Shattered Vows(90)

Rosamund’s heart began to race and that slow hollow ache started in her belly. ‘Every night?’ she asked, trying to harden her voice, but it meant a great deal that he’d come to find her. ‘Your lady wife wouldn’t think much of that. Put me down please, sir.’ She was painfully aware that those penetrating grey eyes might glean too much from her expression.

I love you. Do you love me?

‘As you wish, my lady.’ Taking her to the bed, he lowered her onto it and sank to his knees on the floor. Their eyes were level.

My lady? Rosamund couldn’t look at him, for some reason she felt shy as a maid who’d never been kissed.

‘I had hoped...’ he said, huskily ‘...that you would be pleased to-’ Breaking off, he put a finger under her chin. ‘Rosamund, I prefer watching your eyes to the top of your head.’

She stopped breathing. His voice had deepened, he was going to kiss her. When he shifted an inch closer, she gave an inarticulate murmur and swayed towards him.

His first kiss fell on her cheek, his second on her jaw, and then he was covering her neck with kisses. Feverishly, hungrily. He tugged the ribbon from her braids, fanned out her hair and buried his face in it. She heard him mutter her name. ‘Rosamund.’

Swoony with want, she clung to his wide shoulders. He planted a line of kisses around her throat and she arched her neck to give him better access.

Abruptly the kisses stopped. His eyes glittered. ‘Mon Dieu, how I’ve missed you. Rosamund, my Rosamund,’ he said fiercely, and his lips covered hers.

So eager was she to explore the kiss that she slipped to her knees before him. They were kneeling on the matting, chest to chest. She held that dark head to her and their lips clung. He tasted of honeyed wine.

‘Rosamund?’

‘Mmm?’

‘What’s wrong with the bed?’

Impatiently, she held him to her, enjoying the feel of his chest through the stuff of her gown. He was aroused, she could feel him pressing into her belly. She moaned and her lips sought his, she hadn’t wanted the kiss to end.

He pulled back. She gave a murmur of protest and her fingers curled into his hair.

‘No, my sweet love, not the floor.’ There was laughter in his voice.

My sweet love...

She found herself staring into eyes that smiled as tenderly she could wish. Then his expression altered and the moment passed.

‘Up you get. There, that’s better.’

He laid her back on the bed and sat down next to her. A long-fingered hand smoothed her hair, idly playing with a shining tress. Something about his manner sent a prickle of warning running down her spine – he was hiding something.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, touching his hand with hers.

He smiled. ‘I’ve had wine brought up, would you like some?’

He had posed the question casually, but a muscle flickered in his jaw. She followed his gaze to the other side of the bedchamber where a clay jug and two cups sat on a tray on one of the coffers. When he combed his fingers though his hair, it came to her that he was avoiding her eyes. He didn’t look angry though, so what was this about?

‘Thank you, sir, I should like some wine.’

‘For pity’s sake, stop calling me “sir.”‘

‘Oliver?’

With a sigh, he rose and went to the tray. He reached for the wine-jug.

‘Rosamund, you’re to marry me in the morning.’

Her eyebrows snapped together, she must have misheard him. ‘I’m to marry you in the morning?’ A thousand questions leaped into her mind. Surely that was impossible? What about his ambitions? Lady Cecily? I’m a miller’s daughter, I have no dowry. He can’t marry me!

That stiff back told her nothing, she needed to see his face...

‘Well?’ Oliver said, staring with apparent fascination at the lime-washed wall.

‘Are...are you asking me or telling me?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Asking.’

In a heartbeat, she had crossed the chamber. She wound her arms about his waist and hugged him, resting her cheek against his back. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll marry you. Please.’ As she pressed her mouth against his tunic she felt him relax, and her lips curved into an understanding smile. Her brave, proud knight didn’t find it easy to ask.

He set the wine-jug down and turned in her arms. ‘You’re willing?’

Her eyelids prickled – that faint uncertainty was most endearing. ‘Of course I’m willing.’ She felt as though she was glowing with happiness. Smiling, she hugged him again. He was kissing the top of her head when it struck her that the barriers between them hadn’t gone away. Her smile faded.

‘Angel, what’s the matter?’