Why? Squires weren’t known for heeding the wishes of their lord’s vassals. Surely there was hope in the fact that he was allowing her to decide?
Oliver liked her enough to want her goodwill, but she wanted it to be more than that. He needs me. Lord, she hoped she was right...
Taking a deep breath, she smiled. ‘I choose to stay.’ Her voice was as clear as a bell. ‘I chose you for my lover and I choose to stay.’
He caught her to him and pressed a shower of kisses on her nose and cheeks. ‘You’ll remember I gave you a choice?’ He nibbled her ear.
‘I will,’ she said, recalling another moment that first day on the beach, when cool grey eyes had turned as blue as the sky and she thought she’d glimpsed a longing for love. ‘I will.’
Two simple words, and she’d cast all sense to the winds. Her marriage vows – and Alfwold – were forgotten. When she’d made her marriage vows her heart hadn’t been in it. It was in it now. ‘I will.’ She was no longer an innocent victim, she was a willing lover. She was Oliver’s belle-amie – a sinner without so much as a shred of decency. And all because she took a flicker of light in his eyes to mean that he had a heart. She was staking her happiness on a fleeting expression. If she’d misread it, she was lost, but if she was right...
She rubbed her face against his chest. She’d been lost since May Day. Lost. At the time she hadn’t realised, but the moment she’d met Oliver, her marriage to Alfwold had been doomed.
Her marriage didn’t feel real. It never had and it never would. She’d fallen in love with Oliver de Warenne. There was simply no other explanation for her willingness to risk everything to be with him. The disapproval of her father seemed unimportant; she no longer cared what the villagers thought. She loved Oliver de Warenne. Why else would she risk so much merely to be with him?
One day he would reciprocate. One day...
His lips were seeking hers. He moved his mouth gently, barely touching her, giving her lower lip the softest of nibbles. Rosamund’s insides went molten and her thoughts scattered as the kiss deepened and changed. It was demanding, a lover’s kiss. Confident and sure.
For all his protestations to the contrary, Oliver kissed like a passionate man. A man who understood love.
He lifted his head. ‘You taste so sweet.’
She sifted his hair through her fingers, it was soft and springy under her palms. His head was silhouetted against a starry backcloth, his wind-ruffled hair seemed to merge with the night, and all she could think was that she wanted to pull his head to hers, find his mouth, and melt into him.
His hand cupped her breast and his thumb caressed her through the cloth of her gown. She found the flesh of his back beneath his tunic. It felt like velvet – she could feel the muscles beneath. His eyes glowed silver, and she thought that he smiled.
‘Not here, my angel.’ His voice was warm but firm. Removing her hand from beneath his tunic, he enfolded it in his. With a murmur of protest, she wriggled closer.
The dark head shook. ‘I’ll not take you on the beach, it’s far too cold. We’ll go to the bedchamber where it’s warm and we can lock the door against interruptions.’ He pulled her to her feet and into the haven of his mantle. ‘Lord, I only hope we can find our boots.’
***
Oliver urged Lance on, and smiled into Rosamund’s hair. It had been a good day. The best. She sat before him as she had done on their way down to the beach and this time her body was completely relaxed. He was holding her slender waist and she had covered his hand with hers. She was playing with his fingers.
There was an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. He couldn’t stop smiling. It must be due to his rising fortunes. He had found his place in this northern hold, and at last the knighthood he had fought for was within his reach.
It was odd though, this morning when Geoffrey had told him about his change in fortune, he’d felt hollow. It was as though he was reaching out to take his prize and before his eyes it was turning to mist. His lips twisted. The surprise of meeting with success after years of striving must have temporarily stunned him.
He rubbed his mouth against Rosamund’s hair and her fingers tightened on his. She was warm, she was soft, and she was going to stay. She wasn’t going to turn into mist. Lord, but he ached for her. Thank God, she’d chosen to stay.
A wave of relief had swamped him when she’d agreed. He’d not expected to be so pleased. But then, she was so fair, so warm, so giving. No other girl held a candle to her. He grinned as he remembered the power of those wide, blue eyes; as he remembered the pleasure that shot through him as she returned his caresses. Even after he had lain with her.