Page 128 of Come the Morning

“Because?”

“I will not have it. I won’t … I can’t …”

He lifted his head, and her eyes were absolutely beautiful, and he’d never seen her so vulnerable. “You will not have it?” he asked softly. “Why?”

“Because … I have some pride, Waryk.”

“Pride? Aye, well, we all have pride. Not good enough. Give me another reason.”

“Because … you’re my husband.”

“Ah, good, but still, not good enough …”

She leaned her head against his chest.

“Mellyora?” he persisted.

She murmured, “Because I want you myself.”

He released her wrists, finding her chin, tilting her head upward. “Not completely what I had in mind, but … it will do for now. Because I cannot bear for it not to do!” he whispered hoarsely. He pulled his mantle over his head, casting it down on the spongy bank. Then he swept her up, kneeling down upon the mantle with her in his arms. She clung to him. “Waryk …”

“I’ve not betrayed you, my lady.”

“But …”

He laid her upon the mantle. He leaned next to her on an elbow, his hands beneath her soft woolen knit gown. Her flesh seemed as soft as a rose petal, as hot as the sun. He cupped the fullness of her breasts, and they seemed fuller, her nipples seemed larger, harder. Her gown was annoying; he shoved it up, and dragged it over her head. “Waryk, we’re in the woods …”

“Angus is on guard, no one will come near us.” He pressed her back to the ground. She smelled like a field of flowers. He buried his face into her flesh, her breasts, reveled in the scent of her, found himself aroused to hardness in just wanting her, touching her. His body seemed to burn. He tried to hold back, not to want her so urgently, to touch and stroke and tease …

Her hands were on him. She fumbled with his clothing, his scabbard, the awkwardness of his sword. He stripped himself of scabbard and weapons, tore off linen and wool, hose and boots. The ivory cast of the moon lay upon them. Eleanora had called her a sprite. She was more like a goddess, made flesh from the lake, golden tresses silver in the light. She touched him with fingers as fevered as his own. He bore her down to the earth, breathed in her sensuous scent and the redolence of the earth. She cast her arms around him, but he drew back. He caught her knees, parted her limbs slowly, meeting her eyes. Then he drewhis fingers down her inner thigh. He followed each touch with a kiss, the brush of his tongue, light … here, there. Her thigh, her knee, her belly, her hip, her thighs, one, the other, and then between …

When he came to her at last, she writhed and thrashed in a fierce fury of desire that enwrapped him with his every movement. She clung to him more tightly each time he thrust within her, and each time he thrust, he felt himself move deeper, harder, faster. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, staved off climax until he could stave no more … it burst upon him, sweat beading his shoulders, his brow, the seed that burst from him draining him as if he were suddenly left lifeless, rendered helpless, as his very soul seemed to slip into her. His heart thundered, his blood rushed, and a feeling of sweet, saturating ecstasy swept over the length of him. Her nails curled into his shoulders, she cried out, and lay still.

At his side, she shivered. He drew her against him, taking his surcoat from the ground where it had been strewn and cast it over her as a cover against the sudden chill. She curled against him, and lay in silence for long seconds. Then she asked softly, “Must you go into Stirling with Peter and—his sister?”

“Aye. We will go into Stirling with them.”

“We?”

“Aye.”

She seemed pleased with that. She shifted, looking up into his eyes. “Waryk, I wrote to Daro and Anne, telling them that Vikings attack us—and accuse Daro. They remain just outside Stirling. I want to meet with them and the king, and let Daro proclaim his innocence.”

Waryk frowned, suddenly uneasy. He shifted to an elbow to better see his wife. “You told them that you were coming to meet me?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“I don’t think that was wise—” he began, but even as he spoke, Mellyora suddenly screamed, looking over his shoulders.

“Waryk!”

He rolled, just in time. Where he had lain, a battle-ax thudded into the earth. Mellyora flew to her feet as he did, but they were parted by the width of the copse then, and Waryk suddenly found himself facing four men.

Vikings … Normans?

Two blond and bearded; two reddish. They wore full beards. Their bascinets or helmets appeared to be Viking; their long, plated chain mail seemed more Norman. But looking at one man among them, he knew that he had seen the battle gear before.

On Daro Thorsson. Aye, and it was Daro’s banner being carried by another of the men.