When Reginald’s lips covered hers, Madelyne stilled. She neither moved closer nor further from the man whose arms slid around her shoulders, and whose mouth pressed to hers.
’Twas a soft kiss—nothing like the one she’d shared with Gavin in the wood—and Madelyne felt as though she waited for something more to happen. It did. Reginald pulled her closer to him and fitted his mouth more tightly to hers, angling his head and drawing her face toward him.
Warmth trickled through her and she allowed her hand to reach tentatively to touch his shoulder. It was pleasant, she thought dimly. Neither frightening nor disturbing, she realized with relief. He would be her husband, and it did not alarm her when he kissed her. Nor did it cause her veins to jump and her body to soften into a mass of warmth as Gavin’s kiss had done.
Their wedding night would be different, she knew, with much more than a gentle kiss to occur. Would she feel the same…
She vaguely noticed that Reginald’s fingers brushed the side of her face as he pulled slowly away. “Madelyne,” he whispered, “I would that you are mine.”
Then he drew her to him, more forcefully this time, his mouth plastering against hers so fiercely that her breath caught. Her heart raced now, as she tried to assimilate this new experience, and determine how she felt about it.
Then, abruptly, Reginald pulled away, allowing her to settle back into her place on the bench.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting, D’Orrais” came a voice she knew very well—a voice calm, deep, and frigid.
Madelyne’s stomach flipped as she twisted around to see a tall figure—Gavin—standing with his back to the sun, looking down at them. She could not see his face, as the sun was bright and it shadowed his countenance, but his stance bespoke of the barest of control.
“His majesty has just returned from the hunt and it is my understanding that he wishes to speak with you,” he continued in that cool voice.
Reginald, who had not removed his attention from Gavin, stood immediately. “My thanks, Mal Verne.” He turned to Madelyne, taking her hand and bringing it swiftly to his lips. Pressing against them softly, he spoke, his mouth moving against her skin, “Mayhap ’tis the news I have been waiting for. I shall find you at supper, then, my lady.”
“Of course,” Madelyne spoke, finding her voice. Had she expected Gavin to be angry with Reginald for kissing her? Why would she have assumed he’d feel the same annoyance that she’d felt when observing him and Therese together?
But he was not angry at all—instead, he came bearing glad news for her suitor.
The thought left her empty and bereft, and she stood as Reginald started off.
“Nay,” Gavin commanded, his hand coming out to grasp her wrist. He directed her back to her seat. “I wish to speak with you.”
Now she saw it, as he sat next to her on the bench: the darkness smoldering in eyes the color of tempered iron. She noticed, too, the bloody scrape along his cheek and the dirt streaks along the side of his face and arm. “What has happened?” she asked, reaching automatically to touch the dirt on his sleeve. “Have you been hurt?”
“’Tis naught of your concern,” he responded, pulling back as her fingers brushed the rough fabric of his tunic. She saw him wince as he moved, and knew he was in pain.
“Gavin, you are hurt—”
“Madelyne, do not attempt to sway me from my purpose! Your concern for my hurt is a meager balm at this time—”
“Your purpose?” Her interruption surprised him, Madelyne observed with satisfaction—she was not so much the shy little nun she once had been, thanks to his own actions. “Your purpose was to inform Reginald that the king wished to see him, and now that task is completed—”
“’Twas a falsehood,” Gavin said flatly. “The king does not wish to see him—’tis my task to give him the news that he may wed you.”
Emptiness swelled within her, but she pushed it aside in favor of growing irritation. “What then is your great and lofty purpose, Lord Mal Verne, that you should interrupt my peaceful seat in the garden with your anger and annoyance?”
“Ah…yes, I did interrupt, did I not. I cannot in truth apologize to you, my lady, for coming upon you as I did and attempting to salvage your reputation.” Anger flashed anew in his gray eyes. “Do you not know he only wishes to brand you as his own? ’Tis why he kisses you in the public garden where any may see it—and thus wonder about your virtue.”
Madelyne recoiled, and then annoyance surged through her. “’Twas only a harmless kiss,” she responded evenly, realizing that she must speak her mind. “He has been courting me gently, and never attempted such a thing before today.”
“Madelyne, I—do you love him?” His voice was rough.
“Love him?” She had not expected such a question…’twas almost as if he had some care for her. Mayhap… Resolve built within her. “Why would I
She tilted her head to look at him steadily while trying to keep her gaze from resting upon his beautiful mouth: the only part of his face that appeared pliable.
Now, as he returned her stare, Madelyne felt surrounded by his presence. Gavin’s body so close to hers on the bench suddenly made her feel as though they touched—when they did not. His thigh rested just next to hers, thick and ridged with muscle, his cross-garters and hose sagging below the knee.
“Do you like his kisses? Do you wish to marry him?”
“His kisses were…adequate,” she replied coolly, taking care to keep her voice steady and nonchalant. “It has been my experience that one kiss is the same as another…would you not agree, Lord Mal Verne?”
She looked away with great casualness, forcing herself to focus on the tiny green apples that grew just beyond their bench.
All at once, large, firm hands closed over her shoulders and she was hauled toward him and into a solid, imposing chest. Gavin’s face—dark and hungry—blurred toward her, his mouth descending upon hers before she could draw a breath.
A rush of something surged into her belly—flipping it, squeezing it—catching her by surprise, and she leaned toward him intuitively. Her eyes slid closed as she sagged against him, feeling every part of her body come alive as his mouth devoured hers and she kissed him in return.
His lips, soft now that they weren’t plated with annoyance, fit to her mouth, caressing and demanding in turn as Gavin slipped his hands around her back. His fingers molded against her shoulder blades, warm and firm through the fabric of her gown. Still half-seated, she fit closely to his chest, at last remembering to breathe…and gathered in all of his masculine scent: sweat, blood, power and something raw and wild.
Everything drained away: only he remained, and the warmth dancing through her veins as he tempted her mouth open with his. This new sensation—slick, warm, urgent, as his tongue moved with hers—brought a faint moan from the back of her throat. Gavin pulled away enough to press light, tender kisses on the side of her mouth, her cheek…then, cupping her face in his palms, brought his mouth back to hers.
Madelyne remembered her hands, tucked between them in her lap, and reached to touch his neck. Her fingers brushed damp, dark hair as they curled to embrace the back of his head, then moved almost immediately to know his thick, broad shoulders. Her fingers closed over his arms, pulling him to her, wanting to feel the muscle and strength that surrounded her. Under her hand, he jerked, a grunt of pain escaping, and Madelyne pulled away, struggling to return to herself.
“What is it?” she asked, her lips full and clumsy, her chest rising and falling rapidly, still close enough to brush against his. Once again, she felt the hard bench beneath her and realized that the garden flourished around them. For a moment, she’d lost track of where, and when…
He looked down at her, his eyes now soft andglazed, his lips full and moist. A pang of heat came from
