Chapter 22
With that, Waryk rose, uncertain as to whether he was so delighted to see his wife that nothing mattered, or if he should be angry since she had obviously come to see him with Eleanora, and find out exactly what he was doing.
Seeing her here also frightened him; he didn’t like the idea of her outside the domain of Blue Isle.
He knew that she’d be on the mainland, tending to Ewan, but he knew as well that Angus and the other men would guard her like hawks, and that now, on the isle and the mainland, she would be well protected against a surprise attack.
But outside their own realm …
He felt as if they were vulnerable to some strange evil he knew existed—but not how or why. With men attacking the isle and claiming to be there on her uncle’s orders, she must surely recognize the danger she was in.
Eleanora arched a brow, reaching for his hand.
“Steady, my lo—friend. You look as if you’re about to take her head off.”
“She shouldn’t be here.”
“But she is here. She came here for you.”
“Perhaps … perhaps she came to see you.”
Eleanora smiled. “Still, that is for you. I had not been jealous before. I am now.”
He closed his fingers over hers. “You need be jealous of no one, Eleanora. You are a rare beauty and you know it.” He squeezed her hand. “Excuse me …”
“Only if you’ve controlled your temper.”
“It’s controlled.”
“Waryk …”
“I swear it.”
He rose, and started across the clearing. Mellyora saw him, and stopped midstride. She stood poised and still as he approached.
He reached her, and stripped the painted linen mask from her face. Her eyes touched his. “So I am found out!” she said softly. “I meant to finish the story.”
“My lady, I am sorely tempted to strike you senseless.”
“How rude and ungracious!” she retorted, eyes alive with blue fire. “It was a good story, slightly embellished, excellently told. And it had an ending you would have liked.”
“It was told far too well, and I’m afraid you might not have reached an ending! Poor Peter was willing to marry you thinking you a peasant lass and not even knowing your name for the privilege of taking you to bed. God knows what went through the minds of other men!”
She flushed, gnawing her lower lip, and he was pleased to realize that she hadn’t known quite what her effect would be.
“It was a good story,” she repeated.
“Aye, you do an excellent job. You could have survived nicely as a singer, dancer—or harlot.”
“Waryk!”
“And you shouldn’t be outside of the fortress.” Anger edged his voice.
“I knew that you were coming.”
“You know as well that there is danger all around. Did you come because you were so anxious to see me? I dare say that it was Eleanora who drew you here.”
She lifted her chin. “That’s she, I assume?” she murmured, indicating the table.
“Aye, that is.”
“She’s exquisite.”
“She is,” he agreed, and he smiled, taking her hand. “Eleanora and Peter. Come meet them both.”
“Waryk, no, I—”
“You were curious, I insist.” He drew her forward, to the table, and once there, he introduced her. “Eleanora, Peter, my wife, Mellyora. My dear, Peter of Tyne, and his sister, Lady Eleanora.”
“My dear …” Eleanora murmured, studying her.
“Peter, Lady Eleanora,” Mellyora murmured.
“Will you have some wine?” Eleanora inquired. “Your husband’s chalice is there.”
“Are you hungry?” Peter asked. “After dancing so …”
“Peter!” Eleanora murmured, rolling her eyes.
“Well, she was … spectacular.”
“Peter, dear, don’t let Waryk forget we’re all friends. Would you like something to eat, Mellyora?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you, we dined in the village.”
“We?” Eleanora asked politely.
“Angus is with me, of course. I wouldn’t ride out alone.”
Waryk looked across the clearing. Angus was indeed there, grave, heavily armed. Waryk tried not to smile. Angus did the same, but then shrugged helplessly and grinned. His nod indicated that he had been on watch, and would remain on watch.
“Well, if there’s nothing you require …” Waryk murmured absently to Mellyora. “If you’ll excuse us?” he said to Peter and Eleanora, suddenly entirely focused on his intent. “I’m anxious to hear about Blue Isle in my absence.”
He steered Mellyora from the table and down a trail in the forest. The moon was full, high in the sky, casting down a golden glow to guide them.
Waryk knew, from the resistance he felt from his wife, that she had come here, anxious to see him—and anxious to spy on him—and now that her performance had been carried out, she was slightly unnerved, and uncertain as to what his reaction would be.
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
“Down by the loch.”
“Why?”
He smiled wickedly. “Because no one will hear you scream there.”
She stopped, trying to tug free from him. “Waryk, you’ve no right to be angry, to throw out threats! You should be pleased that your wife came out to meet you and see—”
“If I was sleeping with Eleanora?” he inquired.
She flushed, and he knew that had been her plan exactly. She hadn’t sent ahead any messages, she had wanted to catch him by surprise.
“You were very close.”
“Aye. Let’s go, come on.”
He caught her hand. She tried to pull free. “Waryk—”
“Come, my love, down to the loch. And by the way, how is Ewan? Hale and hearty and strong, so I hear.”
“Out of danger, at best!” she protested. “And I am here, having left Ewan, while I arrive to find you head to head with Eleanora—”
“Ah! So you did come to spy, and for no other reason!”
The trail curved. They came upon the loch in the middle of the night, with the full globe of the moon playing upon it.
The water rippled in a soft reflection, the earth beside it was soft and redolent and the trees grew with great trooping branches that cast gentle fingers upon the strangely glowing landscape.
Soft leaves carpeted the ground, and Waryk drew her around to stand before him just at the water’s edge.
He caught both her hands, lacing his fingers with hers, and pinning her arms behind her back. “Indeed, my love, you came to spy.”
“I came to—” she began, but he didn’t really care why she had come.
She was there. He had wanted her. She had tormented his dreams, left him lying awake and wanting, and now she was with him.
She couldn’t finish speaking because his lips found hers.
Hard, hungry. He ravished her lips, plundered the depths of her mouth.
Searched and delved and tasted. And at last he lifted his head, and she tried to speak again.
“Waryk, she is beautiful, and if you’ve been with her—”
“Aye?” He touched her lips again with his own, softly now, seductively.
“Waryk!” she struggled to free her arms. He would not let her go. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “If you’ve been with her …”
“Aye …” He pressed his lips to her throat, teased her earlobe with a brush of his teeth and tongue, found her throat again, and again.
“Let me go … because …”
“Because?”
“I will not have it. I won’t … I can’t …”
He lifted his head, and her eyes were absolutely beautiful, and he’d never seen her so vulnerable. “You will not have it?” he asked softly. “Why?”
“Because … I have some pride, Waryk.”
“Pride? Aye, well, we all have pride. Not good enough. Give me another reason.”
“Because … you’re my husband.”
“Ah, good, but still, not good enough …”
She leaned her head against his chest.
“Mellyora?” he persisted.
She murmured, “Because I want you myself.”
He released her wrists, finding her chin, tilting her head upward.
“Not completely what I had in mind, but … it will do for now. Because I cannot bear for it not to do!” he whispered hoarsely.
He pulled his mantle over his head, casting it down on the spongy bank.
Then he swept her up, kneeling down upon the mantle with her in his arms. She clung to him. “Waryk …”
“I’ve not betrayed you, my lady.”
“But …”
He laid her upon the mantle. He leaned next to her on an elbow, his hands beneath her soft woolen knit gown.
Her flesh seemed as soft as a rose petal, as hot as the sun.
He cupped the fullness of her breasts, and they seemed fuller, her nipples seemed larger, harder.
Her gown was annoying; he shoved it up, and dragged it over her head. “Waryk, we’re in the woods …”
“Angus is on guard, no one will come near us.” He pressed her back to the ground.
She smelled like a field of flowers. He buried his face into her flesh, her breasts, reveled in the scent of her, found himself aroused to hardness in just wanting her, touching her.
His body seemed to burn. He tried to hold back, not to want her so urgently, to touch and stroke and tease …
Her hands were on him. She fumbled with his clothing, his scabbard, the awkwardness of his sword.
He stripped himself of scabbard and weapons, tore off linen and wool, hose and boots.
The ivory cast of the moon lay upon them.
Eleanora had called her a sprite. She was more like a goddess, made flesh from the lake, golden tresses silver in the light.
She touched him with fingers as fevered as his own.
He bore her down to the earth, breathed in her sensuous scent and the redolence of the earth.
She cast her arms around him, but he drew back.
He caught her knees, parted her limbs slowly, meeting her eyes.
Then he drew his fingers down her inner thigh.
He followed each touch with a kiss, the brush of his tongue, light …
here, there. Her thigh, her knee, her belly, her hip, her thighs, one, the other, and then between …