have your word on that?”

He was silent now, watching her, the secrets hiding in his face. What was he thinking? Rose wondered, her body tense as she perched stiffly upon the window seat. Was he going to refuse her? Laugh at her? She remembered that he had taken a long time to consider her last request for a promise, in the hall the night Edward came begging for permission to open the gate. Maybe he was simply weighing the benefits to himself in this new arrangement.

“You have my word, lady.”

He came at her again, and now he was nothing but a dark shape against the pitiful candle. A huge dark shape. Rose looked up, trying to see his face. He stretched out a hand and she felt his fingers brush against her hair, lingering, so gentle for such a big, powerful man. Would he be as gentle when he laid her upon the bed and took her as a man takes a woman?

Startled and made breathless by the thought, Rose jumped to her feet and slid out of his reach. He did not move, watching her, waiting. His stillness was intimidating, as if he was gathering his strength for the next assault on her senses. She wanted him—her body was warm, so warm. Her hands shook, her legs trembled. She could smell her own desire, the musky scent of a woman who wanted a man. And still she pretended she was in control of the situation.

“I command you to take off your clothes, Captain,”

Rose said, her voice brave.

He did not move. Mayhap, she thought shakily, he would refuse? March angrily from the room? She almost hoped he would, for then she would be able to breathe normally again. Be herself again.

Be alone again…

“Your command is my wish,”

he said, his voice soft and deep, like a hot brand too close to her skin. And—Jesu!—he was unbuckling his sword belt, slowly, purposefully. It came free, and he glanced about him, and then decided to place it carefully upon the window seat where Rose had lately been seated. Next came his brown tunic, and he lifted this over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor at his feet.

Now he wore only his breeches, leather boots, and a white linen shirt. The shirt was worn so thin that his skin shone golden through it, and the laces were untied to halfway down his chest. Rose caught glimpses of the hard, curving muscles that covered that wide, wonderful chest.

She folded her arms hard about herself, tugging the robe around her as if it were chain mail and would somehow protect her from him. The truth was she had only her position as protection, but as long as she kept her head he would not know how weak and feeble she was before him.

Do not let yourself love. It was her mother’s voice. Brown eyes, so much like Rose’s, were hollow with pain as she gave her daughter the only advice she had to give. Do not let yourself want. And if you do…don’t let him know it. Remember, ’tis men who have all the power in this world.

Gunnar lifted his white shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor at her feet. Rose forgot her mother’s warning as all thought was wiped from her mind.

He was built like a god.

All hard muscle and golden skin. He was so strong, his shoulders broad, his arms powerful, his chest a hard wall, narrowing down to his waist and stomach, to where the breeches covered him like a second skin. Rose wanted to groan aloud. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over all that magnificence, she wanted to lean into him and kiss his mouth.

He was untying the laces on his breeches, his blue eyes fixed on her. Rose caught her breath as the waist loosened, and for a moment he let them fall as far as they could. A line of darker hair ran from his stomach down into the shadows of his groin. Was he teasing her? But even as the doubts threatened to bring her back from the brink, he was peeling the breeches slowly down over his hips and thighs.

He was already aroused. His manhood jutted toward her, so big…No wonder he had laughed when she trembled before the carving of Ottar. Surely Edric had never been so big? How would she manage? Rose lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and began to chew on one of her already ragged nails.

Gunnar finished tugging his breeches down over his powerful thighs, pushing the cloth past his knees, and then quickly pulling off his boots and completing what she had commanded him to do. When he straightened he was completely naked, and Rose was sure that her heart stopped in her breast.

He was beautiful, with the sort of masculine perfection she had not believed possible until now. He was the sort of man that women were drawn to despite themselves—no wonder they had gazed, bedazzled, at him in the hall. Rose could not despise them now, for she was just as smitten by him as all her womenfolk.

But Gunnar Olafson was not just beautiful, he had a magic ingredient that enslaved her senses. She didn’t just want to touch him, she wanted to possess him. And that made her present position dangerous, much more dangerous than she had imagined.

“I do not think,”

she managed, her voice trembling violently. “I fear that I cannot—”

Suddenly he was there, although she did not remember him moving. His body was so close now she felt his heat, smelled his male scent; his copper braids swung forward as he bent his head and searched her face with his bright, brilliant gaze. His voice was implacable. “Yes, lady, you can. And you will.”

Rose’s heart jolted. He took her mouth with his before she could reply. He had kissed her before, but not like this. He was forcing her mouth to cling to his, his tongue searching, overcoming her fears with the sheer strength of his passion. Rose swayed and leaned against him, afraid she might otherwise crumple at his feet. Her hands reached out and found nothing but warm flesh and ungiving muscle. He found her breast, cupped it through her robe, fingers rolling the hard jut of her nipple, and Rose moaned deep in her throat as her body arched involuntarily toward him.

He lowered his head, his mouth open and hot against her rounded flesh, suckling on her through the thin cloth, while his hands drew her in closer against him, until their lower bodies felt joined together from the hip down. Rose swayed back, his arm about her waist holding her safe from falling, and Gunnar obeyed the unspoken invitation she was offering. He kissed her throat, and then ran his tongue down into the opening of her robe, finding her naked skin.

The room was spinning. The ache between her thighs was reaching a dangerous level, making her reckless. Rose forgot her determination to remain in control, she forgot who was commanding whom. Forgot everything but her own urgent needs. His manhood was rigid against her belly and she reached down, and found him. Her touch was light, a mere brush of her fingers, and yet he seemed to throb against them. She heard his gasp against her breast.

Curiosity briefly overcame caution—she brushed him again, her fingers lingering, encircling the hard, satin rod. He moaned, his body going even harder, his muscles rigid with tension. Astonished, Rose froze and then heard him give a shaken laugh. “What do you command now?”

he asked her in a hoarse, rough voice. He lifted his head, and his handsome face was as tense as his body, his eyes almost pleading. “Tell me quickly, Rose, because I am fast losing what control I have left.”

Stunned, she gazed up at him. Gunnar Olafson losing his control, just because of a little touch like that? But how could that be? He was always in control. That was one of the reasons she was so afraid to give herself completely over to their passion.

Tentatively, very carefully, as if she were handling a dangerous object, Rose wrapped her hand more firmly about him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. Rose ran her fingers up and down the long, thick length of him, gaining confidence, no longer afraid, sensing that whatever she was doing, he was enjoying it. He didn’t want her to stop. Amazingly, astoundingly, Gunnar Olafson, that male god, was now in her sway. And Rose liked that very much.

He groaned again as her hand tightened, and rested his brow on the crown of her head. His breath was hot, his arms were trembling. “I want…”

He swallowed and tried again. “I want to be inside you, lady. Command that.”

Rose stroked him once again, smoothing her finger-tips over the broad head of his manhood, where it wept desire. He moved in her hand. She wanted to smile, she wanted to laugh, she felt as if she had been given a secret spell. This was power she had never known she had, power she had never had the opportunity to explore. And now, for some reason of his own, Gunnar was allowing her to do so.

So absorbed was she, she did not notice that her robe had fallen completely open. Not until his hands slid inside, eagerly exploring the fullness of her breasts with their dark pink nipples, running over the gentle curve of her belly and down, through the curls of dark hair to the moist, hot core of her.

Rose gasped and momentarily stopped her own explorations, pressing against his hand. He was watching her in a hungry, intent way. As if he wanted to remember her like this forever. But that made no sense, thought Rose dazedly, and then he moved his thumb against her, and she forgot to think.

“I command you to take me as a man takes a woman,”

she whispered in a ragged voice, reaching for him again. “I command you, Gunnar.”

She expected…Rose didn’t know what she expected. Maybe for him to lay her gently on the bed and climb atop her. Instead he moved so swiftly she cried out. He reached down, gripping her firmly about the waist, and lifted her into the air until their faces were level. Her eyes opened wide in shocked surprise.

“Put your arms around my neck,”

he said with quiet intensity, “and your legs around my waist.”

Rose slipped her arms about his neck, fingers twining in his hair, and then more slowly, uncertainly, she curled her legs about his big, muscular body. In such a position, she could not help but press herself intimately to him.

Blue eyes glittered into brown, and then his palms followed her curves down, closing on the soft flesh of her bottom. He shifted her, correcting her position, and just like that his manhood was prodding at her sheath, easing toward the slippery heat at her center.

She gasped, pushing at his shoulders, feeling herself trying to stretch to his size, her body stiffening in rejection. He hardly seemed to notice. Sweat was sheening his face, and his breath was shallow. The muscles in his arms tensed and hardened—he was holding her entire weight—and he lowered her a little more, filling her.

The sensation was beyond her experience, beyond anything she had dreamed of. Gunnar was making her his, and Rose had the feeling that she would never be the same afterward.

He moved again, easing her down on him, and she clung, moaning. His mouth covered hers, his tongue sought hers. And still he held her against him, her entire weight taken by his arms and hips and legs. Surely in another moment he would put her on the bed? Edric had never done such a thing as this—not that he would ever have been capable of holding her in such a way. In Rose’s experience men and women mated in bed in the darkness, beneath the covers, and they were quick and silent about it. They did not stand in the center of a room, naked, blatant, consumed by their passion.

Gunnar eased her up, until he had withdrawn almost completely, and then lowered her again. Deeper now, taking his time, accustoming her body to his. Rose let her head fall back, her hair a heavy tangle. Every thought was concentrated on the place between her thighs, where he was joined to her. He took the opportunity to bend his head and suckle at her breasts, his tongue deliberately circling each nipple and sending shivers of unbearable excitement rippling across her skin.

Rose felt her body clench about him, desperately trying to keep him inside her as he withdrew again. She tried to push herself down more quickly, leaning forward to kiss his throat, her mouth open and wet and wanton. Their bodies were damp now, slipping against each other, and she was tugging at his hair, pulling his head down, his mouth. He kissed her, and it was beyond pleasure.

He moved her upon him, harder now, still deeper, and sensation began to hum through her bones. “Gunnar,”

she managed, “please. Please…” And as if he had been waiting for just that, Gunnar tilted her hips closer toward him, moving her in some way so that when he entered her the next time he brushed against that swollen nub within her dark curls.

Rose cried out, arching and twisting in his hands, shaken with the tremendous force of the release he had given her. He lifted and lowered her again, once, twice, until he was so deep within her she felt him touch her womb. His seed spilled out into her as her sheath squeezed and clenched violently, and at the same time he threw back his head with a hoarse shout so loud Rose feared the whole of Somerford must have heard.

And yet, as she slumped against him, wet and gasping and shuddering, wondering if she had the strength to ever stand on her own again, Rose knew she did not care.