Page 26 of A Knight for Gwenllian

Gwenllian knew Alexander was avoiding her. And she knew why. It was partly due to embarrassment at her outburst, and partly because of the desire he felt for her. She had felt him harden against her hip while he’d held her. She hadn’t been sure of his arousal earlier on the horse, but there had been no hiding it this time, with only her delicate shift and his tight hose between them.

As for her, her anguish had quickly transformed into something else, something far more licentious. Fortunately for her, the signs of a woman’s desire were not as obvious as a hard shaft jutting out from between her legs. Only she had been aware of the tingling in her nipples, the slickness between her thighs and the ache in her loins. Alexander might have been none the wiser. She certainly hoped so because otherwise she would be mortified. She already was.

He threw her a heated glance that reached all the way to her toes, making her realize that, unlikely as it was, this part of her body could feel the effect of desire as well.

“I won’t be long,” he murmured. “Get into bed, ’tis getting cold.”

She watched him exit the room and did as she’d been told. Suddenly, she was exhausted. The bath had relaxed her, and the events of the day were no doubt taking their toll.

These events, of course, had not all been bad. They included the kiss between her and Alexander. It had not been mentioned once, even if it felt as if both were very aware of having shared such intimacy but wary of the consequences. And in truth, it was probably better that they never mentioned it, because what could she have said? That she wasn’t sure why she had kissed him? That she wanted to do it again? None of these options was a good idea.

And what would Alexander say if he knew what she thought?

It wasn’t long before the tub was removed and they were alone in the room once more. Gwenllian was still tucked under the covers, having not wanted anyone to see her in her state of undress. With Alexander, it had not seemed to matter, somehow.

“All ready for the night then?” he asked, looking at her for the first time since he had walked back into the room. If she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn he was ill at ease. But surely Sir Alexander Rathbone was the epitome of confidence?

“Yes, I’m ready,” she said, weary to her bones.

“Me too.”

He spread the blanket he had procured from the tavern owner in front of the fireplace and then unbuckled his scabbard. From her place on the comfortable bed, Gwenllian felt guilty at the idea that, after a three-day ride, he was going to have to sleep on the hard floor.

“Are you sure you⁠—”

“I’m sure. Go to sleep, Buttercup.”

Everything within her melted at the nickname he had only used twice since he’d known her real identity. He’d told her it did not suit her, and she agreed, but she still enjoyed the intimacy of having a name only between the two of them. No one else had called her like that, and no one would again, in all probability. She found she would miss it.

“Good night, then,” she said, turning to her side. If she saw him on the floor, she knew she would ask him to join her in bed. And just as equally, she knew he would refuse. It was not worth going through all that trouble.

“Good night.”

It was only when a sunray came to tease her the next morning that Gwenllian understood that, despite her guilt, she had fallen asleep as soon as she had closed her eyes.

She was about to turn to the other side to see whether Alexander was awake when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him walk over to the basin of water that had been brought for them the night before. Thinking her still asleep, he had removed his tunic and shirt. Deciding that pretending to be asleep a little while longer was the best option for now, Gwenllian watched him through half-lidded eyes.

From where she was, she had an unobstructed view of his broad, muscular back, with its muscles rippling in the morning sun. She was reminded of the day she had walked in on him naked in the light of the fire. Not that she didn’t think of that moment regularly… It had become a favorite image with which to fall asleep. Today would provide her with another happy memory.

As she watched Alexander splash his face and chest as discreetly as he could, Gwenllian found herself wondering whether she wished for another night alone in a room with him or not. Then he stretched, arms lifted to the ceiling, neck arched. Her insides coiled—and she concluded that they had better reach Nead an Diabhail as quickly as possible.

She would not be answerable for her actions otherwise.

Chapter Nine

“Bethan!”

With a cry of joy, Gwenllian ran into her friend’s arms. Alexander watched on as the two women, as different one from the other as night from day, hugged and started to sob. The contrast between them was very pleasing, but he found himself thinking that he preferred his little Buttercup’s golden beauty to her friend’s darker looks. A smile came to tease his lips.

Perhaps the name was not so ill-suited after all.

It had taken them almost two weeks to reach Nead an Diabhail. Had he been with a male friend, he might well have covered the distance faster, but there had been no incentive to put an end to his time with Gwenllian. Riding with a battle-hardened knight, faster though it may be, was nowhere near as enjoyable as riding with a quick-witted lady. Rather selfishly, he was grateful to the Welshman who had hurt himself for this opportunity to be alone with the most fascinating woman he had ever met.

Every day, he discovered a new side of her to enjoy—and every day he seemed to find a new way to please her. She liked his bluntness, he’d quickly realized, which had come as a surprise, and his protective side, which had been a relief. He’d sometimes wondered if she would not feel stifled by his insistence on seeing to her safety, because after the incident with Old John and his son, he had become even more cautious than usual.

As for him, he had yet to find something he didn’t like about her. As well as her quick-wittedness, he enjoyed her wicked sense of humor, unexpected in a well-raised lady, and he was impressed at her resilience. Riding all the way to Scotland, mere days after having come from Wales, was no mean feat. Not for her, Lady Isabeau’s delicate disposition. After that one night at the tavern, she had not asked to stop in another establishment, making do, like he did, with the rolled-up furs they had packed.

And, of course, he had liked looking at her, riding with effortless ease and moving with grace. He never tired of it.