“Gunnar,” she murmured, as if she knew it was he before she opened her eyes.
She looked so sweet and wanton—he wanted to ride her until they were both breathless. And then, as if she had only just heard her own voice saying his name, her eyes opened wide. He watched the emotions pass through them—shock, and then wariness, and then caution. She did not trust him, and Gunnar could not blame her for that.
He did not really trust her.
“Lady,” he said, as cool as if they were not lying naked in her bed. “Do you have any more orders for me? It is almost dawn and my men will be up soon, and I need to be there to lead them.”
He had surprised her, but she pretended it was not so. She opened her mouth, just as he moved against her, making her aware of his
arousal. “Oh,” she managed, but he knew then she had no intention of sending him away…yet. He lifted himself over her, positioning himself on his elbows so that his weight was barely upon her. One hard thigh slipped between hers. She was warm and soft, and he ached with need.
“Lady?” he whispered, rocking against her, keeping his face calm and remote. A soldier taking his orders; that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To pretend there was nothing in this but animal lust? Well, he could do that, he, too, was good at playing a part—his mother had once called him Loki, the god of lies and deceit. She had said it with a smile, as if she knew better, but he had wondered if one day the smiling liar would overtake the honorable man in him.
Another reason he had wanted to turn his back on his present life forever.
“I…” She cleared her throat, hesitated, and then her hands came to rest lightly on his upper arms. “Captain, as you are already so well prepared, you could…I mean, once more before you go would be…Unless three times is too many?”
She was a complete innocent, despite being the old married woman she had proclaimed herself last night. He had not been misled by her game then, and he was not now.
Gunnar slid smoothly into her and she was wet and ready. He almost smiled. “You doubt my strength?”
“Oh.” she caught her breath. “I…I only feared…That is, Edric could barely manage once every change of the season and—”
His mouth twitched but he still did not smile. “I am not Edric,” he said and, reaching down, lifted her thighs to open her wide to his ministrations.
To his amusement, she tried desperately not to show how much it affected her, but a flush colored her honey skin, and her dark eyes grew blurred. She turned her face away.
“No,” he said harshly. “I want to see you this time. I want to read it in your eyes, the moment when you leave your body behind.”
Slowly Rose changed position again. Last night had been raw enough, but meeting his eyes like this seemed particularly decadent. Why then did she feel a tremor of excitement? Why did his watching her as she reached her peak make her tremble and sigh against him? She might as well admit it to herself. Nothing mattered now but having Gunnar Olafson between her thighs and in her bed.
The movement of his body upon hers was bringing its own pleasure—before she had needed his hand, but now it seemed as if she could find paradise without his aid. Rose gazed into his eyes and read in them the hot rise of desire, and more than that. Satisfaction, maybe, and a glow that frightened her with its intensity.
“Let yourself go, Rose,” he murmured intently. “Now, now…”
One more thrust, and Rose was arching upward with a low trembling cry. She slipped away, beyond the familiar chamber, out into the summer dawn, to dance on the cool breeze. With a low groan, Gunnar followed after her.
When he moved off her, swinging his legs onto the floor, Rose was surprised enough to open her eyes. He had said he would go, but somehow she had still thought he would stay.
Fool! Did you imagine he would remain here all day? What would your people think of that? What would Arno and Lord Radulf think? You cannot just forget your troubles because of the mercenary’s handsome face.
Gunnar Olafson was tugging on his breeches, tying them about his waist. The light was creeping across the land, and now shone weakly through her open window. She could see his back, the muscles rippling and tightening as he bent to pull on his boots. His skin was golden smooth apart from a collection of white scars. The scars had been invisible last night, but now she saw where a sword had struck him a glancing blow, and a knife had slid across his shoulder blade…Each scar must have a tale to tell, and each scar could have meant his death.
Rose shivered.
Gunnar lifted his sword from its place on the window seat, buckling it about his hips. If she had forgotten what he was, then she was reminded now.
A mercenary.
A man who fought and killed for coin. A Viking savage. And yet he had shown her things last night that Rose had never seen or felt before, and she knew deep in her heart that he had changed her forever by simply being with her. How could she ever be the same again?
Her body ached with unfamiliar use, but it was a pleasant ache. Aye, her body was well used and content, but inside Rose felt like weeping. The day was coming upon her so quickly, and bringing with it all the temporarily forgotten problems. And questions. All the decisions still to be made. She faced the fact that she would have liked this moment to go on forever. Jesu, why could they not have lost themselves in each other for a little longer?
He was drawing his worn linen shirt over his head. There was a mend beneath one sleeve. Mayhap, Rose told herself, she could find him a new one. Sew him a new one. And then she stopped the thought cold, remembering what she had said at the beginning. I will give you no gifts. If she went back on her words he would think her weak. Aye, a weak, easily swayed woman—a woman sick with love for him.
You can have my body, but my heart is my own.
He had said that to her last night when she had asked about other women. He had warned her then—Gunnar Olafson was no lovesick ninny. He had given her what she commanded and no more, and now he was leaving.