A Lady of His Own

Screamed.

The sound, purely feminine, intensely evocative, sank into him like a spur and shattered what little control he had left. He thrust harder, deeper, then held still as she convulsed around him; eyes closed, head back, he savored her release.

But it wasn’t enough.

The instant the last of her tension left her, he withdrew from her, letting her skirts fall as he swung her into his arms, then went to his knees. He laid her back on the warm stone before him, arranging her as he wished.

From beneath heavy lids, she watched him, her eyes storm-wracked gray glittering in the aftermath of the tumult she’d just weathered, her lips swollen and parted, her bared breasts rising and falling dramatically. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed wildly.

Her voluminous riding skirts had spread across the slab, the old gold velvet sheening in the sunshine, the back trapped beneath her, protecting her from any abrasion from the stone. Raising the front hem, he tossed the heavy skirt back, exposing her long legs, the damp triangle of fair curls at the apex of her thighs, the white curves of her hips.

He could hear the blood pounding in his head, could feel it pounding throughout his body, echoing the compulsion that drove through his veins. Grasping her thighs, he spread them wide and knelt between. His phallus rose rigid and urgent from the open placket of his breeches. Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, he gripped her lower hips, and lifted her to him.

Slid slowly into the scalding haven of her body. Watched her as he did, sensed her body rise to meet his, welcoming him in, her softness easing about his hardness, accepting, wanting him as much as he did her. When he’d fully impaled her, he withdrew halfway, then thrust deeply in.

Her breath tangled in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, for one long moment she was with him as he rocked deeply into her, then on a shuddering sigh, her lids fell and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and let him have his way. Let him use her body as he wished for his pleasure, ultimately for hers, too. The time came when she could no longer remain passive, when desire rose again and whipped her back into the dance.

And then she matched him. Strove with him as the dance whirled ever faster, as they joined ever more deeply, ever more completely. As they started up the last rise to the pinnacle, she sobbed and reached for him.

He spread his hands beneath her back and lifted her, let her clutch his arms, then bent his head and feasted on her breasts.

The tempo escalated, then whirled out of control.

She screamed again, clutched his head to her breast, arching wildly. Eyes closed, he clung to her, clung until her contractions faded, then eased her back, gripped her hips in an unforgiving grasp and with a series of short, deep thrusts, joined her. Pumped himself into her.

Untold moments passed; his head spun. Eventually, he withdrew from her, slumped beside her, and let oblivion close over him, overwhelming and complete.

Penny wasn’t sure why she woke; her senses stretched, but there was no one else there, just the two of them slumped on their sides on the stone slab, the sunshine pouring over them in gentle benediction.

Peace and stillness enveloped her. Her body felt limp, gloriously so; the passion Charles had wrung from her had left her deliciously weak. Lips curving, she closed her eyes and let her mind range over their recent engagement. It had been far far better than even her wildest dreams.

Gradually other thoughts spun into her mind. Thoughts of him, her unresolved questions, possible answers. In the bliss of aftermath with her mind clear, relaxed, open, it was impossible not to see what the last hour had proved.

Charles lay behind her, deeply asleep, his arm heavy across her waist. She hesitated, then slowly, supplely pushed up from the floor, drawing her legs up and swiveling so she was sitting, her skirts twisted but not yet pulling, still within the circle of his arm, which slid down to cradle her hip.

She looked down at him. For long moments, she studied his face, the features she’d known since childhood, the lines the last decade had etched. It was still a very strong face. She let her gaze roam downward. Still a very strong body, one her own responded to in a flagrantly wanton way. Still.

Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face, then, drawing in a deep breath, she clasped her arms about her calves, rested her chin on her knees, and looked out over the fields.

How foolish she’d been to imagine she could somehow suspend loving him, could somehow keep her heart from him. Her heart had been his all those years ago; it had never changed, never vacillated no matter what her intellect had dictated. Yet she had changed.

At sixteen, she’d loved him; she could remember what it had felt like-a mere wraith of emotion compared to what she felt now. In the last hour…connecting past with present had revealed how much her love had matured, into something stronger, more vibrant, impossible to suppress, let alone deny. It might have been born long ago, but it was of the here and now, not the past; it was very much a woman’s love, confident and demanding, not a young girl’s fantasy.

She was no longer afraid that he might break her heart-if he hadn’t destroyed it years ago, then he couldn’t now. The years had changed him, but they’d changed her, too; she was now much stronger.

She refused to regret or in any way step back from what had, this time, grown between them. Last time, she had in effect run away, drawn back from loving him because he hadn’t loved her. Not this time. This time, she’d learned what not just love but loving was, how deeply satisfying it could be; she wasn’t going to give up the glory of loving him of her own accord. This time, if anyone was to step back, it would be he.

But would he?

Eyes narrowing, she looked again at his sleeping face, shuttered and closed. She’d assumed that in seducing her he was looking for an affair, a lover for the weeks he was here investigating. She’d stepped into his arms believing that, built her vision of what he was about on that basis.

But her vision was wrong.

He grew suspicious when facts didn’t fit; so did she. The emotional link that had grown between them, that he’d allowed and encouraged to grow between them, didn’t fit with a fleeting affair. Nor did the way he’d dealt with her, until today.

With her eyes, she traced the lines of his face, the sensuous lips, the squared chin. In the last hour, she’d deliberately set out to shake him free of his self-imposed restraint, to see what lay behind it. She’d succeeded well enough to learn what she’d needed to know; the wolf hadn’t changed his pelt for a curly fleece. Regardless of what he allowed to show, underneath he was a conquering French-Norman lord, dominant and domineering, and blatantly, ruthlessly possessive, at least with respect to her.

So why, so consistently over their recent enounters, had he taken the supplicant’s role?

There was only one answer; he wanted something from her. Specifically, he wanted her.

The damned man was wooing her.

That explanation was the only one that fitted; reviewing his behavior, she could see nothing that argued against it. Indeed, he’d even told her she was his perfect bride. He’d been fixed on marrying her from then, but with her mind flatly disavowing any such likelihood, she hadn’t caught the admission in his words.

At some point, he was going to ask her to marry him. She knew him; he would ask in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to avoid giving him an answer. So how was she going to reply?

Inwardly she swore, relieved her feelings by scowling at him, thankfully still sleeping, then looked away across the fields.

Why did he want to marry her? A critical question to which the answer might be a host of partial reasons. He’d mentioned some in declaring her his perfect bride; none was a reason she would accept.

She loved him, but she didn’t know what he felt for her. If it was some mild, impermanent emotion, affection laced with lust and desire, even now she would rather live the rest of her life an old maid than see affection fade and die, know her love was no longer wanted, and have them both grow bitter.

If they weren’t married, then if and when her love was no longer enough for him, they could part; if they were married, they’d be doomed. She could easily see herself as his longtime lover, but tied to him in marriage? Not without love on both sides.

But did he love her? Thirteen years ago, she’d been sure of the answer. Now…her