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A need that was consuming him. So that when he was away from her, all he thought of was getting back to her. And when he was with her, all he wanted to do was stay right there.
His rod was still inside her; he felt it growing and hardening again, filling her. She was still swollen from his rough lovemaking of moments ago—he had tried to be gentle, but she had driven him mad and he had lost control…Great Odin, he never lost control. At least, he never had until he laid eyes on Lady Rose of Somerford Manor.
She moved beneath him, drawing in a shaky breath, and he realized with surprise that she was laughing. Her dark lashes lifted, and she stared up at him with teasing dark eyes.
“Are you hungry again, Gunnar?”
There was a new certainty about her, a new confidence. Had he done that? He couldn’t help it, he smiled back, and felt as if his heart were dissolving in his chest. “Aye, lady,” he breathed. “Starving.”
She stretched her arms above her head, and then reached up to encircle them about his neck. Her body was pressed to his, soft and warm, and oh so willing. “Then if you are hungry you must sup,” she told him with that wanton tremble in her voice. “I insist.”
“Then, lady, if you insist…”
Gunnar did as she bade him.
Chapter 14
“Lady?”
Constance stood before her. Rose looked up from her seat in the great hall, eyes wide and blurred with her own thoughts. She had been remembering the expression in Gunnar’s eyes when he joined his body to hers, hot and yet determined, as if he were marking her in some way. Making her his. And she had wanted him to, more than anything. Wanted to be his…
Rose blinked, glancing about her and then back to Constance.
“Lady?” the old woman repeated patiently, a humorous gleam in her own eyes. “You remember Olwan the peddler? He is come.”
Olwan? wondered Rose. And then, abruptly, memory returned. Olwan the peddler. Of course. Edric had been fond of the little man and made certain to ply him with food and drink whenever he came to Somerford. His visit occurred once a year, when Olwan would trade with the Somerford people during the late summertime, the prosperous time. Although—Rose blinked herself further awake—it was usually much later, after the harvest, when money was more abundant.
This year the harvest was yet to be brought in, and there was little to barter or spend. Still, even if she couldn’t buy, Rose thought, it would be pleasant to cast her eye over Olwan’s wares. A distraction for them all.
The peddler soon had his trinkets spread upon a trestle table, and the women were gathered about, enjoying themselves immensely.
“I have a brooch, and I have been saving it for you, lady,” Olwan said in his Welsh lilt, his dark eyes full of a sincerity Rose did not believe for a moment.
But it was all part of the pull and tug between buyer and seller, and Rose smiled, saying, “I doubt I can afford it, Olwan,” as she bent to examine the treasure.
The brooch looked old. It was made of bone, and the markings on it were a little like the carvings on the Somerford chair. Rapacious vines and tendrils mingled with the curling tresses of a woman’s hair. She was shown in profile, and was holding up an apple with one hand. Surprised, Rose recognized Idun. Was this a coincidence, or were Gunnar’s savage gods giving her their blessing? Mayhap they were handing her the apple to eternal life…or love.
Love?
The soft word acted on her like the most violent of curses. Rose’s throat closed up and her hands began to shake. The brooch almost slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor.
“Lady?”
Olwan’s voice was soft and very near her ear. Rose started and drew back, suddenly conscious of the sour, unwashed smell of the peddler’s body. It was a moment before she heard what he was saying.
“Lady, I have come here as quickly as I could from Lord Fitzmorton’s lands, and I have news you need to hear.”
Rose frowned, both the brooch and the peddler’s reek forgotten. “What is this news, Olwan? Why do I need to hear it?”
“There is a knight called Miles de Vessey. Do you know him?”
Her dreaminess vanished. “To my cost, aye, I know him.”
“Then you will not be pleased to hear he is on his way here, to Somerford, to keep watch when you sit in judgment at the manor court upon one of your people.”
No, Rose wasn’t pleased. The chatter of the women around her faded, and she felt queasy with a combination of fear and anger. Miles de Vessey was returning to Somerford. Had Fitzmorton sent him? But why did he come so soon? Whatever the reasons, he would be unlikely to stand silently by while she freed Harold for murdering Gilbert the Norman. Could she order her gates closed and hold Miles and his men out? Even with the addition of the mercenaries, the Somerford garrison was weak. Would Radulf get there first? He must have her message now—why had he not come?
“Is he far behind you?” she asked Olwan in a calm voice that did not show the hurried thudding of her heart.
