The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

When he spoke at last his tone was ironic. “Were you sleeping that you did not hear my knock, lady?”

“Did you think I had gone back on my word, Captain?”

“I wondered.” He stepped further into the room—he was so big, he crowded her despite his distance. “You called me Gunnar last night…lady.”

Rose had set out her words in her head, but he was making it difficult for her to remember them. She licked her lips and tried to regain her composure.

He took yet another step, looking directly at her, one hand still resting on his sword hilt, the other loose at his side. Was he stalking her? A wolf edging closer to its prey? Rose rushed into her speech before her courage could fail her entirely, but her voice was hurried and breathless.

“A man like you, Captain, must be well versed in what women like most. That is why I have chosen you—I require the best.”

His face was beyond the soft light of the candle now, but she thought he smiled, as if the shambles of her carefully prepared speech had amused him.

“I have been a wife, so do not think I am innocent of the ways of men,” she went on with grim determination. “I want a bedmate, nothing more. Do not think to win me to your ambitions, whatever they be. I will not give you gifts, Captain, nor will I promise to further your career or sing your praises to those high in the land. This is a private matter, between us, and whether it lasts for one night or…or more, we will not speak of it beyond these walls. Do I have your word on that?”

He was silent now, watching her, the secrets hiding in his face. What was he thinking? Rose wondered, her body tense as she perched stiffly upon the window seat. Was he going to refuse her? Laugh at her? She remembered that he had taken a long time to consider her last request for a promise, in the hall the night Edward came begging for permission to open the gate. Maybe he was simply weighing the benefits to himself in this new arrangement.

“You have my word, lady.”

He came at her again, and now he was nothing but a dark shape against the pitiful candle. A huge dark shape. Rose looked up, trying to see his face. He stretched out a hand and she felt his fingers brush against her hair, lingering, so gentle for such a big, powerful man. Would he be as gentle when he laid her upon the bed and took her as a man takes a woman?

Startled and made breathless by the thought, Rose jumped to her feet and slid out of his reach. He did not move, watching her, waiting. His stillness was intimidating, as if he was gathering his strength for the next assault on her senses. She wanted him—her body was warm, so warm. Her hands shook, her legs trembled. She could smell her own desire, the musky scent of a woman who wanted a man. And still she pretended she was in control of the situation.

“I command you to take off your clothes, Captain,” Rose said, her voice brave.

He did not move. Mayhap, she thought shakily, he would refuse? March angrily from the room? She almost hoped he would, for then she would be able to breathe normally again. Be herself again.

Be alone again…

“Your command is my wish,” he said, his voice soft and deep, like a hot brand too close to her skin. And—Jesu!—he was unbuckling his sword belt, slowly, purposefully. It came free, and he glanced about him, and then decided to place it carefully upon the window seat where Rose had lately been seated. Next came his brown tunic, and he lifted this over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor at his feet.

Now he wore only his breeches, leather boots, and a white linen shirt. The shirt was worn so thin that his skin shone golden through it, and the laces were untied to halfway down his chest. Rose caught glimpses of the hard, curving muscles that covered that wide, wonderful chest.

She folded her arms hard about herself, tugging the robe around her as if it were chain mail and would somehow protect her from him. The truth was she had only her position as protection, but as long as she kept her head he would not know how weak and feeble she was before him.

Do not let yourself love. It was her mother’s voice. Brown eyes, so much like Rose’s, were hollow with pain as she gave her daughter the only advice she had to give. Do not let yourself want. And if you do…don’t let him know it. Remember, ’tis men who have all the power in this world.

Gunnar lifted his white shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor at her feet. Rose forgot her mother’s warning as all thought was wiped from her mind.

He was built like a god.

All hard muscle and

golden skin. He was so strong, his shoulders broad, his arms powerful, his chest a hard wall, narrowing down to his waist and stomach, to where the breeches covered him like a second skin. Rose wanted to groan aloud. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over all that magnificence, she wanted to lean into him and kiss his mouth.

He was untying the laces on his breeches, his blue eyes fixed on her. Rose caught her breath as the waist loosened, and for a moment he let them fall as far as they could. A line of darker hair ran from his stomach down into the shadows of his groin. Was he teasing her? But even as the doubts threatened to bring her back from the brink, he was peeling the breeches slowly down over his hips and thighs.

He was already aroused. His manhood jutted toward her, so big…No wonder he had laughed when she trembled before the carving of Ottar. Surely Edric had never been so big? How would she manage? Rose lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and began to chew on one of her already ragged nails.

Gunnar finished tugging his breeches down over his powerful thighs, pushing the cloth past his knees, and then quickly pulling off his boots and completing what she had commanded him to do. When he straightened he was completely naked, and Rose was sure that her heart stopped in her breast.

He was beautiful, with the sort of masculine perfection she had not believed possible until now. He was the sort of man that women were drawn to despite themselves—no wonder they had gazed, bedazzled, at him in the hall. Rose could not despise them now, for she was just as smitten by him as all her womenfolk.

But Gunnar Olafson was not just beautiful, he had a magic ingredient that enslaved her senses. She didn’t just want to touch him, she wanted to possess him. And that made her present position dangerous, much more dangerous than she had imagined.

“I do not think,” she managed, her voice trembling violently. “I fear that I cannot—”

Suddenly he was there, although she did not remember him moving. His body was so close now she felt his heat, smelled his male scent; his copper braids swung forward as he bent his head and searched her face with his bright, brilliant gaze. His voice was implacable. “Yes, lady, you can. And you will.”