She was distressed to think that Hacon would ignore the blatant invitation with which she had been torturing him for so many days. Yet, she knew that if he did ignore her, it would be the simplest solution to her inner torment.
Her quandary was twofold. She knew that lying with a man who was not her husband was considered a sin. She also knew that she was not yet reconciled to what Hacon was or to the life he led. She certainly was not sure she would gain anything from him aside from passion.
“But it doesnae matter,” she said, then glanced around to be sure no one had heard her talking to herself. “I want this,” she murmured, testing the confession aloud.
Hearing the words brought a sense of affirmation. Hacon made her feel good—very, very good. It had been so long since anything or anyone had done so. Since the very first time she had opened her eyes outside of her mother’s womb she had been shown how quickly life could be cut short. It was possible she might yet find a peace-loving man who would offer her the sanctity of marriage and make her feel as good, but she was not confident that she would be allowed the chance. She would take what she could now, while she was hale and alive, and pray that God would understand and forgive her sin.
“And now that I have made this decision,” she muttered, “Hacon might at least have the courtesy to appear. If he doesnae, I shall have to return to camp feeling the greatest fool in Christendom.”
“And what do ye have to feel the fool about?”
Although she immediately recognized that deep, rich voice, she gave a cry of surprise. Clutching her drying cloth to her chest, she turned to Hacon. It puzzled her that such a large man could approach with such stealth, especially through the thick, overgrown scrub forest that separated her from camp.
“Where is Ranald?” she asked, a little surprised that the stalwart guardian of her privacy had made no sound.
“I sent him away.”
“Ah, the master speaks,” she murmured, wondering why, when she had firmly decided to become his lover, she was feeling shy and just a little bit nervous. “And why am I granted the pleasure of your company?” She was curious to see if he would speak bluntly.
“I am here to answer the invitation with which ye have tormented me since Ripon.”
“I?Ihave tormented you?” She could tell by the way he looked at her that her act of innocence failed to fool him. “Your wits have gone abegging, Sir Gillard.”
“Aye, they must have, or instead of waiting for you, I would have taken ye, as was my right.”
“Your right?”
Before she could begin the argument which he knew she wanted to make, Hacon pointed to the rags she clutched. “Do ye truly believe that hides aught, lass?”
Glancing down, Jennet muttered a curse. She was holding the rag in one fist between her breasts. It hid nothing, simply looked foolish dangling from her hand. A rush of blood tingled in her cheeks as she saw that her thin shift also hid very little, particularly where it had been dampened by her dripping hair. She kept her gaze cast downward until she forced her embarrassment aside and looked up, only to discover Hacon had moved closer—a lot closer. If either of them took a deep breath, their bodies would brush together.
The last time she had seen him he was wearing only his braies and Dugald was plucking out his stitches. Now he wore his belted plaid. His strong, bare legs showed beneath the skirt, and his equally bare torso was hardly hidden by the length of cloth brought over one shoulder. There was enough dampness to his long hair to tell her he had paused for a thorough wash before seeking her out.
“What I have on hides nearly as much as what ye are wearing,” she murmured.
“In but a moment I mean to have us wearing even less.”
“Aye? Do ye forget that ye have more stitching in you than in your jupon?”
“My stitches are gone. I am hale—and eager.”
That was clear to read in the darkening warmth of his eyes. “And what of the enemy? Should ye not stay alert for them?”
“Even the English wouldnae be so cruel as to disturb me on this day.”
“I shouldnae wager my sword on it, Sir Gillard.” She gave a start of surprise when he suddenly cupped her face in his hands. Clearly, he was weary of talk.
“Do ye mean to take back the invitation ye have offered these last days, an invitation plain in all but words?”
“Nay.”
“Are ye certain ye ken what I ask of you?”
“I was in the nunnery but one year,” she said. “Ere I fled to its confines, I wasnae blind to life’s ways. Aye, I ken weel what ye want of me.”
His response was a kiss. It was a slow, deep kiss with a hint of ferocity. Her desire for him swiftly rose, warming her. Passion pushed away all thought of war, of man’s brutal grasp for power, of the innocents hurt and the dead forgotten. She let the passion possess her fully, gave herself over to it, craving its sweet oblivion.
She clung to him as he covered her face and neck with warm kisses. Then he softly cursed. Slowly she opened her eyes. Hacon was glaring down at her shift. Following his gaze, she saw how he fumbled with the laces. Gently, she placed her hands over his, stilling them.
