Medieval Rogues (78 page)

“My wrists feel b-better,” she said.

“Good.” Without asking, without giving her the chance to deny him, he pushed her sleeve higher and continued his sensual assault. A silent growl rattled in his throat, for with each kiss upon her skin, he marked her as his own, and bound her to him with passion.

Soon, he’d win her willing kiss on the mouth.

“What did you wish to ask me?” he murmured against her skin.

“I . . .”

His lips brushed the delicate crease of flesh at her elbow.

“Oh!” she gasped, then shuddered.

He lifted his head to catch the slumberous slant of her eyelids and glow of arousal in her cheeks. He linked his hand through hers and raised it to his lips before kissing her knuckles, a gesture of affection a knight would bestow upon his lady.

Surprise and anguish registered in her gaze. He sensed her desire wavering, as though she stood teetering on the edge of a stone wall, torn between believing him and rejecting him. Refusing to relinquish the intimacy between them, he drew their linked hands to the side, then closed the space between them.

As his body pressed tight to hers, he groaned. His manhood pressed into her lower belly, still shielded from him by her garments, while her soft breasts pressed against his chest.

“Y-you are overly bold!”

“Perfectly bold,” he whispered, kissing her brow, the side of her face, the slope of her cheekbone. A fierce shudder shook him. “I want you, Miranda.”

“I am betrothed—”

“To Bram Hawksley. ’Tis the name, aye, that has been announced in the marriage banns?”

“Aye,” she breathed, while, with a little moan, her hand settled on his bare shoulder. Her light, warm touch . . . His gut squeezed tight at the pleasure.

Looking down into her upturned face, he said, “I am Bram. I swear, upon my father’s grave, that I am the man you kissed years ago.”

“Help me to believe you.” Her wet gaze pleaded. “I ask you to tell me about our first kiss.”

“Then, you will believe I am Bram?”

“If what you say is the truth.”

“I would never lie to you. Your faith in me that night and what I wanted from my life . . . It convinced me to believe in myself. I would
never
spoil what was one of the most perfect moments of my life.”

“Mine, too.” Her beseeching stare bored into him.

Could she feel how fiercely he wanted to say the right words? To finally see acceptance in her eyes? “’Twas late summer. Nighttime,” he began.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“You came to me as I washed in the stable.” He trailed his fingers along her jaw, then cupped her face with his hand. “You were so beautiful in the torchlight. I saw hunger in your eyes. A need that matched my own.”

Her lips parted on a low cry, a sound of desire that drove his need to a sharp pitch.

“Tell me . . . more.”

The throatiness of her voice urged him to press even tighter against her. He could barely think past the feel of her crushed against him, the wanting pounding in his veins, but he must. For her, he must.

“We sat on the hay, laughed, talked.” He shuddered, the closeness of her intoxicating. “Then, we kissed.”

“Aye,” she whispered, tears glistening along her lower lashes.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to touch her. He’d waited so long, dreamed for too long. Desire boiling in his blood, he reached down, slid his hands under her bottom, and lifted her so she sat on the edge of the table, her gown pooling around her dangling legs.

Setting his hands upon her knees, he spread her legs.

As he moved between her thighs, clenching his jaw at the brush of silk against his hungry loins, a gasp broke from her. “Do not be afraid, Miranda. Let me show you pleasure.”

***

A tremor ran through Miranda as his hands slid under her gown to touch her bare calves. She wasn’t afraid. She couldn’t fear what seemed sinfully, deliciously right.

His fingers skimmed up her legs, pushing up her gown as they went. She quivered at the cool air touching her newly exposed skin. Her pulse pounded in a wild rhythm, rendering her dizzy with excitement and yearning and hunger.

Such sensations. Such joy, blossoming inside her. A tiny element of doubt, though, still gnawed at her. While his story rang true, he’d left out a significant detail, one he’d not have learned from the maidservant who’d found straw clinging to her gown. Neither would he have heard of it from her father, who’d demanded a prompt and truthful explanation from her the next morning, before he’d ordered her back to her uncle’s castle two days earlier than planned.

“I gave you . . . a gift that night,” she said, her words broken by an intense shiver as his fingers trailed over her knees.

His cheekbones darkened with a flush, he squinted at her. “Your heart?” His hands slid her gown higher. Like an invisible kiss, cool air touched her womanhood.

“Not just my heart. S-something else.”

He paused, his palms flattening to her legs. The warmth of his rough skin seemed to spread through every part of her body like liquid fire.

His mouth curved. “The ribbon. ’Twas blue silk. You took it from your hair—”

Tears blurring her gaze, she nodded.

“—and tied it around my wrist.” He winked. “I took the ribbon on crusade, hidden in my scabbard. I vow it protected me, and brought me back to England alive. I would still have it, if my scabbard had not been stolen.”

A sob broke past her lips. “Bram.”

“At last, you believe me.” Moisture glistened in his eyes.

“Bram. Oh, Bram.” Catching his head in her hands, she kissed him full on the lips.

He kissed her back, urging her mouth to open, his tongue plunging deep. He kissed her to make her his forever. She sighed and swirled her tongue with his, telling him, without words, how much she’d missed him.

“Miranda.” The way he growled her name sent a thrill shooting through her, even as his hands reached the top of her thighs. His thumbs—oh, mercy—brushed the downy hair between her legs, and she jolted at the shocking sensation.

Even as she broke from the kiss, his thumbs swept into the folds of her womanhood. They glided over her flesh in a slow, gentle stroke, and she gasped at the delicious pressure, and the tingling heat, stirred by his touch.

Even as reason fought to take control of her thoughts, one of his thumbs slid higher, to the secret nub where all the exquisite sensations seemed to coalesce.

She gasped. “Oh—!”

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “
Feel
. I promise, you will enjoy it.”

Before she could nod in agreement, he moved his thumb in light circles. Glorious, unfamiliar sensations began to crest. Quivering, her breath shortening to ragged little gasps, she clung to him. Her body hurtled toward . . . toward . . .

“Bram!” Her body convulsed on a sharp, exquisite burst of pleasure. A cry tore from her lips.

He murmured words she couldn’t understand, words lost in the shuddering bliss that carried her down, down, down, until, with a sigh, her head dropped to his bare shoulder.

His strong arms enveloped her. Eyes closed, she inhaled the earthy, male scent of his skin.

“Bram,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he whispered back, just as a knock rattled the door.
 

Chapter Four

At the brisk rap, Miranda jumped. A blush spread across her face as she drew back from Bram’s embrace, her body still warm and languid from his intimate caressing.

“Milord,” a man shouted through the door.

“A moment,” Bram called back. He swore softly while his arms dropped from around her, and he stepped from between her legs.

Miranda slid from the table’s edge. With shaking hands, she pushed at her bunched gown. Bram tugged the back so the silk fell in a smooth drape. At the brush of his hands, she fought a burst of tiny, hot shivers.

Of all wickedness, her desire for Bram seemed stronger now than ever. Damp heat still burned between her legs, in the secret place where she’d found pleasure. How she ached to experience that spike of sensation again.

“I am sorry for the interruption,” Bram said.

“So am I.”

His intense stare—a promise that he’d gladly bring her to pleasure again—sent fresh excitement racing through her before he turned away. Snatching his tunic from the table, he pulled it on and strode to the door.

“Riders and foot soldiers have entered the forest,” the man outside said. “At least two score men.”

Icy coldness slid to the pit of her stomach. Roden had come for her. Soon, men would die. Mayhap even Bram.

“I will join you in a moment,” he said to the outlaw. “Tell the others to be ready to move.”

Bram closed the door and faced her.

Dread for what was to come heightened the chill inside her. “Do you plan to battle Roden?”

“Aye. Today, in these woods, we will settle the matter of who should be lord of Dreyswell.”

“Bram—”

“Roden will never yield the keep to me, Miranda. His deception has gone too far.” He crossed to her, his features hard with resolve. “The only way for me to get what is mine is to take it back. In blood.”

Bram halted before her. The scent of him, masculine and wonderful, made her tremble. “You are already wounded. After finding you again, I could not bear . . .”

“Have you lost faith in me?” he asked softly.

“Never. But there must be another way to resolve this matter. Take me to Roden. If I can—”

“Nay.” The ferocity of Bram’s tone, the smoldering possession in his stare, sent a fiery thrill whipping through her. “You will stay here, where you will be safe. As I told you before, you are mine, Miranda.”

“If that is so, Bram,” she said with quiet purpose, “then you must let me speak to your brother.”

***

His broadsword at the ready, Bram walked with Miranda toward the road, to the meeting Roden had agreed upon through an exchange of missives a short while ago. Twenty of Bram’s most loyal warriors encircled them, added defense in case Roden planned a surprise attack. Rustling undergrowth either side of the deer trail alerted Bram to more armed outlaws, following in the forest shadows as he’d commanded.

Bram stole a glance at Miranda, hair smoothed, strides elegant, as expected of a well-bred lady. Yet her hands were fisted at her sides, and she stared straight ahead, as though determined to get the confrontation with Roden over with.

Studying the trees ahead, Bram tightened his hold on his sword. Lust for her still hummed like fire in his blood and heightened the battle fever pulsing through him.

He’d die before he let Roden take her from this forest. No other man—especially not Roden—would ever know her sweet passion.

The chime of horses’ bridles carried from the road now directly ahead. Through the thinning trees, he glimpsed armed men, some on destriers. Tension gripped his gut, a sensation he’d experienced often before plunging into a bloody fight.

“Milord!” one of Roden’s men shouted. Warriors streamed down into the forest toward Bram and his men.

Thrusting up a hand, Bram signaled his men to remain ready to retaliate, but, as agreed, they’d not fire the first arrow. That same instant, Bram’s gaze locked with Roden’s. Seated astride a brown destrier, sword drawn, Roden smiled as his lackeys surrounded Bram and his men and herded them to the road.

“Miranda,” Roden called. “Beloved.”

His beloved
. Never! Rage further tightened Bram’s grip on his sword. How he’d love to haul Roden down from his horse and slit his treacherous throat.

Now, more than ever, though, Bram’s actions must be guided by honor. He must prove himself the nobleman he truly was.

Upon reaching the crowded road, Bram motioned for his men to halt. They kept their tight circle around him and Miranda. His senses attuned for any sign of attack, Bram held Roden’s challenging stare across the crowd of fighters between them.

Heedless of the warriors who had to step out of the way, Roden spurred his destrier toward Miranda. He extended his hand, gemstone rings glinting on his fingers. “Come, beloved. Let us get you to safety.”

Not moving from Bram’s side, she smiled at Roden, and Bram clenched his teeth, jealousy leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d promised to trust her, though. He’d never betray a promise to her.

“Thank you for coming to find me, my love,” she said.

“I could not leave you in the clutches of criminals.” Roden smiled back. He halted his horse a safe distance from the outlaws, a line of his men-at-arms still between him and Bram’s men. “Now, come to me.”

“I cannot. Not until the truth of this situation is made clear to all those who are here to bear witness.”

“Truth?” Roden—the deceitful bastard—looked astonished. “What truth is there, but that you were taken hostage by traitors, one of whom tries to claim he is me? The outlaws will die in this forest. They will be slaughtered like mongrels for the distress forced upon you, along with their other crimes.”

Angry mutters spread through the outlaws. With a flick of his hand, Bram urged them to be patient.