By Royal Command Page 8

  “Tell me of the new alliances,” Eomond said.

  While Thorkell plunged willingly into this topic, Eomond worked two fingers patiently upward, gathering her skirts inch by inch beneath his palm. Cold air nipped her exposed knee above her boot.

  Powerless to stop him without attracting attention in the crowded tent, she shivered beneath his touch, the fine hairs rising along her skin. When his palm brushed her bare knee, a gasp of protest slipped out.

  “…but the Scots won’t be budged, so Ethelred’s thwarted to the north…”

  She kept her eyes on Thorkell’s good-humored face, as if clinging to every word. But she couldn’t have repeated a syllable of it, riveted by Eomond’s hardened fingers as they eased beneath her skirt and walked across her naked thigh. Breathless, she glanced at their neighbors.

  “Stop,” she whispered—to absolutely no effect.

  Unexpectedly, Thorkell turned toward her. “Perhaps the lady can answer. Do you know the earl of Bamburgh?”

  “I—don’t know him,” she said faintly.

  Still, Eomond’s wicked hand edged upward, encountered her linen shift, then dipped beneath this fine layer, as well. Desperate, she squeezed her thighs together, trapping his hand. His progress stilled, scant inches from the clamorous tingle between her thighs.

  Thorkell pressed her, curse the man. “Have you seen his stronghold? ’Tis said to be the mightiest fortress on the coast.”

  Wretchedly, she consigned the earl of Bamburgh and his fortress to the hottest corner of Hell. “I never went there.”

  Beneath her panicked grip, Eomond’s fingers flexed teasingly. She squeezed her thighs tighter. Although his cold-reddened features were impassive, the hint of a smile lingered in his tawny beard.

  You’ve only to beckon and you’d have him in your bed, Gwyneth had whispered.

  Eomond waited long enough to underscore his advantage. At last, slowly, his hand eased away. Weak-limbed, she straightened her skirts.

  Thorkell studied her. “Your late husband—Maldred of Courtenay, wasn’t he? No doubt Ethelred will arrange another fine match. Indeed, I’m told he’s already settled on the groom.”

  Chapter Seven

  I can’t possibly go through with this. The knowledge rooted her feet to the floor.

  Katrin lingered outside the monks’ hall, where Thorkell of Leighton’s men caroused with Eomond and her shabby escort. Among the remnants of their supper, several lads were banging their cups in ragged unison to a bellowed tune whose words scorched her cheeks. Nearby, two men strained with locked arms in a contest of strength, amid a scatter of coins and an overturned pitcher. No force under God would make her venture there.

  Besides, she’d lost her nerve. She’d planned to lull Eomond with a pretty plea to sleep late, and buy time before the alarm was raised. Now she feared to meet his perceptive gaze.

  The attraction that flared between them was a window. Through it, he would spy her desperate hope. She dared not chance it. She would fly in dead of night without even a farewell. But in that fateful moment, while the tide of her intentions turned, Eomond glanced up and saw her.

  Too late. She span away in a flare of skirts, the flushed fox going to ground, racing for her burrow before the hunting hound. Across the antechamber, barely lit by a flaming brand, the corridor yawned dark, and she scurried toward it.

  His purposeful tread rang on the flagstones. “My lady?”

  A leap of anticipation lodged her heart in her throat. Struggling to compose herself, she turned. In the doorway he stood, tall and long-limbed in the spill of light, a shadowy figure rimmed in fire. “Will you join us, my lady?”

  “I think not.” She contrived a light laugh. “’Tis no seemly place for a woman. I’ll seek my bed—and sleep late, if I may.”

  He closed the distance between them. She fell back, uncertainty fluttering in her chest, as he caught her cold hands in his sword-toughened palms. Riveted, she stared up at him, the fire burning in his golden hair.

  “See to it your servants sleep elsewhere,” he murmured, eyes hot and dark with a meaning she could not mistake.

  Her head reeled. Where was the sense of honor that had kept him from her? Without his steely resolve, they were both undone.

  He could be hers for a night…if she wanted him. But, sweet Jesus, he would never let her flee.

  She moistened her lips. “I don’t believe that would be advisable.”

  “Advisable?” He snorted. “This is sheer lunacy, girl, make no mistake of that! The king’s own niece—but I’m beyond caring.”

  She smelled the sweet tang of fermented brew on his breath. Perhaps that too could help her. “Marry, you’ve been drinking. ’Tis the mead talking.”

  “Aye, to bolster my nerve,” he said grimly. “In three days we reach the king’s stronghold. We’ll move in separate worlds at court. Tell me truly, Katrin—should I come to you tonight?”

  His strength of purpose was a river that swept her from her feet and tumbled her toward catastrophe. Anchored by their linked hands, she lost herself in the heat of his gaze.

  Don’t forget he’s already refused to help. Thorkell is a safer option. If even he won’t aid me, then I must flee alone.

  The fire of desperation blazed in her blood. “You must…give me another night to consider.”

  “There are no more holy houses between here and court.” He pressed her hands to his lips. Dazed, she spread her fingers against the tawny bristle of his whiskers. “Tonight is our only chance.”

  Weak-kneed, she set herself against the powerful undertow of desire. “Would you make so bold?”

  “You’ve been toying with me like a girl with a lapdog since the day we met. Another night of this and I swear I’ll run mad. Unless you’d drive me past all restraint, you won’t play your coy games with me tonight.”

  A frisson of danger coursed through her. Dimly a drinking song echoed from the monks’ hall. In the corridor beyond, sandals slapped on stone as a monk scurried on some late errand. Anyone who glimpsed them would see two lovers arranging an assignation—and that, she dared not allow.

  “You have mistaken my intent.” She slid her hands free. “This is a holy place, and I’m a godly woman.”

  “You’re a tease and a hoyden,” he muttered, coal-dark eyes smoldering. “But I must return to the hall. Odin knows we’ve given those men enough to whisper about. Be warned, Katrin—I haven’t finished with you.”

  * * *

  She shivered as she lay in the archbishop’s bed, the fire crackling at her feet, wind clawing at her shuttered casement. Gwyneth had clucked her disapproval of Katrin’s whispered plan, but delivered the message to Thorkell all the same. If he kept his word, he would meet them before Matins at the postern gate. Until then, she must wait.

  It would be a miracle if nothing went awry.

  Drunken song still seeped through the walls, so she dared not stir yet. Her door was solid oak and bolted. Even if Eomond carried out his promise and came here, there would be no getting past it.

  Of course, he could not turn up at court without her. That meant he would pursue her, and St. Cuthbert save her if he caught them. The thought of his wrath made her shiver.

  Despite her misgivings, she’d drifted into a fitful doze when a horrific crash jerked her upright.

  Dragging apart the bedcurtains, she found her shutters gaping wide. A flurry of snowflakes gusted into the room. With a sinking sense of inevitability, she watched Eomond climb through the window.

  The urge for flight gripped her in its fist. But it was truly and forever too late.

  Icy wind knifed through the chamber. Hugging herself, she watched numbly as he closed the shutters. Tossing aside his snowy cloak, he shot her a black look.

  “Still abed, my fine lady? Thorkell will
be disappointed not to find you at the gate. Unless you invited him to come here first?”

  “How—?” She choked off the damning question.

  “Not a word,” he said curtly. “Or, I warn you, the consequences will be dire.”

  Shivering in her shift, fiery hair tumbling over her shoulders in disarray, Katrin crouched in the gold-and-crimson blaze of the archbishop’s bed. Terror swept her hot and cold by turns.

  “You have Thorkell panting to do your bidding, don’t you?” He yanked off one boot and tossed it aside. “Lucky for you I saw him skulking out. When I found him saddling your horse, I could’ve wrung your neck with my bare hands, girl.”

  “I don’t know what he told you,” she faltered, hoping for more information. But Eomond gave her nothing. “I believe there has been some…misunderstanding.”

  “Is that what you call it? By Odin’s lost eye, the man thought you wanted a midnight gallop.” Tugging his other boot, he glanced at her darkly. “You’ve forgotten the consequences of deceit, my lady—and all the worse for you.”

  Outraged pride flared through her. “Do you intend to turn me over your knee again? These walls are bursting with my uncle’s men. One cry from me will bring them streaming to my defense.”

  “You misunderstand me.” The fire danced around his sinewed frame and gleamed on bronze torques as he unbuckled his sword-belt with a predator’s grace. “I intend to turn your lies into truth, Katrin. You’re going to make good on your promises tonight.”

  “What do you mean to do?” she whispered. Surely, he couldn’t intend what she was thinking.

  Deftly he stripped the tunic from his long frame, baring the hard flat body of a fighting man: wide-shouldered, rangy and supple with masculine grace. The pale scars of old battles wound around his ribs and the rippling plane of his abdomen. When he began to unlace his leather trews, she struggled for breath.

  Blindly she groped for the bed frame to hold her up. “God’s mercy, my uncle will have you flayed alive for this.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy it.”

  When he pushed the trews over his hips, she turned her face into her lifted arm and squeezed her eyes shut. Surely he’d return to his senses, or Gwyneth would come when she did not appear as planned.

  “It’s late in the game for modesty,” he mocked. “I’m curious to learn how I compare to your late husband. Noble-born and commoner—and you will have had us both.”

  She blurted a smothered protest. She’d hated Maldred—his very touch had sickened her. Resentful of the sword-theyn though she was, she knew the two men were nothing alike.

  The air around her seemed to change, to vibrate with Eomond’s nearness. “Come now, lady. I can’t be so hideous, though I lack your husband’s pedigree.”

  Rage blazing through her, she lifted her head and glared straight at him. “Noble or commoner, you’re a fool! Is that all this is about for you—some conquest of a highborn lady? If so, I’ll make it clear to you, from the king’s niece to his bastard theyn. Get out!”

  He loomed over her, features hardened to granite. “I’m issuing the orders tonight.”

  As she crouched before him, he gripped her linen shift in both hands. With a quick clench, he tore it from throat to hem. The shreds fell away, leaving her clad in naught but a tangle of firelit hair—she, who’d never even stood naked before her own husband.

  Yet, beneath the scalding flood of shame, a backbone of stubborn dignity kept her straight and unbowed. Clenching her fists, taut as a strung bow, she stared fiercely into his eyes.

  His lids dropped over the dark embers of his gaze. Within them, his anger shifted to something else.

  “Odin’s pain,” he whispered, gathering her hair. The thick curling tendrils slithered aside to reveal her: breasts tilted upward to his gaze, belly quivering with tension, the curving shell of secrets nestled between her thighs.

  At last, her courage wavered. She crossed her arms over her breasts and pressed her thighs together. “Don’t—”

  “Say nothing.” Her hair spilled from his fingers down her back, baring her entirely, despite her paltry efforts at modesty. “Words go amiss between us.”

  She swallowed and said nothing, the two of them almost touching, with nothing between them but the thicket of lies she’d woven. In that moment, she knew she was lost.

  Her lashes swept down as she waited, scarcely breathing. The warm rush of breath brushed her face, then the soft scrape of whiskers as he kissed her.

  “Stop,” she said as their lips met, breath mingling. The sweet tang of fermented honey filled her mouth, and weakened her will to halt him. When his hot tongue twined around hers, her entire body tingled. Aye, this is the pleasure that makes it a sin. Her arms dropped as he pulled her close.

  The jolting shock of skin brushed against skin, her nipples chafing his gold-furred chest—the contact rippling all the way through her, to the soles of her feet. Moaning deep in her throat, she clutched at his shoulders, feeling the clench and ripple of muscle. He spanned her ribs to steady her and cradled her breasts, roughened fingers finding the tender peaks—with no garment to shield her from his touch. Tendrils of pleasure shot through her as her nipples hardened.

  “Stop!” she gasped. “I can’t—”

  “Say nothing.”

  Like a chill wind, the warning whispered through her mind. Maldred had taught her never to respond—never to show her loathing. No doubt this was what all men wanted, Eomond among them: her submission.

  Easy enough, when she was weak with wanting him. When his fingers tightened over the taut nubs of her nipples, another bolt of raw pleasure jolted through her. He buried his face against her neck, breathing hard, whiskers scraping against her skin. His tongue painted a trail of liquid heat over her throat, her fragile collarbone, the soft swell of her breast. When his lips closed around one tingling nipple, her legs nearly buckled.

  “Sweet mercy!” She clutched his shoulders as his teeth grazed her. He must stop—nay, not stop, but go more slowly. She could not breathe or think, and he’d told her not to speak. He’d taught her to reveal nothing—but that was Maldred. Still, she couldn’t contain her response much longer.

  Strength flowing from her limbs, she tumbled back on her elbows, the crimson-and-gold blaze of the coverlet billowing up around her. He crawled after her, braced above her. Drifting on a tide of pleasure, she let him do what he would. With every sweep of his tongue, a heavy languor grew at her core. A slow pulse of awareness beat against her closed thighs.

  When he raised his head, her eyes flew open.

  In the firelight he stretched beside her, propped on one elbow, golden hair falling into his eyes. In that unguarded instant, stern features soft and wondering, his palm eased down her belly toward the slow riot of sensation swelling between her thighs.

  Breath hitching, she pressed her legs together. His hand paused, a scant inch above her sheltered crevasse, then slid down to rest against the petal-soft folds. Beneath his touch, she felt painfully exposed. Like any lady, she depilated her body. There would be naught to hide the slick wetness collecting there.

  “So it’s true,” he said, husky. “I’d imagined a tangle of fiery curls.”

  She flamed beneath his words, face turning into his shoulder. The comforting odor of horses and smoke and Eomond filled her head and steadied her.

  His finger rubbed teasingly against the seam of her body. “Do you think I don’t know? Open for me, my willful lady.”

  Surely that was a wanton notion—yet she was complying, thighs parting, hips arching helpless into his touch. When a finger slipped between her slick folds, he groaned against her hair as though she hurt him. All the way along her crevasse he stroked her to find that pulsing heart, the eye of the storm sweeping through her.

  Her shuddering breath exploded. God and Mary, ho
w can I hide this? Rising into him, she clenched her teeth and cried out. When he eased a finger into her channel, her own body betrayed her, clenched around him like a fist.

  “By Odin’s lost eye, Katrin.” He panted. “I can’t—it must be now.”

  She opened her eyes to find him crouched above her. Another great shock—not Maldred’s dark-furred body groping awkwardly beneath her shift, but this beautiful long-limbed pagan with tawny hair. As he fitted himself against her, an epiphany burst within.

  He was not Maldred, and he wanted her to respond.

  She opened herself to the storm of sensation, reached for him with both arms as he surged inside to fill her. Their joining brought him toppling down on her, in the blazing splendor of the archbishop’s bed. He gripped her in the same desperate clutch, held her moored against his rapid thrusts. Her tight channel stretched to accept him, ripples of pleasure pulsing through her. Blindly, she struggled toward the conflagration.

  Without warning, it ignited her. She dug her nails into his sinewed back and clung with all her strength. The cataclysm flung her high, outside herself, as he went rigid in her arms.

  Then she knew nothing but gentle explosions of sensation, echoes of pleasure and pleasure and him…Eomond, her captor, her protector, her lover.

  God and St. Wilfrid have mercy, she thought, dazed with dread. What have we done?

  * * *

  In the night she drifted, limbs tossed against him, their hair mingled gold and bronze on the pillow.

  His arm lay across her shoulders, a secure tether in a perilous world, while everything she knew drifted away. He smelled of salt-tang and her own fragrance: rosemary and lavender, threaded with the deep musk of passion. Outside, the brassy rumble of the bells tolled Matins.

  Her faithful Gwyneth would be waiting—but she’d be relieved when Katrin did not appear.

  “’Tis peaceful here,” she whispered, barely loud enough to carry.

  Enchantment had bound them together. By speaking, she broke the spell.