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“Where is Smoke?”
“Hunting,” he murmured, feeling the words fan against her cheek.
He turned back to her, then led her by her arm.
Moments later, she found herself inside the stables with him. She was brushing out a mare’s long mane; it flowed beautifully like a silken banner. Rowan wore shirtsleeves, his tanned throat visible where the laces were loosely done. He murmured something in Sunbeam’s ear—a French endearment—then set down his brush. He watched her from the next stall, amusement warming his eyes.
“Weeks ago, you would have never recognized her,” he said, gesturing to the mare she was attending. “She was a wild thing. Wary and flighty.”
Blanchette gazed at him over the mare’s back. “And now?”
“Why, she’s as docile as a lamb.” His eyes flickered with amusement again. The mare nickered as if in agreement.
He means me.
“Her name’s Shadow.”
“Shadow and Sunbeam,” Blanchette murmured, a hint of a smile on her mouth.
Rowan leaped over the wooden wall that divided the stalls with supple grace. The horse whinnied at his approach. He gave Shadow a gentle caress, though his ardent gaze never parted from Blanchette. Then he reached overhead and grabbed a beam. The muscles in his chest and forearms strained as he studied her intently and rocked toward her body. She watched as his biceps bulged against the taut fabric of his shirt. His aroma engulfed her—sandalwood and musk and Norland’s soil. Blanchette’s eardrums thundered, slamming against her skull in a roar. Impatiently, the mare nudged him with her nose.
But Rowan only had eyes for Blanchette.
“I should like your answer about my proposal. You remember that? Winter has come and gone now.”
“How could I forget? It was so very romantic,” she said dryly, though her heart continued to roar.
He let go of the beam and stepped toward her. She scooted back, but her bottom bumped against the wall. Battle-hewn muscle and a wooden panel encased her. He stared down at her through his heavy raven-black lashes, a wolfish grin on his lips. She felt the heat radiating from his body and smelled the heady aroma of ale on his breath. She unconsciously drew closer to him, her knees weakening, her body acting on its own accord. Sweat dappled his exposed chest. Her eyes planted on his collarbone. His strong throat. The dark stubble on his chin. Finally, her eyes met his, and he grinned wickedly. He’d caught her staring. His voice was dark and deep. She’d drown in it if she weren’t careful. “So, is that a yes, ma princesse?”
That broke whatever spell she was under. She tossed the brush aside, a familiar rush of anger forming inside her. “You don’t want me. You want my kingdom.”
One of his hands grabbed the beam again. His eyes and voice softened as he reached out with his free hand and traced the scar on her cheek. She almost turned into his gliding knuckles and kissed them. She physically had to stop herself. “I want peace,” he whispered. “I want you to have peace. If we come together, it’ll bring everyone else together as well. This is the way, Blanchette. The only way.”
I want you as well… He didn’t say the words, but she saw the naked desire in his gaze.
She felt it too. A fierce heat that began in her stomach, then spread through her body like wildfire.
She laid her hand on top of his and closed her eyes. Fissions of awareness shot through her palm. She curled her fingers between his much bigger ones, savoring the feel of him.
His strength.
The promises he’d made.
Will trusting his promise compromise my own?
Where do I stand? And who do I fight for now?
“Except you forget I’m no lamb, Rowan. I am a raven.”
* * *
Rowan gazed down at the castle from the bailey’s watchtower. The wood looked immense and never-ending—a sea of green soldiers spread out to forever. Rowan set his palms on the banister. It was likely constructed from a tree from that very forest. He imagined the watchtower with eyes carved into its body. What wars had it seen over the centuries? What weddings and celebrations? What tragedies and triumphs? How many couples had it watched steal a moment alone, perhaps there, just behind the stable or woodshop?
Rowan adjusted his posture, and the watchtower creaked beneath his weight.It’s talking to me,he imagined.Telling me its secrets… or maybe it’s cursing me for trespassing.
His thoughts dissipated as a haunting figure emerged in the bailey below. Draped in a scarlet riding cloak, Blanchette Winslowe moved gracefully through a swirling mist. Stopping beneath the watchtower, she revealed her golden curls as her pale hands pushed back the hood to puddle on her shoulders.
She gazed up at him, the cloak pooling around her body. Slowly, sensually, a smile spread across her lips. Lips as red as her cloak.
