His lips twisted. ‘It cannot last.’
Rosamund frowned. She would have touched his face but, recalling his reaction the last time she reached out to him, she let her hand fall back.
‘We cannot live out our dream, you must know that.’ His voice was husky.
‘We have until sunset.’
‘That would be a great folly.’ His voice was kind, but firm. ‘I want to...but no.’
There was a light in his eyes that belied the firmness in his voice. Rosamund’s lips curved. ‘Want to...what, Oliver?’ Reaching up, she touched his cheek. He had high cheekbones. Beneath her fingertips she felt the slight abrasion of a growing beard. This time, he made no move to reject her, but lay quite still.
‘Oliver? What do you want? Is it this?’ Boldly, her hand slipped up and round his neck and then his mouth was on hers. It would have been impossible to say which one of them had moved to close the gap and she didn’t care. His mouth felt welcoming. Warm. His lips moved slowly and gently across hers.
Rosamund had tried to imagine this kiss. Some deep, primitive instinct had known Oliver’s kiss wouldn’t be like anyone else’s. She had known she wouldn’t shrink from the touch of Oliver’s hands on her body. But her wildest imaginings hadn’t prepared her for reality. She hadn’t had the experience to know a kiss could be like this. Purest pleasure. She had never felt anything like it.
A tingling tide – delight – was flooding her veins, and at the same time a hungry yearning sensation was centred somewhere in her stomach. She wanted to press her body closer to his, much closer. He could ease that yearning inside, it was sharp, so sharp. It felt very much like hunger...
She ran a thumb over a high cheekbone and heard him murmur something she couldn’t quite catch. She felt the weight of his long, lean body shift in the sweet spring grass. But he was drawing away. No! She wanted to feel him pushing her deep into the turf. She wanted to prolong this wondrous feeling of enchantment. She tugged at his shoulder. ‘Come back.’
‘Rosamund,’ he whispered, shaking his head. But again his eyes betrayed him. He was no longer moving away.
She smiled mistily up at him. He returned her smile and his palm cupped her face.
If she kissed his hand now, he wouldn’t reject her. She turned her head and the caress fell on his wrist. The sense of wonder increased when she saw the effect it had on his eyes.
‘They’ve gone almost blue, like the sky.’
His brow wrinkled. ‘Blue?’
‘Your eyes, I can’t tell whether they’re blue or grey.’
He held her gaze a moment longer and sat up.
‘Oliver?’ She squeezed his shoulder.
‘No more.’ He combed his fingers through his hair.
There was a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘No more?’
‘You understand me. No more. I knew it would be folly to live out this dream.’ He huffed out a breath and she saw that his eyes were the colour of flint. How could she have thought them touched with blue?
She twisted a strand of hair round her finger. ‘You dislike me, I am too bold.’
‘No,’ he said, pushing to his feet and going towards the destrier.
‘What then?’
He must have enjoyed their kiss. It wouldn’t felt so moving if he hadn’t enjoyed it too.
He didn’t answer, he was glaring at the remnants of their meal, strewn about the grass. Flinging what was left into his saddlebag, he jerked on the strap to secure it.
‘You’re ashamed to have kissed a peasant maid,’ she said, getting up and going over to him.
Oliver frowned. ‘No.’
Stomach churning, she had to clench her fists to stop herself from reaching out to him. She must assume some pride. Oliver would expect it – pride meant something to those in his class. They lived on it. Rosamund had never been able to understand it, let alone afford it.
Pride was a luxury for the rich. Wasn’t it also a deadly sin? She sighed. Life was so complicated.
What mattered was that Oliver was about to leave. It seemed that for the next few moments, she would have to pretend that she had some pride.
‘Farewell, my Rosamund.’
She stared at him in silence, drinking in the sight of him. His height...the width of his shoulders...the strong, lithe body. He was so handsome with his dark hair ruffled by the wind. Her heart squeezed.
‘You’ve had a lucky escape,’ he said, vaulting into the saddle. ‘You should be pleased.’
She cleared her throat. ‘How so?’ Her voice was hollow with regret.
‘I’m baseborn. Rosamund, even a peasant maid couldn’t relish the thought of being kissed by one such as me.’