The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

For a long moment he was her anchor, the calm center of her spiraling world. His hard, ungiving body was pressed to her soft curves. He was a creature made for war and fighting, a warrior. But he wanted her, and just now she held greater power over him than any armored opponent. Her trembling fingers slid into his hair, feeling the silky, damp fibers. Feverishly Rose knew she wanted to touch all of him, be free to allow her hands to roam where she willed. That was when the stark truth became clear to her.

Kissing wasn’t enough.

Mayhap Gunnar felt the same, for suddenly he was moving, half carrying her. A few steps and they were beyond the reach of the betraying torch, hidden in the shadows by the wall. Rose knew she should protest, but his big hands had curved over her shoulders and around, stroking down the arch of her back, finding the dent of her waist and closing on the rounded flesh of her bottom. He pulled her closer and she felt the hard prod of his manhood against her belly.

His mouth savaged hers, almost brutal now in his need, but she did not pull away from him. Rose pressed closer, arms twined about his neck, her body melded to his. She was completely beyond the reach of the scolding voice in her head, everything forgotten but these new, wondrous sensations. Her breasts, flattened against that hard chest, felt painfully full, her nipples hard as pebbles. Could he feel them through his tunic? It seemed that he could, for he rubbed himself back and forth against her, at the same time using his grip on her bottom to lift her high onto her toes.

The soft mound between her thighs came to rest on the hard, solid ridge between his.

Rose gasped into his mouth, and at the same time Gunnar groaned. A shudder went through him, and he moved slowly against her, easing himself in yet closer. Pleasure sang through her, melting flesh and bone. For an endless moment Rose thought she would join him in the mindless dance that was their destination, and then his voice, harsh and low and barely recognizable, brought her thumping back to cold reality.

“I want you. Do not play with me, lady. I’m not one of your tame Normans.”

Her chest was rising and falling violently. She felt heated and achy, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her breasts painful. Lower, between her legs, where Edric used to lie so ineffectually, there was a wild sensation that was unfamiliar and urgent. She wanted to ride upon his manhood. She felt wholly carnal, sensual…totally unlike herself.

Aye, there was power here, and much pleasure to be taken, but Rose was afraid. She stood on the brink of the precipice, and was frightened of what she would see in the chasm below.

That was when the voice in her head broke through.

What are you doing? Swooning in his arms like one of those silly serving wenches? He is a Viking savage, a mercenary, and you are the Lady of Somerford Manor!

Gunnar sighed, evidently reading the answer in her eyes. He stepped back, his blue eyes, turned almost black with arousal, fixed on her face. Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. She felt the chill of his leaving. Rose took a shaky backward step away, only this time he did not reach out to steady her. Instead, he stood watching her, silent and unmoving, as she took another step, and then another…And then she was turning and running in full flight toward the stairs that led to the floor above.

Gunnar stood listening to her retreat. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had come to the hall to make sure all was well, or so he had persuaded himself. Instead he had found Lady Rose…He had lost his famous control—he didn’t need the painful throb of his body to remind him of that. Lost it? Great Odin, it had shattered like thin ice when a fire is lit upon it! Yet he could not regret learning what she felt like under his hands, his mouth, his body. She was so sweet and so hot, and he wanted more.

Much, much more.

Rose was certain she would never sleep. Her mind was churning and her body still ached in a manner that embarrassed and shocked her. She tossed and turned, trying not to think of those brief, vivid moments with the mercenary captain. But the day had been a long one and dreams finally claimed her.

After wandering for a time in misty darkness, she found her dreaming self nearing Burrow Mump. As she approached, the earth suddenly opened into a cavernous hole, stretching back into nothingness. Out of the blackness sprang the ghostly warriors, their hair like smoke and the muscles of their chests and arms gleaming. Warhorses tossed long manes and snorted white breath, their hooves making no sound as they galloped through the air.

Terrified, Rose turned to run

. Too late. She had hardly taken a step when she felt an iron arm close about her waist. Abruptly she was swept up, her feet dangling in nothingness, and drawn in against her captor.

All the strength seemed to drain from her then, as it was wont to do in dreams.

“Let me go!” she cried, but her voice had no substance. She turned, trying to see his face, but there was nothing there. Only the velvet night sky with stars blazing. As her eyes fluttered closed, something brushed against her cheek, and reaching up she felt a tendril of hair. His hair. Her fingers tangled in the long strands and found a narrow braid.

In the dream Rose opened her eyes. The braid lay threaded through her fingers, lustrous in the starlight.

It was the color of copper.

Chapter 7

Rose was pretending it hadn’t happened.

The fact that she had allowed the Viking mercenary to kiss her was…well, impossible. Not to be borne. The feel of his mouth on hers—hot and urgent, making her head swim—had stayed long after he had released her. Indeed, was with her still. She had allowed Gunnar Olafson to kiss her, to fondle her—and she had kissed and fondled him back.

Heat crept into her face. Even now the sense of need pooled in her belly and quickened her heartbeat. Lust, that was what it was. What else could it be? She had known the man for a day.

Rose withdrew into her thoughts while she went about her tasks, hardly knowing what she did.

Her tasks were many.

The villagers had to be fed and cared for and comforted. Most of them were keen to return to their homes or to begin rebuilding, but there were others who had no wish to leave the safety of the keep. Places had to be found for them to sleep there in the great hall or in the bailey, and tasks had to be set them. Somerford Keep did not feed idle hands, could not afford to. It was summer, but the harvest would not begin until next month, and food was scarce. Ironically, it was during summer, while waiting for the harvest, when most of the peasants in England starved.

With such serious matters to consider, Rose knew she should not be remembering the feel of Gunnar Olafson’s lips on hers.