When she’d been led up here she’d been too distraught to take much heed of her surroundings. She had leisure now and she looked about. Oliver’s chamber was not as large as some she had passed on her way from the bailey, but it was all his own. Imagine having an entire bedchamber to yourself! And to sleep in such a bed. It had felt so soft. She yawned.
The floor was covered in rush matting, that would have to do for her. Choosing a spot near the door, she sank on to it and tried to get comfortable.
Oliver’s face was washed by candlelight. He had strong features. That jaw, the line of his hair. His arm lay relaxed on top of the bedclothes. As she admired the shape of it, she wondered why she had never noticed that a man’s body could be so pleasing. If she touched his shoulder and ran her fingertips down that arm, what would it feel like? Oliver’s hand rested on the edge of the bed, he was so close that she could see the blue veins on the back of it. His skin was lightly bronzed, but they’d had a dismal spring and there’d hardly been any sun. He’d mentioned a crusade. Perhaps the Eastern sun was hotter than the English sun. Rosamund thought of the sailors she’d seen in Ingerthorpe harbour – many of them had tanned skin. Had Oliver’s skin had been darkened by the wind on his voyage home?
A draught was whistling under the door and over the floor of the chamber. Goose-bumps formed on her arms. She inched away from the door. The matting was very scratchy. Itchy. She thought wistfully of the softness of Oliver’s bed. The floor was digging into her hip-bone.
Sighing, she sat up and leaned her arms on her knees. That bed was comfortable. It was out of the way of the draughts and she’d been a fool not to get in with him. Oliver had said he wouldn’t hurt her. She was freezing over here with only her stubbornness to keep her warm.
The chamber was so small she was but an arm’s length from him. His hair was tousled, damp from his hurried wash. A stray lock fell across his face. Reaching out, she delicately brushed it aside. His eyes opened and met hers.
‘Rosamund.’ His voice was low. ‘You know you’re not afraid of me, and you know you can’t sleep on the floor. Why don’t you just admit it and come to bed? That way we might both get some sleep,’
‘I...I...’
He gave a lop-sided grin and caught her hand, shifting to make room for her. She stood up slowly and let him pull her gently towards him. Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, she half-turned towards him. She felt unbearably shy.
Lightly, he flicked her nose. ‘There’s no need to look like that. You don’t have to face me if you don’t wish it.’
A gentle pressure on her shoulder urged her down. A large hand slid to her waist and was still.
‘Sleep well,’ he said, huskily.
She could feel the warmth of his large body behind her. A clean, masculine scent clung to the pillow. She closed her eyes. It was pleasant to lie here with his hand on her waist. Safe, and yet...not safe. Oliver. She sighed.
What would it be like sleeping with Alfwold? She wouldn’t feel like this. If Alfwold was next to her, she wouldn’t be lying here wondering what it would be like to have Alfwold’s hand move slowly over her skin, to have it caress her. She shuddered and Oliver’s hand lifted away. She felt a distinct pang of regret. Regret.
No, if she lay with Alfwold she would be more like to be biting her tongue to hide her dislike. Trying to prevent herself from telling him that she didn’t, couldn’t want him. Ever.
This chance would never come again.
‘Oliver?’
‘Hmm?’
She rolled onto her stomach and leaned on her elbows. Their bodies were so close, she tingled. ‘How many lovers have you had?’
A dark eyebrow lifted. His grin was crooked. ‘A few. Why?’
‘Do you find me pretty?’
‘Tease. You know I do.’ His eyes darkened. Their heads were so close that even in the weak light, she could see the soot-black ring that defined the grey in them.
‘My lowly birth doesn’t repulse you?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Who am I to cavil at someone’s birth? You at least were born in wedlock. Rosamund, where’s this leading?’
She took a deep breath and fiddled with the edge of a pillow. ‘Tonight I want you for my lover.’
He had his expression in hand, but she saw his lips twitch, just once. And in his eyes, she glimpsed an eager flare of hunger. He gave her a considering look and rolled onto his back.
She knew she was crimson. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’
He stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m thinking.’
She huffed out a breath. ‘Well, if you need to think about it...’ She pummeled the pillow and buried her head in it. The linen was cool on her cheeks. She should not have asked him. I will die of shame.