She leaned over the wall. Forty soaring feet of ashlar stone lay in crumbles for half the length of the wall. Papa had had the money but not the time. Gwyn had possessed neither. The accompanying defensive tower was sixty feet of tumbling stone. Together they posed more danger to a passerby than a besieging army.
“The masons are coming,” Griffyn said quietly, pointing. “The tower, the chapel, will be rebuilt.”
She smiled.
“And over there,” he swept his arm northwards. “We’ll build the kitchens.”
“We have kitchens, Griffyn.”
“We have old kitchens. Wooden kitchens. I am talking about stone. I’ve seen your cook. I’ve tasted her food. Her meals are awe-inspiring, her method is chaotic beyond reason.”
“She’s…enthusiastic,” Gwyn allowed.
“She’s terrifying.”
She laughed.
“We’ll have guests, Gwyn. Many. Your staff needs a new kitchen. We’ll rebuild.”
She nodded. The smile would not leave her face. “They do need that, you’re right.”
He leaned his forearms on the wall and clasped his hands together, looking out over the misty valley. “It will be strong again.”
“It will be wonderful,” she agreed in soft pride, then glanced at Alex. He was watching them, his eyes unreadable but certainly not friendly. She turned and gave a brief curtsey to Griffyn. “I will not disturb you any longer. My lord. Sir Alex.”
She turned and continued walking to the southernmost turret, knowing, knowing, knowing he would follow.
She walked to the edge of the sixty-foot tower and tilted her face up to catch the moisture falling in gentle sheets over the land. She might never go back inside again. She would just stay here, in the misting rain, and wait for Griffyn, if she had to wait a hundred years.
Chapter Fifteen
Griffyn barely waited a full minute before he took off after her. When he reached the top, she was leaning back, arms behind her, palms resting on the top of the wall.
Beads of mist clung to her hair. A cloak was clasped at her neck. She wore a simple, demure dress and undertunic with long, tight sleeves, but the wetness of the day was moulding the white fabric tight against her skin. The round heaviness of her breasts was outlined, the small nubs straining against the material as she shivered and smiled.
A brisk breeze shot up the side of the walls, tossing her hair in airy strands of black silk. “Can you feel it? It’s like silver in the air!” she called out.
Instead of replying, he turned and called to Alex. Gwyn watched as he went halfway down the stairs and crouched on them to speak with Alex, who had climbed midway to meet him. Griffyn rose, clapped Alex on his shoulder, and came back to the tower.
He walked towards her. Wordless, he caught her face between his hands, bent his head, and kissed her so she thought she would die from the tenderness. Like a breeze, he passed his lips over hers, two kisses, three, then slowly, painfully slow, he explored her mouth, her lips, her teeth, lighting fires in Gwyn’s body everywhere she already ached to be touched.
She wrapped her hands around his waist, reveling in the feel of his body standing before her, hard and sturdy. His kiss deepened, and he walked her backwards, the front of his thighs pushing against the front of hers. Away from any prying eyes, he crowded her up against the curve of the stone tower, his hands hot and searching. Everywhere he touched burned, everywhere he had yet to touch ached.
“No,” she gasped.
“Aye,” he growled in her ear. Faster came the throbbing heat between her thighs, cords of wet, snapping lust that lashed at her and sent her body bucking against him.
“No,” she protested weakly. “Not here.”
“Alex is guarding the stairs.”
“Pagan, no!”
He lifted his head. “Why, only last night ’twas ‘Griffyn,’” he said with a twisted grin. “Have I lost so much in a day?”
She shook her head, fumbling for the skirt hem, trying to tug it down again. He pulled her up against him, his eyes holding hers with that strange absence of emotion. Intent and distant, it was a look that twined around her heart. He ran the back of his knuckle down her cheek. “You are so beautiful.”
His hands closed over hers, his palms warm against the backs of her hands as he slowly made her curl her own fingers around the skirts and lift. The fabric bunched beneath their enjoined hands. With a gentle, irresistible pressure, he made her lift it higher. Cool air brushed over her knees. A hot tightening came between her thighs. His hands left hers and slid further up her leg to grip her hips, bare under the dress.