Chapter 17

Daylight brought birds. A great cloud of them wheeled up over the Mere, crying out raucously. They splashed and dived into the glistening water, hunting out their first meal of the day. Fish jumped or darted silver in the dark water, and the insects fluttered and buzzed, intent on making the most of their short, busy lives.

There was such abundance here—Rose had not expected it to be like this. Looking from her keep window she had seen the mystery of the Mere at night, the flat stretches of mud and water channels during the day. Her people caught fish and eels at its edges and made salt by evaporating away the water in shallow troughs. But here, in the midst of it all, Rose experienced a sense of wonder.

Gunnar had left her to dress in her still-damp clothing, and when she had finished she went in search of him. He was standing in the reeds with a boat. It was narrow and made of timber, and he seemed to be inspecting it for any rotten patches or holes. Sensing her presence, he glanced up at her with a grin.

Like a boy who has surprised even himself with his cleverness.

Rose felt her stomach lodge in her shoes. Desperately she tried not to stare as his wrinkled, salt-stained clothing clung to his muscular body. His copper hair was stiff and tangled into ringlets from his swim in the pool, and golden stubble softened the strong line of his jaw. Only moments before she had been lying in his arms, completely enclosed within his hard strength, soaking in his body heat to the marrow of her bones.

Her feelings confused her.

And frightened her.

When he had killed Ivo, she had hated him, although she was tied to him by their escape. And then—and she still wasn’t certain of the truth of this—he had told her Ivo’s death was a trick, and he was not Fitzmorton’s man after all, but Radulf’s man. He was a spy for Lord Radulf, and his reward for rooting out Arno’s plot was Somerford itself. Her lands, her manor, her people.

She should hate him for that.

Why couldn’t it be that simple?

The boat must have been in good order. Gunnar was holding out his hand toward her. “Come, lady. We must go now. Miles is probably fast closing in.”

Miles de Vessey was the demon that was driving them farther into the Mere, and farther away from her home. If she should hate anyone, then it was Miles de Vessey.

Rose gave Gunnar her hand. He helped her over the tangle of reeds and into the narrow boat. Then, when she was settled, hands clinging to the sides, he climbed in himself. The boat was very small, and their combined weight made it low in the water. Gunnar had no oar, but he used his sword, using the broad blade to propel them across the next wide stretch of water.

The waterways of the Mere were interconnecting. Small channels ran through reed beds and more solid looking marsh, and they followed these, sometimes needing to backtrack, on and on toward the farther islands. Rose grew used to the ever present screech and squabble of birds, and the creatures themselves seemed hardly to notice them, apart from dodging cannily out of their path. As their boat slid along, a mother duck paddled furiously away from them, its half-grown ducklings following in an erratic line.

Rose smiled in delight at the picture they made, and before she remembered, had glanced at Gunnar to share her pleasure.

He was watching her.

Her smile faded and she turned back hastily to her previous occupation of staring straight ahead and trying not to notice the movement of the muscles in his arms as he piloted the boat, or the way he narrowed his blue eyes against the brilliance of the day. He truly looked the part of a Viking now. One of those raiders who sailed over the seas intent on carnage, Rose told herself angrily. A thief and a murderer and a liar, that was Gunnar Olafson.

Then why did her heart feel sore in her breast? Why did she long for things to go back to what they had been before, when he held her in his arms? When he looked at her with heat and longing in his face?

Before she learned the truth. Whatever that was!

“See over there?”

Rose looked up. He was pointing to a larger island; it appeared green, almost lush. There were even trees growing in a copse at one end, and wisps of dirty mist rose from the middle. Or was that smoke? Rose sat up straighter. Smoke meant people, a village. Smoke meant food, and Rose realized suddenly that she was very, very hungry.

“I think there are buildings.”

Gunnar spoke her thoughts aloud. “We need food and shelter, Rose.”

“Merefolk?”

Her voice was uneasy, and she clutched the sides of their fragile craft and ignored the rumbling in her stomach. “But will they harm us?”

“I’ll protect you.”

She looked at him with angry eyes. “Why do I find it so hard to believe you when you say that?”

Aye, she was angry! And the feeling was growing nicely as she fed it with images of his perfidy. He was like Arno, only worse. Even Edric, kind gentle Edric, had lied to her. He had promised Somerford to Arno and then perjured himself in Rose’s favor. What had he thought would happen? Rose supposed he had expected her to wed again, to someone strong enough to hold tight to her manor. He would have believed her too timid to stand alone.

But she had. She had kept Somerford safe…until now. Now, when Gunnar, who should have been the answer to her prayers, had instead become her nightmare.

He had betrayed her. Like all men, he was not to be trusted and certainly never, ever to be loved.

Love no man, for he will surely destroy you if you do.

And now what would become of her? Even if she could reach Radulf and save Somerford, her own life stretched before her, an exile at the whim of others.

Rose felt her lip tremble and turned her face away, staring in the direction of distant Burrow Mump, so that he could not see. She had dreamed again last night, dreamed of the ghostly warrior on his gray horse. This time as he lifted her onto his lap, he had bent and kissed her. And his mouth had been Gunnar’s mouth.

He had even taken her dream now, stolen even that small solace.

“I am a mercenary.”

His voice sounded as usual, calm and controlled. But there was something more in it—a trace of urgency—that made her listen despite keeping her gaze fixed in the opposite direction.

“A mercenary has no land, Rose. He fights and is paid for it. I fight well—I am strong and well taught. I have my own band of loyal men who follow me. They trust me, and I do what I can to ease their lives.”

“Except that you killed one of them, although you tell me that was pretense. Am I to believe every word you say?”

He shot her a sideways glance, but otherwise pretended he had not heard her. “Being a mercenary is what I do best, but no mercenary can live forever. I see my death, Rose, and it does not make me happy. One day I will be too slow to see the blade swing down, and that will be my end. Buried by strangers in a strange place.”

She said nothing, but her body quivered with his words as if she, too, could see that final day. And sense the loss of him.

“This past year I have felt the painful need of something more. My own land, my own woman, and the children we can make together. I am tired of this mercenary life. I have much to give, Rose, and I want to give it for those who mean something to me, not some weak-chinned Norman baron, greedy for English land. When Radulf offered me Somerford, it seemed like the answer to my dreams.”

He sounded sincere. If she had not known better, Rose would have believed him, mayhap even sympathized with him. But Rose did know better.

“And it did not occur to you, after Lord Radulf offered you Somerford Manor, that it already belonged to me? And that my people were perfectly happy with that arrangement?”

He hesitated. No doubt wondering whether to lie again, Rose supposed furiously. “The thought of having my own land tempted me. When I first came to Somerford Manor I could see myself biding there, and the people needed protecting—I could protect them. How was I to know whether you were to be trusted? You had sent for mercenaries behind Radulf’s back—or so he said. You appeared to be in league with your knight, plotting against him. At worst, Radulf thought you were tight in Fitzmorton’s hand, scheming with him to steal Crevitch. At best, you were a weak, easily led fool.”

Rose looked down into the water and saw it not at all. Her vision was blurred by tears of rage.

“Arno asked Brother Mark to write the letter,”

she said through stiff lips. “I sealed it as he asked, when he told me what was in it. He lied about that, and then he must have sent the letter to Lord Fitzmorton. I suppose that makes me the ‘easily led fool.’”

“Rose…”

“No! Go on, tell me the remainder. I’d like to hear more of your fairy tales.”

His voice became even more matter-of-fact, as if he had set himself a task and meant to see it through. “One of Radulf’s men intercepted the letter. It bore your seal. He sent for me, and I went to Fitzmorton and made myself known—Miles was in the north then, or it never would have worked. When the letter arrived, I was given the job. I did not know what the plot consisted of at first, or even if there was a plot. But soon I understood it was Arno’s idea entirely, and that you were innocent.”

“And all this you kept to yourself and lied.”

Rose wondered how she could sound so calm—she felt hot and cold with her anger.

“I am telling the truth now.”

She looked around sharply at that, hearing the smile in his voice. Jesu, he was smiling! A wry smile of self-mockery. Her anger turned icy, the extent of his betrayal growing larger with each remembered hurt. He had lied and lied again, he had taken her body and made her want him, he had let her begin to believe that she could trust him.

He had even promised to obey her—what were Gunnar Olafson’s promises worth?

They were like water, trickling through her fingers.

Rose lifted her chin and took a breath. She was going to hurt him. Just as he had hurt her.

“My people do not need a man like you. You are worse than Miles de Vessey—at least he fights for what he believes in, whether that be good or bad. You fight for coin, and now you tell me you would steal my land on a whim. I can smell the blood on your hands, Captain. Honor? You do not even know what it is! Whatever becomes of me now, I will make it my life’s ambition to stop you from becoming Somerford’s lord.”

He said nothing to that. His face was cold and closed, the line of his mouth straight and grim. He looked as if he had been carved from rock. Her words had struck home, then—good! Rose told herself she was very pleased. Perhaps he would finally realize how pointless it was to try and excuse himself to her—if that was what he was doing. She would never forgive him, never trust him, ever again. Aye, she was very pleased indeed…

Rose sank down further in the boat, and drearily watched as the island drew nearer.

Gunnar wondered what she was thinking, and then told himself he did not care. He would not care. Why did he need to regain her trust anyway? Believing in himself had always been enough before. Why did he need her to believe in him, too? It was childish, and Gunnar had never been that. He was a man, and a natural leader. She was right, there was blood on his hands, but in that he was no different from all the other fighting men in King William’s England. She had said it to diminish him, set him on a level lower than her own.

It had worked.

He had felt diminished, for a brief time. Until he reminded himself that women were nothing more than a diversion from life’s more serious pursuits. They gave his body release, nothing more.

Why should he care if Rose was hurt and embittered by what he had done?

Because her pain affected him.

It was as if she were sunlight, and she touched everything in his life. Without her, he knew his world would slip back into perpetual shadow.

Aye, well, you’d best get used to the darkness, for she does not want you and will never forgive you!

Gunnar was not vain, but neither could he play at false modesty and pretend women weren’t attracted to him. He had never found himself in a situation where the woman he wanted didn’t want him.

Until now.

By Odin, why did he have to choose the one woman who denied him!

“Gunnar.”

Rose’s soft voice saying his name brought him back with a jolt. He followed her gaze. They were much closer to the island now, and it looked as if they had a welcome. A dozen or more merefolk stood down upon the shore, some with weapons in hand, awaiting their arrival.

“When we touch land stay in the boat,”

Gunnar said calmly. “Do not be afraid. I can protect you.”

“I am not afraid,”

she retorted, but her dark eyes were enormous. She was playing a part because she did not want to appear weak before him. He could understand that, he even admired her for it…as long as she did exactly as he told her.

The merefolk were small and wiry in stature, their hair very dark and their skin tanned and lined by the hard life they led on the island. These were the remnants of the old peoples, the Britons and the Celts, who had been driven into these marshes long ago by the arrival of the land hungry Angles and Saxons. The men carried spears, longbows and arrows, and the occasional sword. Nothing as well wrought as Fenrir—Gunnar knew he could kill half of them before they brought him down, and the rest after that.

A cluster of women and children were huddled farther up the gentle slope, on top of which stood rows of turf and sod huts. Smoke rose low over the flat rooftops, wafting down to the shore, and with it came the smell of food cooking.

Their boat bumped into the thin strip of reeds on the bank. Gunnar stepped out, giving a brief glance to Rose. “Stay there until I tell you so,”

he commanded. He did not wait for her answer—as with his men, he expected her unquestioning obedience—but turned to the merefolk. His stance was easy and relaxed, legs apart, one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other loosely at his side. They were not to know, but it was his battle stance.

“We are from Somerford Manor,”

he said in English.

Their faces didn’t change. Apart from the differences of situation and lifestyle, they were just as unfriendly and suspicious as the villagers of Somerford. Gunnar could not blame them for being distrustful, but he hoped that—unlike Rose—he would be able to persuade them to believe differently.

“This is Lady Rose.”

He nodded toward the boat. “Somerford was her manor, but now her lands have been stolen.”

An older-looking man stepped forward. His dark eyes were mere slits through skin folded with wrinkles, his gray hair was long and straggly, and he had a strong presence despite his stooped shoulders. “Who has stolen her land? Is it the King’s Sword? I had thought he claimed the land in the first place.”

His English was strangely accented, but Gunnar, who had traveled far, had no trouble understanding it. “No, not Radulf, ’tis Fitzmorton who has stolen Somerford.”

No one said a word, and yet it was as if a breeze had rippled through them. The elder alone spoke. “Lately Fitzmorton’s men have come into our Mere and eaten our fish and frightened our people,”

he said. “They stayed on some of the uninhabited islands, and then spread tales about us that are not true.” The black eyes watched him expectantly, full of wily cunning.

Gunnar wondered what was expected of him. Disbelieving laughter? That was probably what Arno would have done; Gunnar knew better.

“There have been attacks made on Somerford village, and although your people have been blamed we know it was Fitzmorton’s doing.”

He smiled, and again Gunnar had the sensation of a silent wind stirring the group.

“What is he saying? His English is strange.”

Gunnar came close to jumping with surprise. Her voice was right behind him, which meant that she was right behind him. He felt her hand press into his back, the touch of it impossibly cool.

“I told you to stay in the boat,”

he said harshly in French. It sounded like a reprimand—it was a reprimand.

The hand was removed. He could picture the look on her face, it would be all Lady Rose. “I am paying you, Captain, not the other way around.”

Some mischievous demon made him say, “Last time we bargained, lady, you were paying me…only it was not with coin.”

She drew in her breath with a hiss, but before she could prolong the argument, he began to repeat the elder’s words to her. Before he had finished, she came out from her safe spot behind him, and only his hand on her arm prevented her from boldly walking right up to the merefolk.

“I will take Somerford back, and there will be peace once more for the villagers and the people of the Mere.”

She said it with complete sincerity. “But for now, just for a little while, until Radulf comes to our aid, we need shelter and food. Will you shelter us?”

The old man listened, his black eyes never leaving Rose, and then he turned and consulted with his people.

“You should have stayed in the boat,”

Gunnar said.

He felt her eyes on his profile, trying to read the emotion behind his face.

“I am not one of your mercenaries,”

she told him quietly. “I do as I think fit. Remember it.”

His mouth curled. “I am yours to command, lady.”

Rose didn’t say anymore.

The elder turned to face Gunnar and Rose again. “We will shelter you for a day or so, but you cannot stay long. If you are fleeing Fitzmorton he will come after you and then he will kill all of us here on the zoy…the island.”

“We understand that,”

Gunnar said. “We don’t wish to put your people in danger.”

His black gaze slid curiously over Gunnar. “You are not from Somerford.”

“I am Gunnar Olafson,”

and Gunnar smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I am Lady Rose’s shield, her protector.”

The elder nodded, although there was an answering half smile on his timeworn face. “I am Godenere. Come with me and I will show you where you can rest.”

Rose swallowed another piece of her fish and sipped fresh, warm goat’s milk from a wooden bowl. The inside of their burrowed hut was small and dark, and the smoke from the small fire in the middle of the room spiraled up through a hole in the turf roof. The furniture consisted of a couple of shelves on the wall, a bench, a stool, and a small table. The bed was on the ground, a mattress stuffed with sweet, dry foliage and covered in soft skins.

It was not much different from some of the Somerford village huts, and Rose knew she should not be surprised. Did it take a crisis like this to make her realize the merefolk were no different from their brethren on dry land? Certainly, if what Godenere had said was the truth, they were not her enemies.

It was Fitzmorton and his kind who were the enemy. They were the ones she should have been preparing herself against all along. But she had trusted Arno because he was Edric’s friend, and in trusting him she had foolishly lost everything.

I will get it back. Lord Radulf will get Somerford Manor back.

Aye, he probably would, eventually. But how many people would die in the process? And what of the harvest, so close now? Would that be lost while powerful men squabbled? Aye, and the poor folk would suffer—it was always the way. And what of Rose, who had lost Somerford Manor in the first place?

No, Rose did not expect to be given a second chance.

Despondently she sipped more milk. The goats were penned at one end of the village. The village itself was built on the highest point of the island or, as the merefolk called it, the zoy. There were numerous cottages and huts, with ducks and geese roaming at will. Children had watched from doorways, big-eyed, as she and Gunnar had walked passed. It was probably Gunnar who fascinated them, she decided. So big, a giant with copper braids and storm-blue eyes, he was as out of place in the island village as a Viking ship in a duck pond.

Rose finished her fish and bent to examine uneasily a mound of green vegetable in another bowl. It looked unfamiliar, some sort of waterweed, mayhap. Certainly nothing she had ever eaten before.

“’Tis good, lady. Our children grow strong when they eat it.”

Rose looked up. A woman—girl, really—was watching her with a faint, superior smile. Rose raised her eyebrows at Gunnar. “I think she is telling me to eat it up, but her English is so strange, I cannot be sure.”

“Something like that,”

he agreed, in French. He was sitting in the shadows like a pagan god, his copper braids framing his handsome face. Rose wasn’t surprised to see that blank, besotted look slip over the girl’s pretty features. It was exactly the same expression she had seen on the faces of the women in her own hall—womankind were all alike, it seemed, when it came to Gunnar Olafson.

He murmured something in English to the girl, and she simpered as she collected the empty bowls. Rose knew she was staring but she could not seem to help it. The girl filled his cup with more milk before she left, turning for one last lingering glance. Outside there was a noisy burst of chatter. Another face peered into the hut, this one not so young or pretty, and then it was withdrawn and there was more laughter.

Rose, becoming seriously alarmed, was glad to hear Godenere’s voice. She didn’t completely understand his words, but he seemed to be telling the crowd to go away and allow the strangers some rest. The chatter and giggles faded away as the lust-struck women dispersed.

Rose’s stomach felt pleasantly full, she was warm and, just now, safe from the threat of Miles and Arno and Fitzmorton. Suddenly the women lurking about their hut, eager for a glimpse of the mercenary, were almost amusing. She looked over to Gunnar and smirked.

“What is it?”

He was lifting his bowl of milk and stopped, frowning back at her.

“You,”

Rose retorted. He narrowed his eyes at her, and that seemed even funnier. Was it really so simple to breach his legendary tranquillity? Or mayhap Gunnar Olafson had had a bad day.

For no sensible reason that made her laugh.

“Me?”

He watched her giggling to herself, and his suspicion turned to bemusement. It was a rare day when Gunnar Olafson was the source of a woman’s hilarity.

“The way they look at you—the women. You are like a giant flower, Gunnar, and they are the silly bees and butterflies that come to smell the scent and try and sip the nectar. You spoil them for all the other flowers in the field.”

One of his eyebrows rose and he waited patiently while she pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to prevent the little spurts of laughter from escaping. This was madness, and she knew it, and yet the laughter was bubbling up inside her like a boiling pot, and try as she might, she could not keep it down. If Constance were here she’d tell Rose to take a deep breath.

Gunnar had leaned back, his hands folded comfortably behind his head. He appeared so relaxed, but Rose no longer believed it. It was pretense, another lie. A man like Gunnar Olafson would never be able to truly relax. She wondered how much longer it would be before another of the Mere women found an excuse to return. More milk? More fish? More of that nasty green seaweed?

She had to laugh again, but now her stomach was beginning to hurt.

“Are you jealous, Rose? Is that it?”

That stopped her. Sobered her instantly. Rose sat up and gulped in a deep breath of smoky air, wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve. But the dried salt in the cloth stung them and they only watered the more.

“Hardly,”

she mocked, pressing her fingers to her eyes and blinking hard. “I am not such a simpleton as that, Captain.”

“And what is wrong about admiring the way a man looks? Men admire women all the time.”

He had leaned forward slightly, and now there was a glint in his eyes that made her nervous.

Rose sniffed. “Is that what you call it? Admiration? The poor creatures would spin in circles if you asked them to!”

“And you would not?”

he retorted, shifting closer. There was something in his voice, a warning, and Rose glanced at him sideways. “Well, lady?”

“No, I would not! Some women are more gullible than others. And I know that men are not to be trusted, Captain—if I did not know it before then I surely know it now. Men do not feel as women do, you see. Their hearts are colder, harder. Like the sword you wear strapped to your hip, men use their hearts to wound, Captain, and sometimes the wound is fatal.”

Gunnar seemed puzzled by her intensity as he stared at her across the smoky firelit room. “I can see you truly believe every word you say. Is it a lesson, lady, taught to you when you were young?”

She paled but could not find a reply. She had given too much of herself away already.

His voice went on—a soft, mesmerizing murmur. “My father would lie down and die to protect my mother. He would fight an army to keep her safe. Is that not feeling deeply, lady?”

Was that true? Or was it another lie?

“Lord Radulf would howl like a wolf who has lost his mate if anything happened to his Lily. He told me once that she is his moon, that she lights his way. Is that not feeling deeply, lady?”

“You are twisting my words.”

“How so? I am simply showing you that you are wrong. Maybe there are men like those you mention, but not all.”

“You show me two men who care for their women,”

Rose retorted. “How many does that leave who do not?”

“And you judge all men by the actions of a few, lady.”

Rose frowned at him, annoyed that he was smiling at her as if he had won the argument. He was wrong and she was right, and she knew it. That was all that mattered. So she shrugged her shoulder indifferently and said, “How can you understand? You are a man.”

“Aye, I am a man,”

he repeated softly, and now there was danger in his voice. “And there are many things I understand.” She watched him uncertainly as he shifted even closer. His hand closed, large and warm, upon her knee. “I understand how much you like me to touch you,” he murmured.

She pushed his hand away. “’Tis not the same!”

“How so?”

He was on his knees before her now, and she glared up into his face, but he was still smiling. Could he not see how much she hated him? “I know you like this,” he murmured, his voice deep in his chest, and bending, set his lips to hers. The taste of him, the heat of him, was nearly her undoing.

“You are wrong,”

she whispered.

He chuckled softly, and opening his lips, kissed her long and deeply. Everything shifted. She felt as if her entire world narrowed until it was centered on Gunnar and his mouth on hers, his body against hers, hard and heavy. Rose moaned and slid her hands about his neck.

His hand found her breast, gently squeezing, and she arched against him. “I know how much you ache and burn, Rose. I understand, because I ache and burn, too.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, watchful, cautious, but intrigued despite her doubts. “Do you?”

she asked, surprised at the breathlessness of her voice.

“Lady, you know I do.”

His mouth was against her cheek, her temple, her throat. He rolled to his side, carrying her with him, holding her firm against his body. “You have only to look at me, Rose, and I want you. You laugh and tell me those women think I am a flower, but lady, I would sup upon your nectar all day.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it—the thought of Gunnar supping…But his eyes were dark and there was a tension in his smile she already knew.

He wanted her; he didn’t lie about that.

She slid her hand down over the rigid muscles of his belly and closed her fingers over his manhood, where it strained eagerly against his breeches.

“You are very hard, Captain,”

she murmured. “Is that for me or do you plan to take the Mere women one by one?”

He choked, and then he had rolled over again, this time pinning her beneath him, one of his thighs pressed between hers, his hands either side of her face. “I want you,”

he said, and, bending his head, kissed her until her head was spinning. His fingers were determined as he lifted her skirts, slipping into her soft folds and finding her as eager as he. Rose tugged at the ties of his breeches and slid them down, freeing him. He lifted her hips and immediately drove deep into her, immersing himself in her, as if he could never get close enough.

“Rose,”

he groaned and withdrawing thrust again. She moved with him, her hair wild about her, her eyes blurred with desire and pleasure. Her hands slid under his tunic, finding the hard, smooth planes of his chest, and then his mouth was on hers again, taking her cries as she reached her peak, and giving her back his own ecstasy as he followed her to the top.

Stop this, stop it now!

Rose gasped and tried to pull away, straightening her clothing, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment and the knowledge that once again he had breached her ramparts. “No,”

she gasped, “no, I didn’t want…I didn’t mean…”

But Gunnar caught her hand, drawing her back against him, holding her to stillness while he gazed steadily into her eyes.

“There is just you and me,”

he said, like the calm in the storm that was tearing at her, making her head ache. “We are together in this, Rose. Trust me, lean on me. Let me be your shield, just for now. It is what I am good at. And I will hold you close and maybe, for once, I will not feel so alone.”

He looked so sincere. As if he meant it. Rose suddenly wished with all her heart that he did mean it. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Slowly, like an unwilling sacrifice, she relaxed against him. It felt good, so good…

Why not? she asked herself. Take what he offered without guilt or fear, and later, when Somerford was saved, she could end it.

End it? Just like that?

Yes! thought Rose. I will end it…but for now I will take what he offers—and we will both be happy.

She nodded her head almost brusquely, her decision made. He had been still, awaiting her answer. Now he brushed back her hair, and slowly began to kiss her. Soft, tender kisses that grew longer and more passionate, until kissing wasn’t enough, and they lost themselves once more in an act, the meaning of which both of them denied.