Page 38

“You mean,” he said, stalking her, Freya backing from him with each step he took toward her, “the vow you wrought from me which I had no wish to take?”

She swallowed. “Aye, that one.”

In nothing but a shift, the back of Freya’s thighs bumped against the bed.

“I am aware of the reasons for it, Freya.” He stood above her, close enough to touch her but did not. The hearth crackled behind them, small but potent. She was, in fact, warmer than she wished to be at this moment.

“Because it is a sin to do otherwise.”

“A sin? According to some, aye. And yet, it balances the humours. Some even will say without a release, the body is left depleted, with sometimes fatal consequences.”

Every touch, every look, every kiss had led to this moment. Freya had known for days that if they were to find themselves alone in such a private place as her bedchamber, she would have difficulty remembering that she and Rory were unlikely to keep apart. “Who says such things?”

“The physician at Bristol.”

“And your Father Simon. What does he say on the matter?” Rory had talked of Bristol’s beloved priest more than once. She knew he respected the man, and indeed, his demeanor changed now.

“Father Simon would agree ’tis a sin. And yet, he has never condemned me for my dalliances.”

“Despite many opportunities to do so?” she teased, surprised to find it easy to jest about such a topic.

“Just so.”

“Oh,” Freya squealed. One moment she’d been standing next to the bed, Rory in front of her. In the next, he’d taken her hand and spun her around so quickly Freya had no time to react. His arm held her to him, Freya’s back now pressed against his chest.

Her buttocks, against his manhood. With only a shift, it was less difficult to wonder at that part of him. And wonder she had.

“If you tell me to stop, Freya,” Rory said, pushing her hair to the front and pressing a kiss upon her neck, “I will do so. But consider this.” No sooner did he release his hand than Rory moved to both her breasts, squeezing gently. Freya had no time to be surprised by this as his lips trailed a path upwards, closer and closer to her jawline. And then her ear. He caressed her breasts while pulling her toward him. When he bit down on her earlobe, Freya nearly collapsed in his arms. No part of her wished for him to stop this all-out assault. “We will be husband and wife. The only sin committed this night would be for you not to allow me to apologize properly for what occurred in the hall below.”

Her throat felt as if it had not seen a drink in days. “You did nothing amiss.”

“And yet, I will see you accept an apology still. Were you my wife, I’d have pulled you to my lap in front of all, claimed it so, and drank so deeply from your lips no ale would have been needed,” he whispered into her ear.

“Rory,” she began as his hand dropped to her hip. He gathered the material of her shift in it. Little by little, his hand rose. “I cannot think.”

There was a reason she should not be in his arms this way. She was sure of it.

“There is naught to think about,” Rory said, his fingers now able to traverse the gathered material as his hand splayed across her bare thigh. “Except for my hand. Do you wonder, dear Freya,” he said into her ear, still pressed against her, “where it will wander next?”

She had little need to wonder as his words were followed by his hand’s movement to just between her thighs. It should feel strange for him to suddenly be touching such an intimate part of her. Instead it felt . . .

“Rory?” she asked as his finger dipped inside her.

“Aye, Freya?”

His breath tickled her ear each time he spoke. Two fingers now entered her. Rory’s palm cupped her. He murmured something, but she could no sooner hear the words than tell him to stop.

“Is this,” she finally remembered, “is this a sin, what you are doing to me now?”

As his fingers moved, Rory’s hips did as well, his manhood pressed against her buttocks. Every part of her was warm now, as if she and Rory stood atop the fire rather than across the room from it. ’Twas the same as that night in Pucker’s Mark.

“Do you remember,” he asked, as if listening to her thoughts, “how your body betrayed you? Not wanting to respond to me . . .” He continued to flick his thumb as his fingers moved in and out. “But you could no sooner stop that tide than you could resist me now.”

“I could resist you,” she said, her hips moving in rhythm with his, Freya’s hand now covering Rory’s as if to offer guidance he did not need. Her other hand gripped the post on the corner of the bed. Letting go of it surely would have Freya falling to the ground. She’d thought the bed ornate for an inn. Little had Freya realized how she might utilize that bedpost. “If I chose,” she lied.

In response, he spun her once again, his hand never leaving her. Rory simply adjusted himself, and her, his mouth descending toward hers. Capturing her lips, he began to imitate the same movements as his hand with his tongue. That same crescendo as in Pucker’s Mark, one that felt as if it were coming before, was now upon her.

His fingers. His lips. His tongue. It was all too much. She tried to cry out, but Rory captured the sound. He pressed into her one last time, unmoving, as she pulsed around him. The line between pleasure and pain had never been one she thought would blur until now. Her chest burned. Freya held on to him, hardly able to stand. And as the clenching finally began to ebb, Rory did break the kiss.