Chapter 12

Someone was nuzzling against her nape, breathing in her scent, sprinkling light kisses across her sensitive skin.

Rose opened her eyes.

The candle by the door had burned down to a flickering stub of yellow grease, and the room was full of shadows. She was on the bed—he had carried her there afterward, laying her down as if she were the most precious of creatures, before stretching out beside her and pulling the covers over them both. For a time he had seemed content to just lie there, his arm heavy about her waist, his thighs tucked warmly in behind hers, his breath soft against her hair.

They had stayed like that, as comfortable as if they had known each other all their lives. They hadn’t spoken. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Rose was replete, limp, unable to dredge up a single worry or care, and Gunnar was content to let her rest. She had even dozed, dreaming of nothing but warm darkness, cradling her, rocking her.

But now he was moving again.

As well as his mouth on her skin, his hand had shifted to close on her breast, exploring the full firm flesh, teasing her nipple into a peak. And lower down, where the hairs on his thighs tickled the tender flesh of her bottom, his manhood had begun to grow thick and hard.

Despite herself, Rose thought again of the carving he had shown her. Ottar, standing with his rod in his hand, waiting to service his goddess. She giggled, thinking of Gunnar standing like that by the side of her bed, waiting for her command.

“You think this is funny?”

His warm voice was a husky murmur in her ear.

He reached down, slipping his hand between her thighs, lifting her upper leg so that he could push his fingers into her slippery heat. Rose stiffened and arched back against him. Suddenly her breathing was unsteady, and satiety gave way to doubt.

“’Tis too soon!”

she gasped.

He stopped. “Are you sore?”

he asked her, the question far more personal than any she was used to hearing.

“No,”

she said sharply, and then wished she hadn’t.

He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her, and heaved himself up so that he could look at her properly. Rose gazed up into his handsome face, her senses spinning out of control from such foolish things as the shape of his jaw, rough with golden stubble, and the way his copper hair hung in a tousled frame around his face. There was a little curve at the corners of his mouth—that half smile he gave her when he meant to prove a point—and his eyes, so blue, the gleam in them hot and hard, melted her resistance.

Between her legs, something much bigger than a finger sought and found her entrance. He thrust his hips, driving deeper, his smile growing as he watched the pretended indifference on her face dissolve into blind passion, and a need so desperate she could not contain it.

“There is nothing wrong in wanting a man,”

he said, his voice only slightly strained. “It does not lessen you, Rose.”

Her breasts were aching and he plucked at the nipples, sending tremors of pure pleasure through her belly, to the place where they were joined. He pushed in still deeper, easing the last bit, until he was filling her completely.

“I want you,”

he murmured, and buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent. “I admit it. Desire does not lessen me, it makes me more of a man.”

She cried out as he quickened his pace, driving into her with strength and purpose. His fingers slipped from her breasts, moving unerringly down to where the throbbing ache was growing. At his touch, Rose cried out breathlessly, arching back against him, opening her legs. She felt herself to be on the edge of that wild place he had taken her to before, but this time he seemed intent on keeping her from it. His fingers teased and then moved away, bringing her to the brink but never quite over.

Frustrated, Rose tried to follow his hand, tried to grab it with her own. He caught her wrists, holding her prisoner, his smiling mouth against her temple. He was all around her, engulfing her, and yet he was not in the place she wanted him the most.

“Gunnar!”

she moaned. “I command you.”

He laughed again, holding himself inside her, feeling her body contracting about him. She felt so good. Better than any other woman, and there had been many. He already knew tonight wouldn’t be enough. He needed her every night, and more often if he could get her to accommodate him. Would she let him lead her from the hall at breakfast and take her behind the dais? Would she let him lift her from her horse in the woods and take her in the buttercups? Would she come to his narrow bed and climb atop him in the night, making him weep with his yearning for her?

“Ouch!”

Gunnar jerked from the sting across his buttocks. Her smile was wickedly pleased as she met his surprised stare. She had managed to free her hand and had reached around and raked her nails over him. So much for taking the time to daydream. Gunnar brought his thoughts firmly back to the present moment, capturing her hand in a relentless but careful grip.

“No,”

she said, struggling against him. Gunnar settled the matter by resting his fingers lightly against her swollen nub. She went still, breathing quickly. He eased his rod into her again, enjoying the tight, hot feel of her. She was making little gasping noises now, and when he rubbed her more firmly she cried out, forgetting everything in her pursuit of pleasure.

Gunnar had known she was passionate, had sensed it long before their moments in the stairwell, but she had surprised even him with her raw, earthy need of him. She tried to control it, tried to rein it in, but he already knew her too well. She was his match in bed and out, the perfect mate for a warrior.

’Twas a pity it could not be.

“Gunnar,”

she whispered, and her hands were free again, but now they held his forearm, gripping it hard as the spasms took her. He felt the beginning of the end as her sheath tightened about his rod, and with a moan he let himself go with her, cresting the wave with Rose in his arms.

Rose was running from the warriors from Burrow Mump, her feet flying over marsh and earth. She veered to the side, toward the woods, but one of them followed. The warrior on the gray horse. She cried out just as he swooped down on her, catching her up. Her hair was unbound and now it tumbled across her face, blinding her so that she could not see him properly. Except, just before he tucked her before him on his saddle, she had a glimpse of his eyes.

They were blue. Blue as a northern ocean. Blue as Gunnar Olafson’s.

Gunnar stared into the darkness, listening to the woman’s soft breathing. It was very late—the night had almost given way to morning. Soon the birds would begin their calling and the keep would begin to stir to the new day. The night would be over, forgotten. Except that Gunnar knew he would never forget.

He had wanted her since the moment he saw her. He might have mistrusted her, disliked her, planned to take what was hers, but there was no denying he had lusted after her as hotly as any he-wolf on the scent of a bitch in heat.

Maybe that was all it was. Maybe, after a few more times in her bed, he would have rid himself of the need for her…

She stirred, sighing in her sleep, turning into his arms. Without thinking, he smoothed a strand of hair from her face, watching as her dark lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. Her red lips were slightly parted, her stubborn chin softened by sweet dreams. He thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and yet he knew she was not. It was just that, for him, she was perfect.

Was she really as beautiful on the inside? What if she was using him to further her own plans? He had seen for himself her ability to play a part, to pretend at being what she was not. She wasn’t as good as Gunnar, but she was good.

Abruptly, he bent his head and kissed her, thinking, If she is false she will not be able to hide it in the moment of waking. If she is false I will read it in her now.

Her mouth softened, clung, and she moved languidly to slide her arms around his neck. Her fingers twined in his hair.

“Gunnar,”

she murmured, as if she knew it was he before she opened her eyes.

She looked so sweet and wanton—he wanted to ride her until they were both breathless. And then, as if she had only just heard her own voice saying his name, her eyes opened wide. He watched the emotions pass through them—shock, and then wariness, and then caution. She did not trust him, and Gunnar could not blame her for that.

He did not really trust her.

“Lady,”

he said, as cool as if they were not lying naked in her bed. “Do you have any more orders for me? It is almost dawn and my men will be up soon, and I need to be there to lead them.”

He had surprised her, but she pretended it was not so. She opened her mouth, just as he moved against her, making her aware of his arousal. “Oh,”

she managed, but he knew then she had no intention of sending him away…yet. He lifted himself over her, positioning himself on his elbows so that his weight was barely upon her. One hard thigh slipped between hers. She was warm and soft, and he ached with need.

“Lady?”

he whispered, rocking against her, keeping his face calm and remote. A soldier taking his orders; that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To pretend there was nothing in this but animal lust? Well, he could do that, he, too, was good at playing a part—his mother had once called him Loki, the god of lies and deceit. She had said it with a smile, as if she knew better, but he had wondered if one day the smiling liar would overtake the honorable man in him.

Another reason he had wanted to turn his back on his present life forever.

“I…”

She cleared her throat, hesitated, and then her hands came to rest lightly on his upper arms. “Captain, as you are already so well prepared, you could…I mean, once more before you go would be…Unless three times is too many?”

She was a complete innocent, despite being the old married woman she had proclaimed herself last night. He had not been misled by her game then, and he was not now.

Gunnar slid smoothly into her and she was wet and ready. He almost smiled. “You doubt my strength?”

“Oh.”

she caught her breath. “I…I only feared…That is, Edric could barely manage once every change of the season and—”

His mouth twitched but he still did not smile. “I am not Edric,”

he said and, reaching down, lifted her thighs to open her wide to his ministrations.

To his amusement, she tried desperately not to show how much it affected her, but a flush colored her honey skin, and her dark eyes grew blurred. She turned her face away.

“No,”

he said harshly. “I want to see you this time. I want to read it in your eyes, the moment when you leave your body behind.”

Slowly Rose changed position again. Last night had been raw enough, but meeting his eyes like this seemed particularly decadent. Why then did she feel a tremor of excitement? Why did his watching her as she reached her peak make her tremble and sigh against him? She might as well admit it to herself. Nothing mattered now but having Gunnar Olafson between her thighs and in her bed.

The movement of his body upon hers was bringing its own pleasure—before she had needed his hand, but now it seemed as if she could find paradise without his aid. Rose gazed into his eyes and read in them the hot rise of desire, and more than that. Satisfaction, maybe, and a glow that frightened her with its intensity.

“Let yourself go, Rose,”

he murmured intently. “Now, now…”

One more thrust, and Rose was arching upward with a low trembling cry. She slipped away, beyond the familiar chamber, out into the summer dawn, to dance on the cool breeze. With a low groan, Gunnar followed after her.

When he moved off her, swinging his legs onto the floor, Rose was surprised enough to open her eyes. He had said he would go, but somehow she had still thought he would stay.

Fool! Did you imagine he would remain here all day? What would your people think of that? What would Arno and Lord Radulf think? You cannot just forget your troubles because of the mercenary’s handsome face.

Gunnar Olafson was tugging on his breeches, tying them about his waist. The light was creeping across the land, and now shone weakly through her open window. She could see his back, the muscles rippling and tightening as he bent to pull on his boots. His skin was golden smooth apart from a collection of white scars. The scars had been invisible last night, but now she saw where a sword had struck him a glancing blow, and a knife had slid across his shoulder blade…Each scar must have a tale to tell, and each scar could have meant his death.

Rose shivered.

Gunnar lifted his sword from its place on the window seat, buckling it about his hips. If she had forgotten what he was, then she was reminded now.

A mercenary.

A man who fought and killed for coin. A Viking savage. And yet he had shown her things last night that Rose had never seen or felt before, and she knew deep in her heart that he had changed her forever by simply being with her. How could she ever be the same again?

Her body ached with unfamiliar use, but it was a pleasant ache. Aye, her body was well used and content, but inside Rose felt like weeping. The day was coming upon her so quickly, and bringing with it all the temporarily forgotten problems. And questions. All the decisions still to be made. She faced the fact that she would have liked this moment to go on forever. Jesu, why could they not have lost themselves in each other for a little longer?

He was drawing his worn linen shirt over his head. There was a mend beneath one sleeve. Mayhap, Rose told herself, she could find him a new one. Sew him a new one. And then she stopped the thought cold, remembering what she had said at the beginning. I will give you no gifts. If she went back on her words he would think her weak. Aye, a weak, easily swayed woman—a woman sick with love for him.

You can have my body, but my heart is my own.

He had said that to her last night when she had asked about other women. He had warned her then—Gunnar Olafson was no lovesick ninny. He had given her what she commanded and no more, and now he was leaving.

He was dressed.

He turned to face her, and now he was again that calm, distant man she had grown to know…and God help her, to trust.

“Sleep, lady,”

he said. “’Tis early yet, and you are weary.”

Before she could answer he strode to the door, lifting the bar and opening it a crack to look out. Evidently there was no one about, for he slipped quietly through and closed it behind him without a backward glance. There was silence, but a silence more complete than any Rose had ever experienced.

He was gone.

Rose closed her eyes, stubbornly vowing not to think of him. Today she must write a message to give to Steven, a call for help to Lord Radulf. She must sign over her own fate for the good of her people and Harold’s life. Today she must put aside her own happiness for the sake of others.

But at least, Rose told herself, she had had last night. The wild pleasure that Gunnar had given her in the hot darkness was more than she could ever have imagined. It would live with her forever, no matter what became of her. A talisman against the frightening days ahead.

And then she gave a bitter laugh, for despite her vow she had thought of him after all.

“I saw them over there, Captain. Three full days before the village was burned. Half a dozen men, maybe more. I didn’t think to mention it until now…there was so much talk of merefolk, and these men weren’t.”

Edward pointed with a steady finger, his stumpy legs planted on the firm ground at the Mere’s edge. Gunnar narrowed his eyes. Water and mud and islands, nothing more. If the men Edward had said he saw came from out there then they were long gone.

“What were these men doing, Edward?”

The old man answered readily enough. “They met with someone, Captain. They all stood about a moment and argued and waved their arms, and then the men got back in their boats and paddled away. The someone they met with walked off toward the keep.”

“And you did not recognize who this was?”

“Whoever it was was cloaked from head to toe, Captain, but ’twasn’t a big figure. Shortish for a man, or…mayhap even a woman.”

Rose.

The name came to him instantly, and all his old mistrust rose up. At the same time pain curled deep in his belly, as if he had eaten something rotten. Could Rose have been meeting with these men, plotting with them to burn down her own village?

“I’m near enough to certain the men with the boats weren’t merefolk,”

said Edward.

“What did they look like?”

“It was dark.”

Edward was cautious.

Gunnar turned and fixed his calm gaze on the old man. “Were they Normans?”

Edward was no match for Gunnar Olafson. “They looked like soldiers, sir.”

Probably Lord Fitzmorton’s men, hiding out in the Mere, ready to attack. Rose had met with them, and they had planned the details of the assault, and then she had gone home.

It did not ring true.

Gunnar looked out again, across the watery levels toward one particular island of dark, brooding appearance. He was weary from last night. His body was finally relaxed after days of rigid tension and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was to be no sleep for him yet. He had questions to answer, and Somerford to take care of.

If not Rose, then who could it have been that night? Not Arno—to put himself in a position of possible capture or disclosure was not in his nature. Nay, more like he would send a note. Or a messenger. Would Arno have sent someone in his stead, someone he trusted, who was party to his treason against Somerford and Lord Radulf? Did Arno have such an ally at Somerford Manor?

“Could it have been Brother Mark?”

Gunnar asked quietly, and watched Edward’s wrinkled face.

The old man thought hard, and then nodded uncertainly. “Aye, ’tis possible, Captain. Brother Mark be shortish, and he wears a cloak. Aye, mayhap ’twere Brother Mark.”

Gunnar nodded with a sense of satisfaction. Another mystery solved. Arno and Mark were friends, and they were both in the plot with Fitzmorton to take Somerford. Probably Arno had only brought Mark there for that reason—the man was certainly no priest. He bore the scars of battle upon his hands and his knowledge of priestly matters was abysmal. Not that that prevented him from being a priest, for Gunnar had met some poor excuses for priests, but there was something cunning about the man, something base that gave the lie to his claims of piety.

“Thank you, Edward,”

Gunnar said at last, and smiled. “You have helped me much and I will not forget it when the time comes.”

Edward glanced up at him sharply, perhaps hearing some note in his voice he did not like. “You do be on the Lady Rose’s side in this matter, Captain? We Somerford folk do love our lady. Don’t be thinking otherwise. ’Tis Sir Arno we don’t like. He shows us one face but he has another he keeps well hid. Ever since he came here, he’s been watching her, hoping for more than he has a right to. Lady Rose trusts him because her heart is good; she doesn’t believe he’d betray her.”

“She is fond of him, then?”

The words were careless, as if it mattered to him not at all. Gunnar was surprised how difficult it suddenly was for him to assume such a pretense.

Edward snorted. “You think they be lovers, Captain? Nay, they’re not lovers! Lady Rose is too good for Arno, Captain. He was Lord Edric’s friend, and so she trusts him for that reason. Do you know he swore allegiance to her over Edric’s deathbed?”

The old man raised a cynical eyebrow. “Edric made him do it.”

“And you think…?”

“I think Lord Edric knew very well what Arno was about. I think he made him swear his allegiance to Lady Rose to keep him true to her. Mayhap he hoped Lady Rose would marry again, to a man strong enough to deal with the Norman. He didn’t realize our lady would see that Arno did not love her people as she did, and so for our sake she would stand alone. Lady Lily helped her in that—Lady Lily be a strong woman herself.”

As Gunnar returned to the keep he felt almost light-headed with relief. It must be so. Edward was right. Rose was no treacherous lady. No, he was the treacherous one. He quickened his pace, full of a dark, unfamiliar anger. He was here as Rose’s man but he was actually Lord Radulf’s spy. Worse than that, for he was seeking to steal what was hers. And when Rose learned of it she would feel betrayed.

She would probably never forgive him.

Constance had been watching Rose since she entered the bedchamber that morning to help her dress. The old woman had a gleam in her eye, but as yet, to Rose’s relief, she had said nothing. With luck she would believe the signs of exhaustion on Rose’s face were due to no more than a restless night—Jesu, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of troubles to keep her awake! She didn’t want to speak of Gunnar yet. She felt too unsettled to consider what would happen now, and Constance would force her to think hard.

“Lady? The red gown today with the blue undergown?”

Rose nodded, allowing Constance to choose, standing docile while Constance tugged the cloth over her head and settled it into place. Constance’s gaze fixed on the bed and instantly Rose tensed. Although she was sure she had smoothed away all evidence of Gunnar’s occupation, he was such an overwhelming presence, it was as if some sign of him remained. Would Constance sense that he had been there?

Thus far the old woman had not said a word.

“The plaited gold girdle, lady? And the red calfskin shoes?”

“Aye, Constance, thank you.”

Constance finished with the girdle and shoes and set to brushing her lady’s hair, strong strokes through the curling, midnight thickness. Rose sighed for the dozenth time, wondering how she would look at Gunnar today—yesterday had been bad enough, but now there was much more between them.

She closed her eyes, remembering despite herself. It had not been at all as she imagined. She had thought he would lie with her once and leave, mayhap even use her like a…a camp follower. Instead he had taken her with relish, lavishing his body upon her. She had feared from the first moment she saw him that he would enthrall her senses, and so he had, but in return he had given her a new sense of her own power over him.

She had not expected that.

Rose had learned last night that Gunnar Olafson was not the invulnerable warrior she had thought him. She could make him sweat, she could make him shudder, she could make him groan for release. He was a man, capable of feeling pain and pleasure, hurt and joy. And knowing that had changed everything.

Constance had begun to braid her hair, standing close behind Rose, her fingers still quick and sure for all her years.

“Sometimes,”

she said quietly, “the character of a man is more important that his bloodline.” She nodded to herself, twisting the dark strands into one thick rope. “A man with honor, a strong man who can see right from wrong, aye, he would be a far better option than a man with powerful friends who whores and swears and cares not at all for his wife and family.”

Rose had stiffened, staring straight ahead as if Constance held a dagger at her back. So much for thinking she had escaped Constance’s eagle eyes, she thought despairingly.

“I have heard tell that the Vikings are near enough to kings, in their own country.”

“They are savages and murderers in ours,”

Rose retorted in a small, hard voice.

“Lady, your own father is no shining example. Old Edric was frightened of him, but he still married you, and not only because Radulf, his overlord, told him to. He did it because you were beautiful and sweet, and the old man lost his heart to you. Maybe he even felt sorry for you, when he met your father and saw what he was. One day you will have to wed again, and your second husband may not be as easy to manage as your first.”

Rose shook her head; of all her people, Constance was the only one who knew of her past. “Constance, this is not helping…”

“To marry beneath your family and position may not be ‘beneath’ you in other ways, that is all I mean to say.”

Constance finished with a rush, determined to complete her speech.

Rose took a deep, slow breath. “I see that you have guessed what happened between Captain Olafson and myself. It was lust, Constance, nothing more. You said yourself I needed a lover, and last night I took one. That is all. Please don’t think it more than that.”

Constance finished the braid and let it fall gently against Rose’s straight back. “Do you truly believe that? I have seen the look in your eyes…in his eyes, and I know there is more to this than lust.”

“No.”

Rose pulled away and stood up. Her heart was pounding, her eyes wide, her hands shaking. “Please, let me hear no more of it, Constance. I will hear no more!”

And she was gone, all but running down the stairs. Constance stared after her with a humorless smile. “Aye, my lady, you may run this time, but there will come a time when you can run no more. And then you will see that this old woman was right.”