“You are asking my forgiveness?” She gasped.
He slipped easily to one knee. “Yes.”
She could not believe it, this was a dream. He was here, bowing before her, asking her forgiveness. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she said softy, tears of joy falling.
He rose. “Your generosity has always overwhelmed me,” he said huskily.
She touched his face. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes, a ragged sound escaping, then pulled her slowly into his embrace. He held her tightly for a long, long time. “I cannot live without you,” he finally said against her ear. “I cannot. If this is love, then I have been smitten.”
She leaned back in his embrace to look up at him and saw tears glimmering in his eyes. She knew better than to comment upon them, however, and she smiled though her own vision was quite blurred. “If you do not know how to love, then I will gladly teach you,” she whispered.
He smiled too, shakily. “You are a good teacher, you could teach me anything. Ceidre”—his tone lowered —“teach me love. Teach me—now.”
She took his beautiful face in her hands and kissed him, with all the tender love she felt. Yet, ’twas impossible, they were lusty souls, and the kiss turned deep and hard and frantic. When he pulled her against him she felt his sex, thick and hard, and she laughed, weeping at the same time.
“’Tis a sign of my love,” he told her, kissing her again.
They separated to walk hand in hand, with urgency and many sidelong, burning glances, to her cottage. He embraced her instantly, seeking her mouth with hot, hard lips. Ceidre clung, shaking. She could not bear to be apart from him for another moment.
He laid her on the pallet and undressed her, running his hands over her reverently, over her face, her neck, her breasts, and her hips. He stroked her swollen belly. “You are so beautiful, Ceidre,” he told her. “Yet your beauty is not just of the flesh.” He looked at her. “’Tis of the soul.”
“What a wonderful thing to say,” she whispered.
His eyes were shining suspiciously. “You grow my babe,” he muttered thickly, his hand exploring her stomach’s contours. Then he corrected, “Our babe.”
She laughed, a joyous sound.
He bent and kissed one full breast, then her navel, her belly. She gasped when he kissed the triangle of hair between her thighs. “What are you doing, my lord?”
“Rolfe,” he corrected. He spread her thighs and kissed her again, this time his tongue flicking deeply into her. She gasped. “I love you,” he said. He froze, then looked up. Their gazes met.
She smiled slightly. He would learn, he was already learning. Then her smile abruptly faded, because he lowered his head and was licking her with his tongue, lifting the bud of her flesh, gently drawing it into his mouth. She came in a violent, arching climax, and when she was through, he slid into her, his gaze hot and brilliant. “You will never want to leave me,” he whispered in her ear, stroking steadily.
“I never wanted to leave you,” she told him frankly, and then there were no words, just touches, kisses, and their bodies fused and pushing rhythmically together, until their world shattered brilliantly, as one.
“Will you return with me?” he asked, many hours later.
Ceidre was stirring a stew, and she turned. She saw the anxiety in his gaze, and her heart went out to this strong, proud man who had learned to ask, not demand, who beneath his warrior’s armor was flesh and blood, heart and soul. “Yes. I love you, Rolfe.”
He smiled with genuine pleasure and came to her, wrapping her in a hug. “I need your love, sweeting,” he said. “I cannot live without it.”
She turned to face him. “Does this mean you forgive me for Cavlidockk?”
“Yes,” he said. “You are a patriot, as am I.”
Their gazes held. Many unspoken thoughts and worries flew between them. “We must talk,” Rolfe said heavily, and taking her hand, he guided her to the table.
“I am sorry,” he said slowly, “that I am Norman and you are Saxon. Yet you do love me.”
She heard the question. She would reassure him forever if she must. “I do.”
He smiled slightly, then continued. “I am sorry Morcar is dead, truly. Your brother is imprisoned. At least he is alive. Can you accept me as lord of Aelfgar, Ceidre?” His tone was blunt.
“I do.” She was sad and joyous at once. “There are things we cannot control, I cannot control. I have grieved endlessly for Morcar, and I grieve for Ed. But I love you. Rolfe, I will never betray you again.”
“I know.” He hesitated. “Ceidre, there is something you must know. When you return, you will still be the king’s prisoner. I cannot change that. I can attempt to talk to William, and I will, but he does not forgive treason readily, and the truth is, I doubt he will lift your sentence. To return”—he took a breath—“is to put yourself back in my custody.”
