“I want it. I cannot deny that.”
“Enough to spread your legs for me whenever I say?”
How could she have forgotten his cruelty, or how much she hated it, when that was what she was trying to end? Obviously, what passed between them during the night had changed him not a whit, which was a crushing realization—but she was forgetting that he did not believe she really wanted him, and that was why he was taunting her now. And she could think of no further way to convince him, be it lie or not.
It made her angry, suddenly, to have failed so completely. Why could the man not simply accept what she offered? Why did he have to search for hidden motives?
And his damn question—well, she was just angry enough to spread her legs wide beneath the cover, just wide enough for him to notice, and taunt him back. “Come, then, Sir Dragon, and breathe your fire on me.”
His frown turned black as sin. “I want a reason, wench, and I want it now.”
She began heatedly, glaring right back at him. “You are cruel in all your demands, vengeful in all your motives, yet when you touch me, you are naught but gentle.” She was amazed that the words were coming to her after all, and so she quickly amended her tone, adding uncertainty to it, and a blush for good measure. “I did not want to admit it to myself, certainly not to you, but I find I—I crave your touch.”
God’s mercy, but she was getting good at lying. And his expression changed. She could tell that hewantedto believe her, and that—that put a tightness in her throat that was distinctly unpleasant.
“Were you so hot for my body, you would not wait this long to tempt it into pleasuring you again. Must I needs teach you the ploys of a whore?”
The insult did not touch her this time, for she recognized it for what it was, an attempt to fight the temptation to believe her. Did he think no woman could want him without an ulterior motive? She recalled Emma’s words that the women were awed that she did not fear him. And Mildred had said that for half his life he had been the hard, vengeful man he was today. Was that all he expected then, fear? And what woman could truly want him if she feared him?
She spared a moment to wonder why she did not fear him anymore, before she put her hand to the center of his chest to push him down from his half-leaning position. “Mayhap you will have to teach me, my Lord Warrick,” she said softly, now leaning over him. “I have some little advice to go by, yet I am sure I could benefit from more.”
Her hand slipped under the cover and she found to her amazement that he had not been immune to their close proximity. Neither had she. Nor was she immune to touching him. It should have been difficult. She should have had to force herself. But it was easy, too easy—she liked doing it. So did he. His eyes closed. His breathing quickened. And ’twas not long before she was flat on her back again, with his mouth fastened on hers, and his hands paying her back in kind for the sweet torment she had just brought him.
But before he got around to giving Rowena what she now desperately wanted, Bernard walked into the chamber unannounced, as was his habit. The poor boy went up in flames of embarrassment when he saw that Warrick would not appreciate being disturbed, and to give him credit, he did try to leave without disturbing the occupied occupants of the bed. But Warrick was too much a man of war and quick responses not to have heard the intrusion.
He lifted his head to snarl, “What?”
And Bernard could only stammer, “Father…here…with bride.”
Rowena heard the message in confusion. Since Warrick’s father was supposedly dead, the squire might mean his own father, or one of Warrick’s two fathers-in-law. But that word “bride” half succeeded in blunting her aroused senses.
Warrick, however, suffered no bewilderment over the cryptic message. “Are they only approaching Fulkhurst, or have they already arrived?”
The calmness of that question gave the boy back his own composure. “They are within the hall, my lord, and are desirous of your presence. Do I tell them—?”
“Tell them naught. I will be there in a moment to make them welcome.”
Rowena gathered from that answer that Warrick was not going to finish what they had started, and her body was screaming in protest. Her face, however, was utterly void of expression when he turned his attention back to her. His was not. He looked frustrated, chagrined, and after he studied her for a moment, resigned.
“Lord Reinard’s timing leaves much to be desired.” He sighed and rolled away from her.
She found she wanted to grab him back to her. That word “bride” was now giving her a distinct chill. But she did naught to let him know how disturbed she suddenly was.
’Twas safe, however, for her to ask, “Is Lord Reinard one of your fathers-by-marriage?”
“Soon-to-be.”
There it was, her worst fear confirmed. Gone now was her opportunity to gentle this man. With his betrothed arrived, he would no longer dally with Rowena. And soon a wife would share this bed with him. What, then, would he do with his prisoner? Put her back in his dungeon? Make her serve both him and his new bride?
“So your betrothed is found,” she said tonelessly as she watched him rummage through a chest for clothes, something splendid, no doubt, for his precious Lady Isabella. “At least that is one crime no longer set at my door.”
He gave her a sharp look. “Do not count yourself free of blame yet, wench, until I learn what, exactly, has kept her missing these many weeks.”
She said naught to that. She did not care what the lady’s excuse was; she only knew that she wished Isabella had not been found. And that was a disturbing realization, for she should not care either way.
Warrick was ignoring her again, his mind on his waiting guests. Rowena could not ignore him as easily, though her mind was likewise on his guests. But even as her worry increased about how this new situation would affect her, her eyes were fastened to Warrick’s splendid nakedness, the long bare flanks so thickly muscled, the tight curve of his buttocks, the muscles bunching and rippling on his broad back with his movements. Strength and power in every hard line, and…beauty, aye, there was beauty in such stark masculinity. In no wise could she deny it, nor the need still coursing through her to feel that splendid body pressed tightly to hers.
He turned slightly before he bent to put on his braies, and she saw that the same need was still prevalent in him also, though he was ignoring it just as he was ignoring her—at least that was what she thought until her eyes drifted up again to find that he had caught her in her blatant scrutiny of him.
