The Conqueror

“I did not send them after you, Marcus and his men. ’Twas a terrible accident. I did not tell them your name apurpose, nor where you were.”

“You didn’t?”

She shook her head, still looking over the wall. “I tried to…”

“You tried to what?”

“Stop them,” she said in a voice so small he could not possibly have heard unless he was standing directly at her back. Which he was.

“You tried to stop them,” he repeated softly. His fingertip brushed against the sensitive skin at the base of her neck.

She inhaled sharply.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

His mouth pressed against the nape of her neck. Hot shivers danced out across her skin, like stars. “I know one thing, Raven.”

“What?” she squeaked, because his fingers had slid around her waist.

“You’re going to like what I’m about to do to you.”

Chapter Thirteen

She turned to him just as a gust of wind blew through the embrasure they stood beside. Inside the billowing hood of de l’Ami green spun a sea of ebony curls, framing her upturned face, her cheeks beginning to blush pink from his words.

Griffyn slipped his hand into the warm nest of silk and flesh and cupped the nape of her neck. This intelligent, complicated woman who fairly pulsed with passion was going to be his wife. And suddenly, that did not seem so terrible a thing.

He laced his fingers through her hair, tipped her head back, and kissed her very gently. She shifted, leaned her head back, and opened for him.

There was nothing else to wait for. He deepened the kiss at once, no longer teasing or testing, but taking possession. His blood was charging, hot and slow. His tongue lashed at her, drawing out small whimpers and pants, inflaming him further.

His hands moved restlessly over her body, slipping into the curve of her waist, cupping her rounded bottom, pushing up her spine. And every move he made, Gwyn bent into it, her hands running over his shoulders and chest with equal fervor.

He crowded her against the wall, groaning as he nipped at her lips and neck. Her breath exploded out in a hot rush. Restrained power vibrated in the muscular thighs trapping her against the wall. A pulsing, wicked heat was pounding in her groin, her body aching for more. Slow and hot, the greedy little urges started pulsing between her thighs, making her push her hips forward into his.

“Not here,” he said hoarsely, and grabbed her hand.

How long it took to get back to their room, Gwyn had no idea. If they passed sentries, she didn’t know it. If the castle had caught fire and was burning, she wouldn’t have felt it; her own body was ignited into flaming heat.

But when they entered the bedchamber, everything came into heightened awareness. The low burning fire, the faint scent of wood smoke, one candle still guttering in its holder. The way her skirts rustled against her thighs. The way he was looking at her.

“I am not in an easy way tonight, Guinevere,” he rasped.

“We have ne’er had an easy way of it yet, Griffyn. Just let us be.”

Still standing a foot away, he trailed his fingertips up one side of her body, from hip to arm. It was like a sudden gust of fire, the faint testing of a lion’s claw, restrained and dangerous and only the start. He shifted his hand to the front of her body and did the same long, possessive sweep up, belly to breast. Her body unraveled as if it was uncoiling, her spine arching, her chin coming up, her head dropping to the side, her lips parting, her breath hot and slow.

Griffyn watched her, expressionless. But inside he was burning. His hardness pulsed and demanded release. In her. Slowly, as if he were offering communion, he pressed his thumb to her lips. She opened her lips a fraction wider and ran her teeth across his skin.

He clamped the back of her spine and jerked her to him. “Do you remember what I did to you before?” he asked roughly. His tongue flicked along the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, “At the inn?”

He felt her nod.

“I’m going to do it again.” She sighed, a small, desperate sound. “And more.”

He swiftly unlaced her gown, his fingers flying over the tattered silken ties, then pulled it over her head. Dropping his hand under the collar of the chemise, he scooped the cool weight of her breasts into his hands, pulling them over the top of the thin fabric. Her skin was cool under his hot hands, and he tore the flimsy fabric open from neck to knee, leaving the temptress’s body exposed for his pleasure. Creamy skin, midnight silken hair, lush curves, ripe for a man’s touch, and small red buds puckering, awaiting him.