The Warrior's Reward (3 page)

Rosamunde studied his profile for many moments, tracing the sharp angle of his nose. It was slightly bent, she realised, with a bump in the bridge. He must have broken it. In battle or at another tournament?

Ieuan turned back to her, his gaze locking with hers once more. “I must escort you back.” Regret hung in his words.

Or had she imagined it? She shook her head. Nay, the night could not end. Not now she was in the company of this hardened warrior. The sword on his belt gleamed, reminding her of the danger surrounding him. A thrill thrummed through her body.

“I wish to stay,” she finally managed to say.

“’Tis not safe here.”

“You are my champion, are you not? I shall be safe at your side.”

His lips straightened, the crease in his brow deepened. Instead of the amusement she might have expected in his gaze, only a deep, dark intensity echoed. Her whole body tightened, but she couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or a little nervousness.

A few dancers twirled past them, their movements enough to break whatever had turned his eyes so dark. She watched their slow turns enviously and drew in a breath. Had this man not inspired her with his bravery?

And so she too would seek courage, even if it was for but one night.

“Will you not dance with me?” The words tumbled out into the night air before she could think on them or regret them.

His gaze locked with hers and for several heartbeats, she expected him to say nay, to tell her he must return her home. Then his hand touched hers. He said nothing. Simply twined his warm, rough fingers with hers. The contrast between their skin, hers soft and his rough, twisted her stomach into knots. She, who seldom used her hands for more than a little embroidery, and he who fought for honour and prestige, and likely his life at times.

Ieuan had dropped his gaze to their joined hands and did the same as he lifted her hand and drew her away from the tent toward the crackling heat of the fire. Ribbons of smoke curled about them though the gentle breeze prevented it from swallowing them. Nonetheless, everything in the background faded when he dropped into a bow and looked at her from under his brow.

Rosamunde felt as if they were in a world of their own, as if she was a free woman. Free to dance with handsome strangers, to drink ale, to dance around a fire. People did not dance around them, there was no music from the troubadours—only the music of their hearts. No laughs or rowdy songs emanated from the ale tent. Everything vanished, leaving only her and this knight.

“I know few courtly dances,” he warned. “We Welsh are not ones for dancing. We turn our attentions to other matters.”

“Like fighting,” she blurted and she clapped her free hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “I mean—”

His lips tilted, his eyes crinkled. “Aye, like fighting, but the Welsh are not so barbaric as you may think, Rosamunde. We take pleasure in many things. Fine food, good tales, the art of poetry and of course... the wooing of fair maidens.”

Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest. He had dropped his voice for the last few words, lowering his tone until it became dark and sinful. Wooing maidens was no sin if a man intended to marry said maiden, but they were not to be married, and he was wooing her, was he not? Still after his victory, he would be gone—back to Wales probably—so what harm could one night of wooing do?

Ieuan used a gentle pressure on her hand to draw her close until only a whisper of air separated them. She had to crane her neck to peer up at him. The most delicious tumbling sensation flipped her stomach over and over. Wooing indeed. She had not meant to come to flirt with this knight yet she could not deny she’d secretly hoped she might see him.

He directed her back again, guiding her with nothing more than his large hand. She followed his lead and allowed him complete control of her movements. He turned her slowly, giving her enough time to meet his gaze for long moments before turning away. The movement brought her close again and in spite of their leisurely movements, she found herself breathless.

“You shall return to Wales soon?” she asked, needing reassurance. Nothing could come of their dalliance and nor did she want anything to. A sweet memory was all she wanted.

“Aye, two day’s hence. Once I have secured my victory and... my prize.”

There it was again. The drop in his voice. He spoke of the prize pot as though it was some decadent reward, like the kiss of a lady. She supposed he must need the money. Wales was suffering after the failure of the rebellion. The King of England had fined many of the nobles involved and even hanged some for treason. The Prince of Wales was nowhere to be found so his leading men were punished instead.

Thank the Lord Ieuan had not been one of them. She knew little of him, save what Bella had told her but her father would never have allowed a traitor to compete. Still, he might well have found his lands attacked during the rebellion. From what tales her father told her of the war, Wales had been ravaged by attackers on both sides as they fought for control of the main castles.

A pang of sympathy darted through her. She didn’t fully understand the reason for the uprising but she understood the need for freedom. But she had no oppressor to fight against, only her father, who behaved as he did out of love for her. Rosamunde could hardly blame him after what happened to her mother.

“Is my dancing so poor that it saddens you?”

“Oh, nay, not at all.” She returned her attention to the gentle moves and found herself coaxed around the back of him only to come around and stand directly in front of him once more.

He loosened his grip on her fingers and pressed his palm to hers. “What saddens you, beautiful maiden?”

“I was thinking of your country.”

“And that saddens you?”

“Aye, it does.”

Aware of every callus on his hand pressing against her skin, she reflected on the only other men—aside from her family—to have touched her. Her suitors had been noblemen, not warriors. Their palms were soft. They spent time at court and had men do their fighting for them. Political intrigue was their forte. Ieuan’s was how best to kill his enemy.

Yet from the way he looked at her now, she would struggle to find the warrior in him were it not for his obvious strength. Though the blue in his eyes was dampened by the glow from the flames, they were soft, searching. It wasn’t until someone brushed her arm did she realise they’d ceased dancing. They stood, palm to palm, gazing at one another. Her heart lodged in her throat. Would it be possible for her to gain a kiss from him this night? To live her one dream before he vanished back to Wales and she returned to the castle to be hidden away until the next tournament?

And mayhap he would return next summer and claim another kiss. Then the summer after that. And every summer after. For surely her father intended for her to remain an old maid or else he would have accepted one of the generous offers for her. What else could she look forward to but a kiss from a darkly handsome knight?

Ieuan dropped his palm from hers. She blinked, losing the dreamy haze. She’d always tended toward daydreaming but never truly believed such foolish dreams. He was her champion, a man of honour, and likely lived a chivalric life. He would not kiss her, no matter how much she willed it, and he certainly wouldn’t travel across the country for a mere kiss once a year.

“’Tis late. I should return you to the keep before you are missed.”

“My father shall not miss me. He knows not that I’m gone.”

Admiration revealed itself in a grin. “You are bold indeed, Rosamunde.”

Bold? If only. Then she might beg for his kiss or even step forward and press her lips to his. “My father doesn’t let me out alone,” she said as if that explained her rash behaviour. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh Lord, my lady-in-waiting. Whatever could have happened to her?”

“The lady you were sitting with today?”

“Aye.”

“She looks to be perfectly content, Rosamunde. See there.” He nodded over toward the other side of the fire to see Bella dancing with several other young ladies.

Rosamunde laughed. “It seems my safety was not of much import to her then.”

“She likely saw you were with me and knew not to fear.”

“Yet I am unchaperoned and alone with you, a man I hardly know. ‘Tis hardly proper, Ieuan.”

“You calling me by my given name is not proper nor was our dance or our conversation. You sneaking out was not proper. This night has been most improper, my lady.”

She let out a shuddery breath. Did he intend to do anything else wholly unacceptable in her father’s eyes? Nay, she reminded herself. Of course he did not. If only he would not lead her on a merry dance of hope with his enticing words.

He put a hand to her elbow and guided her away from the fire. “Let me take you back before you are missed and find yourself in any more strife.”

“’Twas only a small amount of strife and I am safe, am I not?”

“For the moment.”

An undertone sat in his words, hinting at something else. Did he mean she should expect danger from him? Nay, Ieuan was not dangerous, at least not to her. She suspected his enemies would say otherwise. So mayhap he expected her to do something foolish.

“I see no danger, Ieuan, and I can look after myself.” The press on her elbow became more insistent as he guided her farther from the gilded warmth of the fire.

“There is danger. Much danger.” He twisted her and grasped her arms. She sucked in a sharp breath. “You are so innocent you do not see it. The firelight enhances your beauty, you move like a nymph when you dance. Your eyes sparkle and your lips beckon. Danger is all around you.”

Rosamunde let her brow furrow. Whatever did he mean? The words of flattery warmed her but then he spoke of danger...

“Ieuan...”

She flattened a hand to his chest as he shifted closer. Muscled warmth sat beneath that dark green tunic. She thought to remove her hand but he came closer still. Rosamunde darted her gaze around. No one paid them any heed. The shadows of the tents likely swallowed them up but there was just enough light to highlight his powerful expression.

Her breaths hitched in her throat, blood roared in her ears and drowned out even the shrill sound of the lute nearby. He leaned closer. His breaths whispered across her face. The fragrance of soap surrounded her and an image of him bathing in the river, his body slick with soap and water seared her mind. It shocked her, astounded her. Never had she imagined a naked man before. Never had she wanted to. From her window, she had seen enough of the male body to satisfy her curiosity as the men-at-arms washed by the well.

This knight was to kiss her, was he not? He would fulfil that dream of hers—a deep, delicious kiss from a dangerous warrior. Just one and she would return to her normal life. This was what she wanted. So why did her breaths tangle in her throat as though clogged by fear? Did she fear the kiss? Or fear it would not live up to the dream?

Rosamunde trembled against his hold on her arms. If he noticed, he paid no heed. Whatever he wished to do with her, she would let him. She was rooted to the spot, her legs weighted like stone. If she did even fear his kiss, she had not the willpower to send him away.

“A treasure,” he murmured. “A treasure indeed.”

She had no time to consider the words. His lips grazed hers. It seemed his mouth was lowering toward her for endless moments and yet suddenly they were upon her, branding her own mouth with a fiery trail of sensation. The sweep of his lips had been brief but it banished the fear. The fear that perhaps it might not live up to her dream.

It would. It really would.

“Do it again,” she urged.

No smile came from Ieuan, no sharp bark of laughter. His lips didn’t even twist, as she thought they might. Instead he dipped his head, almost in reverence, then brought his mouth to hers. His lips lingered longer this time. Rosamunde clasped the wool of his tunic tightly. Her eyelids fluttered closed of their own volition and only the scent and feel of him remained.

Her bold, dark champion who moved his mouth across hers with expert passion. At least she assumed it was expert. She had never been kissed before so she had nothing with which to compare. But he seemed to be aware of her innocence and used his mouth to guide hers with gentle pressure. Then something warm and wet touched her lips.

His tongue. She gasped and he gained entrance to her mouth. His tongue sought out hers, gently at first, and the sensation was quite unlike anything she’d ever experienced. More decadent than the finest desserts, more exciting than sneaking out of the castle. Her body hummed from head to toe as if he sent tiny vibrations through her. They—two practical strangers—were touching their tongues to one another in the shadows while people danced nearby.

His hands moved up her arms and came to clasp behind her head. Fingers wove into her hair, coaxing her to tilt her head further and allow him deeper access. She slipped her hands around those vast shoulders and twined her fingers into the hair curling at the nape of his neck.

The knight’s chest rose and fell with great breaths against her body. Her nipples had grown hard like she was cold but heat seared every part of her. Everywhere was muscle and rough hands and hot lips.

Something hard met her back and she realised he’d walked her up against a wooden post. Now there was even hardness to her back. Ieuan flattened himself fully to her. Rosamunde released a muffled cry.