Rosalind stared down at this man, who had presented her with his heart even after she had trampled it, and wanted to weep.
Instead she knelt in front of him, taking hold of the hand that held the ring out to her, and pressed both to her heart. “I am so sorry for causing you grief, for doubting you. You are the kindest, best man I have ever known. I was blind not to see it. I love you, so very much. And I would be honored to be your wife.”
Before the words were out, ringing through the air with their joy, his mouth was on hers, hard and hot and demanding.
They had come together before this. But now they knew what was in the other’s heart. There was no doubt, no indecision. Most importantly, there was no fear of the future or the past. They belonged to each other, body and soul.
Rosalind felt tears seep from her eyes and trail down her cheek. His thumb was there in an instant, wiping them away.
“I love you,” he murmured, his lips trailing where his thumb had been, a promise louder than words that he would be there to ease every grief, soothe every hurt. He pulled back, his eyes glittering like sapphires in the faint glow of the lamp. And then, taking up her hand, he removed her glove and slid the ring onto her finger.
The metal was cool on her heated skin. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring, the action as powerful as any vow.
“I’m yours,” she whispered, knowing her eyes were as full as his and for once not caring that she wore her heart on her sleeve.
“Thank God,” he groaned, the words a benediction as his lips found hers again.
There was no more room to talk after that. As he plundered her mouth, stealing her very breath, his hands found their way between them. He worked blindly at the fastenings of her cloak, his desperate need unhidden. Rosalind needed no further urging. She shrugged from her outerwear, began in on her dress, helped him as he made short work of her stays. His clothes did not escape their fumbling hands, either. Soon she was in her shift, he only in his trousers.
Her fingers slid greedily over the smooth expanse of his shoulders, reveling in the broadness of them, at the heat of his skin, and the way his muscles bunched under her touch. His hands found their way to her hips, pulling her flush against his arousal.
She tore her mouth free from his on a gasp. “Please, Tristan,” she begged even as her lips found the corded length of his neck. “The bed. Now.”
“I can’t wait for the damn bed,” he growled. In the next moment she was on her back, cushioned by the plush rug beneath her and the pile of their clothing. Her squeak of surprise quickly turned into a moan as his large hands found the hem of her chemise and dragged it up, his lips following in a searing hot path. Over her legs, her hips, her stomach, his lips adored every inch of her exposed skin. And then the shift was up and over her head, and his mouth found the straining tip of her breast, and Rosalind thought she would perish from the ecstasy of it.
He adored her breast, bringing her nipple into his mouth, doing wicked things with his teeth and tongue that had her panting and writhing beneath him. His hands were as busy, splaying across her lower belly before trailing between her thighs. He slid one finger inside her, his groan of satisfaction as he found her wet and ready for him vibrating against her breasts, driving her to new heights.
Rosalind’s body went tight as a bow as his finger was joined by a second. His fingers moved within her, his thumb rubbing circles over her swollen flesh. She gasped, her body bowing. Her fingers dove into his hair, grasping tight, feeling as if she were in the midst of a maelstrom and he was the only safety in the storm.
“I want to feel you come around me,” he gasped. Then his hand was gone, and Rosalind, nearly mad with desire, wanted to cry from the loss. But then his mouth was back on hers, and he was at the entrance of her. There was no hesitation, no resistance this time. In one smooth thrust he was seated to the hilt.
He growled low, the sound vibrating through her. And then he began to move. Slow at first, drawing nearly out of her before he slid inch by glorious inch into her again. Her arms came around him, her legs clasping about his lean flanks. She met each movement of his hips thrust for thrust. Their breaths mingled, coming in harsh pants as their movements quickened, taking her higher. The pleasure built until it was almost pain, until her breaths turned to sobs, begging him for release.
In answer his mouth found hers, swallowing her cries, and his movements became frenzied. She dug her fingers into his sweat-slicked backside, urging him on. Finally, with a hard thrust, she shattered around him. She was flying through the night sky, stars blinding in their brilliance all about her. And Tristan was with her, flying beside her. As he would for the rest of her life.
• • •
Later that night, bundled up in blankets and giggling like a pair of children, Rosalind followed Tristan down to the garden, her hand tight in his. The moonlight was full and fat in the sky, bathing the landscape in a bright, shining silver.
As they hurried down the garden path, the brilliant glint of her engagement ring in the moonlight caught her eye. She grinned, then laughed, the sound freer than it had been in years.
He answered it with a chuckle of his own. Stopping, he spun around, pulling her into his arms. And for the millionth time that night, he kissed her senseless, until she could hardly remember her own name.
When he raised his head, he gave her a lopsided smile. As dizzy as she was from his kisses, she was pleased to see he looked decidedly loopy himself.
“Now tell me,” she said, breathless, “Why you had to come out in the garden in the middle of the night when we could be curled quite warm and cozy in bed.”
“Oh, you may be assured, I have every intention of finding our way back there again, and with all haste.” He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “But for now, I wished to return to where it all started.”
He turned and, with a sweep of his arm, indicated the stone bench when she gave him a curious look. “The place of our first kiss.”
She laid a hand on his cheek. “My, but you are a romantic, aren’t you?”
“You’ve no idea.”
A shiver of anticipation skittered up her spine. For she could not wait to find out how romantic he could be.
For now, however, she joined him on the cold bench, glad for the layers of blankets he had wrapped her in. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The scent of roses enveloped them, and she recalled that long-ago day when she had wished to be a bee so that she could fly over the garden wall and away from him.
