The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

But it was none of these.

She already knew who it was.

Mayhap it was the physical impression of size, of a big warm body close behind hers. Mayhap it was his musky male scent, tangled with that of leather and cloves. Mayhap she just knew.

And that frightened her, because it meant there was a link between them. She did not want that; it frightened her so much she could hardly breathe.

Slowly, unwillingly, Rose turned.

He was standing even closer than she had thought. A large and imposing Viking. His strong legs were encased in those tight dark breeches that clung to every line and muscle, while the blue tunic covered his wide shoulders and chest and the bulging muscles of his arms. The tunic was unlaced at his throat, and Rose could see a pulse beating in the shadowy hollow there. His copper hair was damp—perhaps he had poured water over it—and the rich color was muted further by the light of a failing torch on the wall close by. Broad forehead and wide jaw, high cheekbones and narrow nose; the masculine beauty of his face caused a hitch in her breathing.

His presence was overwhelming and Rose stepped back too hastily, stumbling and almost falling. Swiftly, instinctively, he steadied her. The grip of his fingers around her arm was firm and yet gentle, as if he were well aware of his greater strength and was taking care not to hurt her. “My lady?” he murmured softly, mindful of those about them sleeping.

Rose moved to shake off his hand with a curt thank you. Instead, as she looked up at him, she suddenly had a glimpse beyond the handsome looks that held all the women of Somerford in thrall. He is weary! she thought, stupidly surprised that a man like this could feel the same ups and downs as normal folk. There were dark shadows under his brilliant eyes, and the lines between his brows looked more marked. Red-gold stubble covered his lean cheeks and strong jaw, and he held his lips pressed hard together, thinning their normally firm shape.

Slowly, trancelike, Rose became aware that he was consuming her with his gaze, just as she was consuming him.

The strain on his face grew—did he struggle against some compelling emotion, some aching need? Struggled and lost.

He lifted his hand.

He is going to touch me.

No! Stop this, stop it now!

But Rose couldn’t find the strength to stop it. She didn’t want to.

He had long fingers with callused pads and scarred backs, and yet as he brushed them across her cheek his touch was so soft, so gentle, it was barely a touch at all.

Her flesh burned.

Rose heard her own gasp, felt the blood surge beneath her skin, heard her heart begin to beat faster. His closeness was making her dizzy—it was as if she were slowly spinning, around and around.

Frightened, looking for a diversion, Rose did the first thing she thought of—asked the question that had been occupying her before he came. “What happened to the man in the village?” Was that her voice, low and husky, so sensual?

Gunnar cupped her face, molding the delicate shape of cheek and jawline. He eased off the metal circlet that held her veil in place, and plucked the length of fine cloth from her hair.

For a moment he simply stared, and then he pulled undone the leather strip that fastened her braid, and thrust his hands into the thick mass of her hair, setting it free. It billowed like a dark cloud about her head and shoulders.

A faint, satisfied smile curled his mouth, his rigid control allowing for no more. That was what it was, Rose realized abruptly. Control. Gunnar Olafson reined in his emotions like a restive horse, forcing them to obey his will. He was a man of iron.

And yet he wanted her. It was there in the stark, tense lines of his face and body; it was burning bright and hard in his eyes.

The knowledge that she had shaken that control, that she had shaken him, pleased Rose in a completely feminine way. There was power here, the sort of power she had never experienced before. It felt exhilarating; it was a secret, voluptuous quivering, deep inside her.

Rose tilted her head back, keeping her eyes fixed on his, feeling his fingers tense against her skull. His answer came at last, a whisper.

“I don’t know. That is something yet to be discovered.”

Rose’s voice trembled like winter reeds on the Mere. “Something you don’t know, Captain? It surprises me to hear you admit it.”

Again Gunnar gave her that faint smile, his eyes half hidden by his lashes. There was something so compelling about him, so irresistible. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, all of him. The need was swelling within her, building like a fire in dry tinder. She had always feared giving too much of herself to a man, but this feeling was so strong it was able to swallow up her aversion to intimacy.

He cupped her face with warm hands. His thumb rubbed gently against her soft lips, testing the shape and texture of them. Rose parted them slightly, touching his flesh with the tip of her tongue. He shuddered, his iron control crumbling.

Her head was spinning faster. She knew she was going to kiss him, and knew she couldn’t stop herself. Just once wouldn’t hurt…would it? As Rose stretched up to his lips, Gunnar was leaning down. His mouth brushed softly against hers, and then he slanted his lips and opened them just a little bit, enough so that his tongue could taste her.

Rose lost all the strength in her legs. She sagged, leaning in against him, clinging to his shoulders. With a soft murmur she opened her mouth to him, and groaned as his tongue plundered within.