The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“You are wrong,” she whispered.

He chuckled softly, and opening his lips, kissed her long and deeply. Everything shifted. She felt as if her entire world narrowed until it was centered on Gunnar and his mouth on hers, his body against hers, hard and heavy. Rose moaned and slid her hands about his neck.

His hand found her breast, gently squeezing, and she arched against him. “I know how much you ache and burn, Rose. I understand, because I ache and burn, too.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, watchful, cautious, but intrigued despite her doubts. “Do you?” she asked, surprised at the breathlessness of her voice.

“Lady, you know I do.” His mouth was against her cheek, her temple, her throat. He rolled to his side, carrying her with him, holding her firm against his body. “You have only to look at me, Rose, and I want you. You laugh and tell me those women think I am a flower, but lady, I would sup upon your nectar all day.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it—the thought of Gunnar supping…But his eyes were dark and there was a tension in his smile she already knew.

He wanted her; he didn’t lie about that.

She slid her hand down over the rigid muscles of his belly and closed her fingers over his manhood, where it strained eagerly against his breeches.

“You are very hard, Captain,” she murmured. “Is that for me or do you plan to take the Mere women one by one?”

He choked, and then he had rolled over again, this time pinning her beneath him, one of his thighs pressed between hers, his hands either side of her face. “I want you,” he said, and, bending his head, kissed her until her head was spinning. His fingers were determined as he lifted her skirts, slipping into her soft folds and finding her as eager as he. Rose tugged at the ties of his breeches and slid them down, freeing him. He lifted her hips and immediately drove deep into her, immersing himself in her, as if he could never get close enough.

“Rose,” he groaned and withdrawing thrust again. She moved with him, her hair wild about her, her eyes blurred with desire and pleasure. Her hands slid under his tunic, finding the hard, smooth planes of his chest, and then his mouth was on hers again, taking her cries as she reached her peak, and giving her back his own ecstasy as he followed her to the top.

Stop this, stop it now!

Rose gasped and tried to pull away, straightening her clothing, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment and the knowledge that once again he had breached her ramparts. “No,” she gasped, “no, I didn’t want…I didn’t mean…”

But Gunnar caught her hand, drawing her back against him, holding her to stillness while he gazed steadily into her eyes.

“There is just you and me,” he said, like the calm in the storm that was tearing at her, making her head ache. “We are together in this, Rose. Trust me, lean on me. Let me be your shield, just for now. It is what I am good at. And I will hold you close and maybe, for once, I will not feel so alone.”

He looked so sincere. As if he meant it. Rose suddenly wished with all her heart that he did mean it. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Slowly, like an unwilling sacrifice, she relaxed against him. It felt good, so good…

Why not? she asked herself. Take what he offered without guilt or fear, and later, when Somerford was saved, she could end it.

End it? Just like that?

Yes! thought Rose. I will end it…but for now I will take what he offers—and we will both be happy.

She nodded her head almost brusquely, her decision made. He had been still, awaiting her answer. Now he brushed back her hair, and slowly began to kiss her. Soft, tender kisses that grew longer and more passionate, until kissing wasn’t enough, and they lost themselves once more in an act, the meaning of which both of them denied.

Chapter 18

“Gunnar Olafson?” It was Godenere’s voice from beyond the doorway in the shadows.

Light was fading from the day, and Rose had been asleep in the smoky darkness, lying in Gunnar’s arms. They had not left the hut, and when food was brought to them, a crowd accompanied the meal and then faded away with the emptied dishes.

Rose’s villagers believed the merefolk had tails in place of legs. Now Rose understood how it felt to be looked on as a freak.

“This is all to do with you,” she had told Gunnar.

But he had looked at her and, smiling, shaken his head. “No, lady. ’Tis you they come to look at. Your beauty holds them spellbound. The goddess from the castle, that is you.”

Rose had laughed, delighted with the compliment, even if she didn’t believe it. She stretched up to kiss his rough cheek. The stubble was turning into a young beard, but it was so fair it was barely noticeable unless she was close, unless she brushed her fingers across his skin.

What was it about him that made her chest ache? This feeling inside her, this swelling of happiness and pain, of longing…It wasn’t sensible to allow herself to be carried away on this wave of emotion. She would be much wiser to step back from him, hold herself aloof…

“Gunnar Olafson?”

Godenere’s voice came again, more insistent.