Her thighs clenching around him, she drew him closer, the tremors of her release trembling through her in splendid rhythm with the thunderous pull of his own.
And then a brilliant whiteness seized him, a spinning whirlwind of sensual ecstasy so powerful, so intense, he could scarce breathe.
He almost roared with the glory of it and even thought he heard her cry his name, but his blood pounded so fiercely in his ears, he couldn’t be sure.
So he simply held her, and hoped she’d called out to him.
He knew she’d found her ease.
And he’d found the veriest of heavens.
* * *
Hold her legs wide.
Whore.
The words…the taunts and jeers…began even before her champion slipped back into the deep sleep she’d pulled him from. They came at her from the shadows, long-suppressed images crashing onto the wildest shores of her memory, haunting her even as triumph of their splendid passion still washed over her.
Ghosts of the past, returning to damn her.
And steal the freedom she thought she’d seized at last.
Lying perfectly still, she tried to close her ears to the long-faded slurs, the brutal visitations of pain best forgotten. She shut her eyes, hoping to cling to the bliss of being wrapped so protectively, so lovingly, in her champion’s arms, but the images followed her.
Cold and relentless, inescapable as the incoming tide, her darkest hour rose to claim her, sneaking into her bedchamber, stealing round her curtained bed, and even pulling back the bed hangings to leer at her.
An assemblage of jeering apparitions gathered in the predawn gloom to gleefully declare their hold on her. To superimpose their cruel, lust-crazed faces over her husband’s beloved one, and remind her that the arms now holding her, wereEnglisharms.
Would always remind her oftheirEnglish arms.
And to assure her they would never leave her. Never allow her to fully love him. Not as he deserved to be loved.
Sir Marmaduke Strongbow should be loved with a full and glad heart. Not one he’d have to share with the shadows of a past she couldn’t flee.
And so, as carefully as she could, she pushed up on her elbow to peer down at him, determined to see onlyhisface and, blessedly, she did.
His face was relaxed and beautiful in sleep, his scar not marring, but highlighting his handsomeness – the shining glory of a truly noble heart.
A champion’s heart.
She smoothed her fingers over his hair, her heart welling as her fingertips skimmed over the singed parts…another badge of honor, another reason he needed a woman who could love him fully, with all her heart and not just her passion.
Her own heart wrenching, she slipped from the bed. Deep in an exhausted sleep, he didn’t even notice her leave. Or perhaps he did, for he rolled onto his side and thrust out an arm, moving his hand over the bed sheets as if he sought her warmth.
And have you decided, my lady?
She started, hearing the words as surely as if he stood before her, hands on her shoulders and looking down at her with his special smile.
The rare one that brought out his dimples.
“Have I decided what, my lord?” she spoke into the quiet, her voice soft and tremulous, so tight was the burning constriction in her throat.
“Have I decided what?” she asked again, reaching for him, almost touching her hand to his pitifully singed hair.
If I am a charmer of women?
A spell-caster?
