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Chapter Thirty

Rory placed the key gently on the wooden table beside Freya’s bed. He knew this chamber well, as it had been his for many years. Just three summers ago, his mother had the entire South Tower renovated, the stone washed and furniture replaced. He’d become accustomed to his new bedchamber, and so this one remained for guests of Bristol Manor.

Warming his hands by the fire for a brief moment, he watched Freya sleep. Though he should be tired himself for not having had any rest the night before, Rory was the very opposite. He’d never felt more alive than at this moment.

Like before, he moved to her bed. And like before, he leaned down toward her ear. This time, absent the fear she might scream, Rory did not place his hand over her mouth. But he did whisper, “I am not here to harm you.”

Freya’s eyes flew open as she spun toward him.

“The opposite, in fact,” he said, climbing onto the bed. “I’m here to love you, Freya, if you’ll have me.”

He lay next to her, his head propped on one arm. Freya said nothing, sleep lingering as she tucked both hands under her own head.

“For certain, I am dreaming,” she said. “What did you say?”

He reached out to an errant strand of hair and placed it on the other side of her shoulder. He’d spied her gown laid carefully on the trunk at the foot of the bed, grateful it had been the same one she wore earlier. Now he could see clearly that beneath the coverlet Freya wore nothing but a chemise.

Rory looked into her eyes, waited to be certain she could hear him well, and said, “I am here to love you, Freya.”

She blinked. “I . . .”

He clarified, “I would marry you, Freya. Not for duty, but for love.”

“You care for me. Desire me. ’Tis all.”

“Nay.” He could not resist touching her. Rory cupped her face with his free hand. “I love you, Freya, and should have said it sooner. When I thought you were gone, I was wild with fear. The thought of loving again, being broken as I once was . . . there was a time the very idea of it made me feel as if my heart twisted in my chest. But that pain was but a finger prick compared to the fear that you’d left. That you could be in danger. You are not her, as you said. You are much, much more. Besides—” he shifted closer to her, so close the length of his body pressed against her, “—you will not leave this bedchamber until you agree to be my wife. So there’s little use in fighting me.”

Her eyes swam with unshed tears. “First you come to me in my bed and beg me to go with you. Now you threaten to lock me inside.”

“Lock you inside,” Rory said, his gaze dipping down. He moved quickly atop her, pinning Freya’s wrists to each side of her head. “Have my way with you.”

Rory leaned down and kissed her, not with the tenderness and warmth he’d been feeling watching her sleep but with the desperation and hope he’d come to this chamber with. She had to love him. To take him still.

His tongue sought hers, and with every caress, he apologized again and again for not seeing his love for what it had been all this time. Reaching down, he lifted her chemise and ran his hand along her hip, her waist, and then up to one breast and then the other.

“Mmm,” Freya murmured beneath him, her own hands grasping at his linen shirt. “You smell as if you are still wet. Like oak and lime.”

“It was the quickest bath I ever took,” he said. “But I could not come to you, to plead for you to take me, as I was.”

“I’ve not said aye or nay,” she teased.

Rory pretended to think on it. Sitting up, he tore off his shirt and then repinned her wrists.

Freya feigned indifference. “You think to influence me with your muscles? Do you not know by now I am not impressed by your appearance, Rory Waryn?”

“Nay?” He jumped from the bed then, tore off every bit of clothing, and stood before her, never flinching from her gaze. If ever there was a time to stand tall, and proud, it was under the inspection of a woman he knew would never hurt him. As her mouth widened looking at him, he made sure she understood. “’Tis for you I’ve endured this.” Rory climbed back into the bed. “I’ve been hard and so ready to make love to you from the start.”

He lifted up Freya’s chemise, and with her assistance, Freya wiggling in a way he hoped to see many, many times, they were able to remove it. Now his turn to stare in awe, Rory groaned. And then dipped his head down to taste first each breast, and then lower still. When Freya began to protest, he opened her legs wider in response. She was unaccustomed to such intimacies, but would not be for long.

The first time his tongue touched her, Freya’s hips jolted from the bed. He welcomed the movement, used the sudden space between her buttocks and the bed to slip his hands between them. Rory flicked his tongue as Freya grasped his still-wet hair. She began to guide him, but Rory needed no guidance. It was not long before she quivered under both his hands and mouth and cried out in release.

But he’d only just begun.

Shifting over her once again, Rory positioned himself and then froze at her entrance. There would be no doubt between them. “I love you, Freya, and was a fool for being too scared to admit it. Forgive me. Love me. Marry me.”

Her light touch, Freya’s fingertips on his arms, forced a shiver from him. “There is naught to forgive, Rory. You rescued me. Cared for me. Showed me pleasure. And would have married me for protection, something I could not have let you do. But for love? Aye, I will marry you. And gladly call myself your wife.”

Her words were all Rory needed. He would make this woman his . . . now. But when he reached her virgin’s barrier, Rory did warn her. “’Twill hurt, but for a moment only.”