A Warrior's Kiss Read online

  And Trystan, with those soulful eyes and that wonderful smile, a smile that made her feel she had won a great contest if she could provoke it.

  How she had longed for him to come, even though he scarcely said a word on those visits! She had teased him and teased him to try to get him to speak.

  Perhaps she would have done better to let him stay silent. Then he might have liked her more.

  If Trystan had liked her, she might not have tried so hard to make the other lads in the village like her. She might not have been so delighted to discover that they did, and she might not have given in to the other delights they provided.

  If she had not been so hurt by Trystan’s animosity, she might not have been so happy when Dylan responded to her advances. Of course, then she would not have Arthur, and she would be all alone.

  Just as she was alone now while Arthur was with his father. Just as she would be alone when he went off to become a knight. After that, he would never live here anymore. He would be but a visitor.

  A tear rolled off the end of her nose and she sniffled.

  “Mair?”

  “What?” she demanded, jumping up and whirling around to see Trystan at the entrance of her house.

  The light of the full moon seemed to illuminate him like a halo, as if he were an angel in mortal form.

  A ridiculous notion. She knew full well he was merely a man, albeit a handsome, passionate one.

  A handsome, passionate one she should be angry with, she reminded herself. “What do you want—and at this hour of the night?” she demanded sternly.

  “I…I couldn’t sleep and had to speak with you.”

  It wasn’t fair that he was looking at her like that, as if he needed her as much as it was possible for one person to need another, not when he had his other plans.

  “Something that was so important it couldn’t wait until morning?” she asked. “Or do you want to emulate that Norman and get drunk, too? Mind, it’ll be difficult, for a child could hold his drink better than that fat, impertinent lout.”

  Trystan came inside her house and closed the door behind him, enclosing them in an intimacy that was both dreadful and exciting, as if she were caged with a dangerous beast that would not kill her, but could nevertheless wound her greatly.

  As he already had.

  “My father told me that Sir Edward…touched you.”

  “Touched? That is a mild way to describe it. He grabbed hold of me as if I were a hunk of meat hanging on a rack.” She eyed him skeptically, and he could not blame her for that reaction to his unexpected visit. “So, are you here to apologize? That’s more than he had the manners to do.”

  “No, that isn’t why I’ve come.” Trystan took a deep breath, then looked down at his belt buckle as he fiddled with it, unable to meet her steadfast, brown-eyed gaze.

  Nevertheless, he must and would continue. “I came to tell you that Lady Rosamunde has accepted my offer of marriage. All we need now is her father’s approval, and I do not think he will withhold it.”

  “How kind of you to tell me,” she remarked disdainfully.

  “I didn’t want you to hear it from anybody else,” he admitted. “I thought…I thought I owed you that much.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, like a spark being doused. “Thank you.”

  At her soft words, he took a tentative step closer. “I hope you can understand what her acceptance means to me, Mair.”

  “I fear I must be slow-witted, sir, because I would have assumed it meant you are delighted. There is, then, some other reason you are pleased? Vanity, perhaps?”

  As he came closer, he ignored her harsh remarks. It was more important that he say what he had to say. For reasons he could not voice, he wanted her to understand.

  “I crave something that even my father, for all his influence and power, cannot provide,” he confessed. “I want more than to be famous here in the borderlands of Wales and England, as my father and brother and cousin are. I want to be accepted in the court, in London. To be noticed by the king. To do that, I must have a Norman wife, a noble wife.”

  If he thought he saw any other emotion but disdain flash in her eyes, he decided he was mistaken when she spoke. “How convenient, then, that Lady Rosamunde is both. I am happy for your success.”

  “But do I have your understanding, Mair?” he persisted. “Can you see why I must succeed? Can you understand that it is not easy having the relations as I do, to be at the end of such a famous line?”

  “At least you have a line to be the end of,” she muttered. “But I suppose it is not easy being a DeLanyea.”

  He didn’t pay so much attention to the words, for he was overjoyed by the hint of sympathy in her voice.

  She understood why he had to marry Lady Rosamunde.

  “I’ve been thinking about something else,” he continued quietly, still gazing at her intently as he came closer. “Mair, I was wrong to tell you that I would not acknowledge a child if it appeared to be mine. That would be dishonorable, and cowardly, and I do not wish to be either. So, if in some months time—”

  “Oh, Trystan!” she sighed raggedly as she turned away.

  “If in some month’s time, you have a baby and it resembles me…”

  He fell awkwardly silent when he realized her shoulders were shaking, as if she were silently sobbing. He went to her and took her by the shoulders, gently turning her to face him.

  She wiped her damp face brusquely with her sleeve.

  “Mair, I’m sorry,” he whispered as he held her lightly by the shoulders and gazed down at her sorrowfully bent head. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you would be relieved to hear that I intend to do the proper thing.”

  She raised her tear-moist face. “Oh, Trystan,” she repeated, this time with more of her usual determination. “Are you blind or stupid or both?”

  Puzzled, he made no response.

  “Has it not occurred to you that you need not fear that?” she asked, roughly pulling away from him. “Have you never noticed that I have not borne another child after Arthur, although I do not live a celibate life?” That gleam of defiant pride that made her Mair returned to her eyes, with even more brilliant vitality. “Trystan, obviously I cannot have any more children, or I would have by now.”

  Her words hit him like a strong wind and he actually staggered. “Oh, God, Mair, I didn’t think—”

  “Do you ever?” she demanded. “Do you ever think beyond what you want, what you think you need?”

  “Of course!”

  “If it pleases you to believe that.”

  “I admit I didn’t think about your lack of children until tonight—but surely you cannot fault me for that!”

  “Does it never occur to you that just because a person doesn’t parade their pain, they have none?”

  “Mair, I’m sorry, but I am not a seer.”

  “Thank the Lord. One in the village is enough.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Angharad.”

  “Neither do I.” Her defiance suddenly seemed to melt away like snow in sunlight. “Trystan, I do not fault you for not thinking about whether or not I can have more children. Nor do I fault you for going after what you want, if you think it will make you happy. Forgive me. I am…tired.”

  He stared at her, horrified to note her pale face and the shadows beneath her eyes. “You are not ill?”

  She laughed softly, and never had he been more pleased to hear that musical sound. “No, I am not ill. Just tired, I assure you.” She made an insolent little curtsy. “Although I note your concern and thank you for it. It was difficult work keeping your future father-in-law supplied with braggot. He drank nearly all I had.”

  He smiled in relief, and more. “My father kept pace with him well, I gather.”

  She looked surprised, her glowing, lively eyes widening. “He only had two cups the whole time he was here.”

  “And that was enough to set him drunk? Good God, perhaps he is ill.”

&nb
sp; “He was perfectly sober when he left here. Indeed, he had to be, because he all but carried Sir Edward back to the castle.”

  “But he was singing—or trying to—and he staggered into the hall like the worst of sots… I don’t think it’s very funny, Mair.”

  At the sight of his stern and annoyed expression, she tried to stifle her laughter. “I wish I had seen your face!”

  Trystan’s expression remained grim. “I fail to see anything funny about my father pretending to be adle-pated with drink. Nor can I understand why he would do such a ludicrous thing.”

  “Oh, take the sword out of your backside, Trystan! It’s obvious he wanted to spare Sir Edward the shame of being unable to hold his braggot. No one will say a word about him if they think the baron was drunk, too.”

  Trystan blinked. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” she repeated teasingly, her eyes dancing in the dim light and her mouth forming an enticing circular pout. “Not so disgraceful, your father, is he now?”

  Trystan started to smile.

  “And mind, your father is paying the bill, for which Sir Edward should be very grateful. I never saw a man drink like him. No finesse at all.”

  “No finesse and no manners, either, and I do apologize for his behavior.”

  “Well, your father and I had a good laugh about it, so no harm done. Mind, if he touches me again, I’ll hit him.”

  Trystan’s face grew serious. “Mair, that would not be just. You hit too hard.”

  “Oh, I do?” she demanded. “Then how be I just tap him like this?”

  She stepped toward Trystan and raised her hand as if to strike him lightly. Before she could, he caught her wrist and stared into her questioning brown eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  “Oh, Mair,” Trystan said wistfully, “why do you make me feel this way?”

  Very aware of the slight pressure of his long, strong fingers, she swallowed hard.

  “What way?” she whispered, her gaze searching his face.

  “As if I must kiss you, or die.”

  “I…I do not want you to die,” she stammered softly. “I suppose you had better kiss me.”

  His eyes widened and then, with a low moan of surrender, he did.

  How he kissed her! As a drowning man seeks to breathe. As a sick man yearns for a cure. As a blind man wishes to see, or a deaf one to hear his beloved say his name.

  He was not alone in his burning need, for Mair knew she might never again have a chance to be with him. He was going to marry that Norman woman, and soon after his father would give him an estate, and so he would be gone.

  Gone to another woman’s bed, to her arms.

  Gone as if dead.

  Her mouth claiming his, she held him tight, memorizing the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin, the feel of his strong embrace. She reveled in the way they seemed made for each other, for so their bodies matched, breasts to chest and hips to hips.

  And more.

  Her whole body throbbed with desire, a desire that burned as bright as lightning illumines the night sky.

  How she wanted him! If not forever, for this last time.

  His caresses grew more fevered as he felt her relax into his arms. Oh, how he wanted her! She was fire and light and spirit, giving all and holding nothing back. She was all that a passionate woman should be, and more.

  Yet soon he must wed another. Soon, but not now. Now he had Mair in his arms, to hold and kiss and love.

  His lips left hers to trail hot kisses down her chin and neck as she arched back. Her hands gripped him tight as he nuzzled her bodice lower so that her breasts were exposed to his lips and his tongue.

  How perfect she was! Like a goddess. Not a cold, untouchable goddess, but a warm, living one, the embodiment of all a woman could and should be.

  “Make love with me, Trystan,” she panted. “Please. Just once more. Love me.”

  He knew he should not. He had asked another to be his wife. He himself had made the decision.

  But he was only a mortal man, and he could not refuse her request, not when every particle of his heart and body urged him to love her.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her upon it.

  “Trystan.” She sighed.

  Then he was with her, his body covering hers, his weight on his knees between her parted legs, and on his hands as he looked down on her. Her thick hair spread upon the pillow like a living corona, and her face was flushed with longing.

  And in her eyes…in her eyes was all any man could ever hope to see in a lover’s eyes.

  “Love me, Trystan,” she repeated, running her hands up his arms to stroke his shoulders and chest. “Love me so that I will never forget. Love me so that when I am alone and lonely, I will have the memory of you to warm me again.”

  “I will never forget you, Mair. No matter what happens or where I go, I will keep a special place in my heart for you.”

  Telling herself it was enough, she pulled him down for a passionate kiss.

  The touch of his lips on hers again ignited her.

  And him.

  With the same passionate abandon of the other times, they loved. Hands tore at clothing, caressed, held, stroked. Naked flesh met naked flesh and the sounds of their sighs and moans filled the darkness.

  After a time, Trystan joined with her and they began to move as if one body, never to be separated. Until, in one exquisite moment, they both cried out with release.

  Sighing, Trystan lowered himself and laid his head on Mair’s sweat-slicked breasts. His breathing slowed and it almost seemed as if he would sleep there, content.

  While Mair turned her head away so that he wouldn’t see her tears.

  At that moment, across the village, Angharad suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed, her eyes wide as she stared at the vision that came from she knew not where.

  And then she smiled.

  The first faint streaks of dawn were turning the sky orange and fuchsia when Trystan awoke. Mair slumbered beside him, her naked body soft and warm against his, one arm thrown over her eyes, her thick, curling, wondrous hair brushing his naked arm.

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  What had he done? How could he have been so stupid, and so blind?

  How could he have been so ignorant of the desire in his own heart?

  To believe he loved Rosamunde…to convince himself he didn’t even like Mair…

  But there could be no going back. He had asked and received Lady Rosamunde’s hand. To try to break that promise now would be dishonorable of him and humiliating for her. She had done nothing wrong, and Mair believed this was the last time they would be together.

  Sighing, he rose cautiously so as not to wake Mair. Let her enjoy the innocence of sleep.

  As he looked down at her in the rosy light of dawn creeping in through the small window, he realized how beautiful she was, from the top of her chestnut-haired head to the soles of her slender feet. He had always thought her pretty, but never had he noticed the perfection of her features. The smooth texture of her skin. The shape of her eyes. The straight bridge of her nose, with those delightful freckles scattered across it.

  He turned away and dressed quickly. He had lingered here much too long as it was.

  He had to think of the best route back to Craig Fawr, a route where no one would see him sneaking back like a thief.

  He would go by the river, then around the village past Angharad’s house, and so that way. If questioned, he would say…would say…

  He would pray he would not be asked.

  Ready to leave, he hesitated and gave himself the pleasure of one last look at the still-sleeping Mair. He very much wanted to kiss her good-bye, but he dare not.

  For if he did, he would surely want to stay, and that he could not do.

  Lady Rosamunde leaned yet closer to her father’s ear. She spoke softly, although there was no one nearby. She had dismissed the maidservants, yet she didn’t trust them not to linger
and listen outside the door. All servants were untrustworthy gossips. “You drunken sot! You ale-guzzling, despicable reprobate! I know you’re awake, so stop trying to pretend you’re not. I hope you die!”

  Her father groaned and covered his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair lay dank and limp, and his stale breath nearly made her gag. “My head hurts as if fifty demons are poking it with spears.”

  “More than your head would hurt if I had my way,” his daughter softly snarled.

  “I am ill.”

  “No more than any other drunken man would be the morning after.” She grabbed his hand and thrust it away so that the sun shone full on his red-rimmed, squinting eyes. “How could you do this to me?”

  He twisted his head to avoid the light. “You are not the one with the aching head.”

  “No. I am the one who must marry or else we will have to fall on the charity of the church. And what help do I get? None!”

  “Rosamunde, it was that woman. She kept pouring,” he whined.

  “What woman?”

  “The alewife, the one they called Mer. Or Martin. Or something like that.”

  “Mair,” she corrected impatiently, remembering well the woman who had borne a son to the young baron.

  “Yes, her. An impertinent wench.”

  “She did not welcome your advances, I suppose.” Her accusation was but a guess; however, when he didn’t answer right away, she knew she had surmised correctly.

  Over the years, her mother had paid out enough money to sobbing women, as well as enraged fathers and husbands, to prevent a charge of rape for Rosamunde to have no delusions about her father’s honor in that realm.

  She leaned toward him again. “You stupid, stupid oaf! What did the baron make of your attempt at seduction?”

  “No harm was done.” Her father opened his bleary blue eyes and regarded her as if he were an innocent victim. “We are friends. I went with him for your sake, Rosamunde, to try to discover how he felt about the marriage.”

  She made a skeptical frown. “And you had to get drunk to ask? Well, what did he say? Does he favor it?”

  “I…um, yes!”

  “Liar. You never asked him.”