Come Back to Me (11 page)

IT WAS COOLER OUTSIDE THAN IT HAD BEEN all day but not unpleasantly so. The air caressed Rycca's skin through the thin night robe. It seemed very daring to be outside so scantily clad, for though the gown came to her ankles, it was sheer enough for starlight to pass through. She thought for a moment of the woman for whom it had been made and felt a sudden kinship with that unknown lady. Barefoot, her hair tumbling around her shoulders for she had not troubled to braid it, she approached the fire beside which Dragon lay.

He was asleep, she saw that in an instant, lying on his back with an arm thrown out toward the… hmmm, empty… jug of wine. His head was turned toward her, his chiseled lips slightly parted. A low, soft rumbling came and went in rhythm with the deep rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes widened and she smiled. That he snored ever so slightly was a human touch she welcomed. It made him seem just a little more approachable. Approach she did, slowly, content for some little time to look upon him. She was surprised that she had no doubts. She would have expected some had she ever anticipated such a moment. Yet there was only certainty in her. The future looked too bleak. If she could have nothing else, she would have this night.

And this man.

He stirred slightly, drawing her eyes down his length. She breathed in the sweet night air and felt the fierce need building within her. Oh, yes, she would have him. Honor, duty, and the rest be damned. Her life would be her own, if only for this tiny space of time.

But how to begin? She had never touched a man save for the occasional affectionate cuffing in Thurlow's direction. And for that kiss. That shocking, scintillating, oh so inspiring kiss that with the gentleness of him had led her to this moment.

Another kiss, then. She went down on her knees next to him. A lock of hair had fallen across his brow. She reached out very lightly and brushed it aside. When he did not react she was emboldened. Moving just a little closer, she lowered her head.

Even in sleep, his mouth felt firm. She touched her lips to his carefully, little more than the brush of a butterfly's wing. This close, the heat radiating from him warmed her all the way through. Or maybe the heat was within herself and he merely the spark.

As the sun sparked the heavens, she thought, and deepened the kiss. Only a little, still so cautious, yet this time he moved. The hand tossed out rose, hovered, fell back. She smiled against his lips. Lowering herself beside him, she stroked his bare arm. Beneath her touch, his muscles rippled reflexively.

Her fascination expanded. Never had she imagined the freedom to touch a man. Women were handled and mishandled, taken without thought. It was assumed that a woman's body was not her own. But a man's… that was different. Even the poorest peasant thought himself king of his own hovel. Woe betide anyone who said otherwise.

But now the initiative was hers, never mind that she had only the vaguest notion what to do with it. He was dressed, more's the shame, in the tunic he had donned after bathing. But the night was pleasant enough—or he hardy enough—that he hadn't bothered with a cover. Her fingers drifted over his broad shoulders, down along the contours of his chest. He felt like sun-warmed rock. There was no give in the man at all.

Heart thumping at her daring, she slipped her hands down his thighs, her palms tickled by the light furring of hair along his legs. At the bottom of his tunic, she hesitated. It would be oh, so easy for her to ease up the garment and… Her cheeks flamed. That would be shockingly bold.

A wry shake of her head sent a spill of copper silk over his chest. Truth had hold of her, as always, and would not let go. She had passed over the borders of proper behavior the moment she decided not to accept the fate her family decreed. Now she was beyond bold, shocking or otherwise, in a realm where desperation and desire could hardly be told apart.

Such a beautiful man. Such a beautiful memory to warm her in the dark, cold time she was sure was coming.

Shocking then, so be it. She rose on her knees and quickly, before she could reconsider, lifted the night robe over her head. Cool air touched her skin but she did not feel it. The heat within was too strong. Taking hold of his outflung hand, she drew it to her breast.

He was dreaming, of course. A particularly erotic dream inspired by an excess of wine. Erotic… yet different somehow. He had a store of sensual memories upon which to draw but did not seem to be doing so. He should have been reclining on a silken couch enjoying the sublime skills of a beautiful houri as he had in Byzantium. The Circassian, perhaps, the one with the flame-red hair, or the Nubian who had trained as a gymnast and could…

Yet he seemed instead to be lying upon hard ground, and the houri, if such she was, wore the scent of honeysuckle that reminded him of…

Dragon's eyes flew open. He stared at his hand curved over the alabaster mound of a perfectly formed breast, at the delectable rose-hued nipple peeking through his fingers, up past the firm set of a certain chin and straight into honey-hued eyes that somehow failed to appear the least abashed.

"Uh…" he said, which he rather thought was as articulate as any man could be expected to be under the circumstances, skald-souled or not.

"Don't think," she said, rather unnecessarily since he could only vaguely recall what thinking was and not at all why he should want to do it.

Her shining head bent, he felt the brush of her lips, tentative, seeking. Her small, smooth tongue tasted his.

He was rock hard, close to bursting. She was in his arms and he was drawing her beneath him when some faint whisp of reason reared against the pounding hunger of his fierce need.

"Can't…" he muttered, the best he could muster for an eloquent argument as to why their present behavior was ill-advised.

She ignored the protest and concentrated on the man. Her hands, strong after all the years of holding reins, tugged at the bottom of his tunic. He tugged back in the opposite direction, caught himself doing it, and groaned. Of all the ludicrous situations to be caught in, as though they had reversed roles and he the modest maiden.

Just then it dawned on him that she really was naked, he hadn't imagined it—or if he had, he was also imagining the delight of silken skin pressed all along his length. A deep groan broke from him as his big hands stroked down the arch of her spine to the firm roundness of her bottom. She made a soft whimpering sound and moved against him.

He couldn't… absolutely, positively couldn't. Not after his vow that she had nothing to fear from him, that he would keep her safe, that she could trust him. Blessed Frigg, queen of the gods, help him now!

But the goddess seemed disinclined to intervene. He was on his own, just him, his conscience, and the girl herself, who appeared to have taken leave of her senses.

"Have to stop," he gasped, exhausting what little breath he had. His chest felt gripped in a vise, his heart pounded wildly, and as for his cock, that merry fellow was bent on having his own way at all costs.

"No," the girl said very clearly, and "no" again on a whisper, sweetly pleading. It was the second
no
that reached Dragon through the red mist of the struggle he was waging within himself. He looked again into those glorious eyes and saw no fear, not a shred of it in his warrior woman. Yet did some demon drive her.

"Why?" he murmured, cupping the back of her head, stroking her hair gently. The last of the wine-fog was fast fading, leaving him all too alert and aware.

Her mouth moved against his. "A memory." With artless innocence, she reached beneath his tunic and cupped him. A soft gasp of surprise broke from her. He groaned, caught her hand within his, but did not deny her touch. They both wanted this far too fiercely.

A memory. That he understood. There had been times when he had yearned to lock forever in his mind the turning of every star, the exact delicacy of tendrils of cloud across the moon, the scent of the wind, the flutter of a bird's wing, every tiny, exquisite detail of the world. But those times had always been on the eve of battle or during a sudden lull when he thought his time amid such beauty might be counted in hours if not minutes.

Where did she see her own end? That she saw it he did not doubt. She had weighed the danger that faced her and his own offer of help, and chose to seize life while yet she could. It said little for her confidence in him but much for her courage. All the same, he couldn't let her do this… Could he?

In his experience, nothing brought men and women so close together as did bed sport. If he could bring her to pleasure, give her the memory she sought, yet still protect her from harm, would she not then be drawn to trust him as she surely must were she to have any chance of survival?

If…

At the very thought, his merry fellow reared in protest. The girl gasped again but did not draw away. Dragon inhaled deeply, summoning control from the deepest reaches of his being. In the perfumed chambers of Byzantium, he had studied arts unknown to the ordinary run of men. His diligence then had seemed to have no greater purpose than dalliance; now he thought otherwise.

He could do this… he really could. A memory she wanted, a memory she would have.

RYCCA ARCHED HER BACK HELPLESSLY, HER HEAD pressed into the firm ground. Sweat dewed her skin, her breathing came raggedly. Cresting waves of pleasure gave her no respite. Scarcely did she begin to descend than his questing mouth and too-skilled hands drove her upward again. Her nipples were painfully hard, her thighs quaking from the force sweeping through her. She stared down the length of her body to the dark head resting between her legs and gasped anew as remorseless pleasure seized her yet again.

Never, ever had she imagined… never could she have…

In the rough disregard of her father's keep, she had seen men take hold of women, grab at their breasts, sometimes even put their mouth to them likes babes suckling. Rycca usually absented herself right about then but once she had lingered on the curve of the stairs, peering down into the hall. She had seen a man pull a woman's skirts up to bare her flanks, push her on top of a table, free his member, and plunge directly into her. A few thrusts, some grunts, and he was done, not unlike horses mating but without the power and beauty.

She had thought it was like that for all.

Fool! Oh, sweet heaven, silly fool!

Her fingers dug into his immense shoulders. She cried out hoarsely as the world exploded yet again.

Dragon raised his head, gazed up her exquisite body glowing pale in starlight, and observed her with satisfaction. Not the satisfaction he burned for but the only kind he would allow himself. She was a virgin, he had confirmed that by the simple expediency of slipping a careful finger into her. Her passage was so hot and wet as almost to end all hope of his control right then and there, but the unmistakable barrier of her innocence had strengthened his resolve just when he needed it most.

She was exquisitely responsive. Every inch of her came alive beneath his touch. Her breasts were not large but perfectly shaped to fit his hands, the nipples swelling yet further beneath his caress. Her waist was small, exaggerating the graceful sweep of her hips. The taut skin of her belly was acutely sensitive, as was the velvet smoothness of her inner thighs. At their apex, she was like a lovely pink shell opening to him, moist with the sea.