Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

He was staring down at her now, a burning expression in his eyes that made her feel quite dizzy. “You said you would pay me in whatever coin I wanted. I want you, my lady. I will spy for you, aye, but only for the payment of my choice. For each piece of information I give to you, I want your body in return.”

Rhona gave a laugh, but it had a forced sound. “You are a servant, Reynard, and I am a lady. Do you not see something amiss in your request?”

“I see a man and a woman.”

“With a great chasm between them. Our positions, our birth, Reynard. There is no comparison.”

He ignored that as if it had no bearing. “’Tis said that you are no maid.”

Heat burned her face, and her hands trembled violently as she gripped them together beneath her cloak. She meant to berate him, to answer him with anger. Instead she heard herself say in a small voice, “Do they?”

“’Tis said your father used your maidenhead as payment for some land on the Welsh border. He would have sold you as a wife, but the man was already wed to some other woman.”

Rhona felt cold, colder even than the air around her. The fur lining of her hood brushed her cheek as she drew it closer, trying to feel warm again. Jesu, how had he heard that? It was supposed to have been secret, something never to be spoken of, hardly ever to be thought of. And now Reynard was stating it out loud, as if it was common knowledge. That her father had bartered her maidenhead when he could not use it in marriage, all for the price of some land on the Welsh Marshes….

“I wonder then that you want me at all,” she managed, her voice husky with repressed emotion, “if you believe such lies about me. Not that it matters what you believe!”

He took a step right up to her. That heady scent of cinnamon again filled her senses. Tugging at them in a way she had never felt before. She was no longer sure she was in control of herself or the situation.

“I do not care what you have done, or what you have been, Rhona. Such things do not matter to me. I want you, and I will tell you all my secrets, and Lord Henry’s, too, if you will pay me as I ask.”

His voice was quiet and compelling, and she found herself believing him. Almost. But he was a servant. She shouldn’t even contemplate granting his request. Men of wealth and power and breeding were different, and she had bartered herself more than once to get what she’d wanted. It had meant nothing to her, she had told herself, and she had felt nothing. Another arrow in her quiver, that was all—she repeated the well-worn phrase. But suddenly it did seem so tempting for her to tell Reynard yes. Her cool, s

cheming mind was in a great deal of conflict with the emotions she kept locked up tight inside her.

It is because he is a servant.

The words repeated in her mind. She had never stooped so low before—to sleep with a servant to gain what she wanted. And yet, as Rhona looked up into Reynard’s strong, handsome face, it didn’t feel like stooping. It felt like want, like need. There was a sensation inside her, warm and liquid and pleasant. It felt like desire.

Rhona had never desired a man before. She had never allowed herself to do so. Far too dangerous. But now she wanted to smooth her fingers over his skin, brush back the untidy lock of hair at his brow, lean into his big, strong body and feel his arms close about her. She wanted to taste his mouth and have his hands cover her breasts. She wanted to have him naked in her bed.

For the first time in her life she wanted a man in her bed for her own pleasure rather than for the sake of some cold, calculating scheme.

“No,” she said and stepped back, putting distance between them. “No, I will not pay you in such a way. It is coin or nought, make your choice.”

She had lost him. She knew it the moment she spoke. He would not bend, he would not change his mind. His way was the only way. Well, so be it! There were plenty of other servants in Gunlinghorn.

But none others so well placed.

“Well? What is your decision?” she asked coldly, pretending indifference when her body felt as tense as a harp string.

Reynard stood before her, big and bold, the look in his eyes telling her he was his own man and not hers. She had thought to bully him into doing her will; she had thought a smile and a gold coin would be enough. It always had been before with such men as he.

“Nay, Lady Rhona. I will not sell myself for money. The deal can only be struck if both of us give up something that matters. Something that is part of ourselves.”

“You are handing me information, Reynard, not the keys to paradise!”

“I am handing you my soul, my lady. You must give me something comparable in return.”

“My body?” she said, louder than she meant. “Where is the glory in that, churl?”

His black eyes slid down her and back, and he smiled. A shudder ran through her, and this time it was definitely not from the cold. “Oh, there would be glory, my lady. Do not doubt it.”

“The answer is no, now let me pass.”

He did not move, continuing to stand in her path. Just as Rhona thought she would have to back down and step around him, he moved aside with a low, mocking bow. Rhona hurried off, her cheeks hot and pink despite the winter’s day.

Churl! She would find someone else. He was not worth the effort. How dare he…how dare he…. Rhona lost the thought halfway through. Her anger was keeping her warm, but beneath it something else lay, cold and hard as ice. Regret. For a moment she had so wanted to say yes.