Whatever it was understood, for this time, it returned to his forehead and he groaned at the pure pleasure of it. Cool, divine wetness on his face and neck… It smelled of roses.
“Rosa…”
“I’m here, Lucas.” The voice floated tenderly, with a sigh of fragrance and hushed softness. He attempted to open his eyes but they were stuck.
“Can’t open…” he mumbled, and the wetness now pressed against his lids. Trying again to lift them, felt akin to raising a boulder and he was tempted not to bother, but he heard a soft hum and so desperately wanted to see.
The coolness left his eyes to be replaced by a chill, delicate hand. It brushed his hair back and caressed the scarred side of his face, and finally his lids opened.
Turquoise. All he could see was turquoise. It reminded him of a little cove he had encountered on the Portuguese coast – crisp, limpid and calm. He traced the colour up: a yellow ribbon was tied under a slender bosom, up to a delicate jaw, rose lips and high cheekbones. Onwards to deep-green eyes, tipped with auburn lashes.
He opened his mouth to speak but he was so goddamn thirsty. She sensed his need though and brought a carafe of liquid to his lips. It was quenching and tasted like sweet tea and herbs and he gulped avariciously, spilling half of it.
“Greedy man.” The rose lips formed a soft smile. God, he was burning and she looked so fresh and cool. He wanted her whole body over his, to slowly freeze his hot carcass until he shivered.
“Lay with me?” he mumbled.
“Lucas, you devil. And I thought you were too ill.”
He frowned. What was she talking about? He wanted her freshness to envelop him, to bathe him.
“Lay with me.” And he reached out a hand to pull at her skirts.
“Well, if I must, and only for your recovery…” She carried on talking but he had to close his eyes against the pain that suddenly struck the back of his head. It didn’t matter because he felt cold, soft silk touch his body.
He moaned with contentment as wetness once again patted at his forehead and he reached out an arm to pull it nearer. He heard a squeak but didn’t care, as all he felt was blissful coolness.
Rosalind tried to gently pull away, but it caused him to groan in pain so she stayed where she was. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, just very improper. She’d sat on the bed with her legs curled under her and patted Lucas’s head with a cold cloth, but when he’d mumbled, “Lay with me,” it appeared he’d meant it literally. A burly arm had clutched her waist and pulled, sprawling her body across his.
She’d managed to manoeuvre herself so that she was now just lying half on him with her head nestled into his shoulder. The cloth that she still held was hot and useless, but Lucas seemed to have calmed and slept peacefully, one hand still clutched around her waist, the other, well, on her rump. The slightest movement made his grip tighten.
Earlier, the housekeeper had managed to get him into a nightshirt with much ado, but it appeared he hadn’t liked it as it had been thrown off in a violent movement and flung halfway across the room, where it had caught on the wall sconce. She could see it, drooping decadently against the pale-blue paper hangings.
The glimpse of his body earlier had upset her and up close, she could see the nasty scars adorning his chest. It looked random, until you noticed that no two scars were ever in the same place, as if whoever had caused them had deliberately chosen the space in between because it was unmarred.
Trying not to look down, she couldn’t help but see his lower torso was relatively unscathed from scar or burn. His stomach was flat and muscular, and her hand itched to explore, but she remembered her own promise about not molesting unconscious men. The sheet covered him to his lower belly; she liked the delineation of his hip, the line of tawny hair trailing under the blanket – she dragged her eyes away. The poor man was feverish and here she was ogling his body.
She was a bad woman.
Her arm was starting to go numb, so she made a slight movement. The hand clutched again at her backside but this time he moaned her name and before she could think to move, she was turned onto her back and Lucas’s huge body came sprawling half on top of her.
It was a delicious feeling. She thought she would feel trapped but instead it felt close and intimate. She suspected she would be fighting for breath if his whole body had landed on her but most of him was to the side, his face buried in her neck and his sturdy arm a hot band across her ribs. She reached up and played with the damp tendrils of hair at his nape and he gently moaned in appreciation.
The crimson bed hangings adorned rather than hid the decorated oak posts and had been kept open to invite the warmth of the fire. Above her head, the Stonebridge family coat of arms frolicked. The carved scene depicted a rearing horse, inevitably, but a maiden sat under its hooves, seemingly quite calm. Rosalind would have screamed to high heaven but the woman’s head was bowed: peaceful and serene.
Benedict had told her some Banbury Tale about it. Apparently, the first Stonebridge had been cursed by a spurned witch to be half-horse, half-man and only when a maiden trusted him enough to stand under his hooves would the curse be lifted. Of course, some maiden did, more fool her, and the Stonebridge line continued, with the mottoDeeds with love overcome all dangers.
If only her curse could be so easily fixed. Mother had told stories of their ancestors, that they had come over from Ireland originally to make their home in Cornwall. Had the curse travelled with the family? She wasn’t aware of any other relatives that suffered in this way. But many, like her father, would have considered them witches and then, perhaps, they would not have survived long enough to be remembered.
Mother had tried to protect her, but the protection had come at a cost and she’d become worn and weak. She’d loved her mother, but even she had seemed a little wary of Rosalind: a thing to be cared for, but never cherished.
As though hearing her sorrowful thoughts, Lucas’s hand moved, from her hip, up to her waist and then to her bosom. She’d thought it would stay there – wasn’t that where men always paused? But it moved on, up past her shoulder, her neck and then it cupped the side of her head.
A grunt of satisfaction came from the face buried in her neck and the intimate caress brought a stinging to the back of her eyes. How could this man ever be able to ignore her curse and truly care for her when her own mother had struggled?
Wool. He had wool in his mouth. It was the only explanation. He tried to spit out the fluff, but that only seemed to introduce more. It was silky – that was the only flaw to his reasoning. As he regained consciousness, Lucas began, in a soldier’s way, to catalogue other feelings.
He was lying on something lumpy. He could smell gardens. His right hand was tangled in satin. The something lumpy moved. Reasonably, he wondered if he was sleeping on a sheep again, but he also felt warm, unduly content and had never met a sheep that smelled of roses.
