Isobel gave him a faint smile. “ ’Tis why you came.”
“But please take Isobel,” Geoffrey urged him. “It will do her good.”
Isobel’s brother was naive to the point of foolishness. Stephen knew damn well what would happen if they went out alone this
afternoon. After their brush with death, neither of them was likely to exercise caution this time.
Stephen got to his feet as Geoffrey went to the door.
“I shall pray for Lord FitzAlan’s recovery,” Geoffrey said.
“Thank you,” Stephen said. Looking down at Isobel, he added, “We are all in need of your prayers today.”
As Geoffrey’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor outside the room, Stephen held his hands out to Isobel. He knew what he
wanted now. If she was willing, he would have her.
Isobel met his eyes, making no pretense she did not understand. She took his hands.
I
sobel saw the naked hunger in Stephen’s eyes. If she were going to refuse him, she must do it now. She took his hands. Today
she did not care what was right or wrong, wise or foolhardy. This one time, she would take the man she wanted, not the man
she must. She would allow herself this gift and not think about what came after.
There was no falseness between them. No pretense as to what they intended to do. Without a word passing between them, Stephen
took the woolen blankets from the cot and folded them beneath his cloak.
They followed the stone walkway past the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen garden, they found the gate that led to the river path.
Thankfully, it was neither the season for harvesting apples from the orchard nor the time of day for hauling in the fish lines
for the monks’ dinner. There was no sign of another living soul on the river path.
Once they were hidden from view by the trees, Stephen put his arm about her shoulders. She sighed and leaned into him. It
felt right, walking with him like this.
After the harrowing events of the morning, the chirping birds and gurgle of the river soothed her. The sun was out, and the
air had none of the blister of March she was used to in Northumberland. Spring came early here. The trees were budding, and
crocuses poked their bright heads out of the ground. An unexpected peace settled over her.
Neither spoke until they came to a fork in the path.
“Do we continue along the river, or go to the orchard?” Stephen asked, waving his arm first in one direction, then the other.
Stephen’s lopsided smile made him look so handsome that, on impulse, she reached up to touch his face. As soon as her fingers
grazed his stubbled cheek, his smile left him. His eyes darkened, sending a rush of desire through her that almost curled
her toes.
“Come,” he said and pulled her by the hand up the orchard path.
They moved with a sense of urgency now. As the trail went uphill, they left the scrub trees that grew near the river. They
entered a field that would soon be planted with wheat or rye. Beyond the field was the apple orchard. An old croft stood between
the two, its wooden door hanging at an angle.
“This is such a pretty spot,” she said, looking around her. “What would make a tenant abandon this croft?”
“Likely he had to,” Stephen said as he heaved the door open, “when his lord gave the land to the abbey.”
As Isobel stepped over the threshold, she saw that the croft had not been abandoned so very long ago. The sun poured in through
gaping holes in the thatched roof, but the walls had not yet begun to crumble. There were piles of leaves in the corners where
the wind had blown them.
Her heart rose to her throat as she watched Stephen clear debris from the earthen floor with his boot and spread one of the
blankets. Knowing it would happen now, she was suddenly gripped by nerves.
Stephen turned and took her hands. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked in a quiet voice. “We can still go back.”
“I want to stay.” How like him to make her say it. With Stephen, she could never pretend to herself she was seduced against
her will.
She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. He pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, following it with
his eyes. “I do not want you to have regrets.”
“I shall have none.”
When this did not seem sufficient to reassure him, she said, “If I died today…” She ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried
again. “What I would regret is never knowing how it feels to bed a man I want to touch me.”
She could never have been so bold to say this to another man. Somehow, she knew Stephen would neither judge her nor make her
feel bad for it.
When he still made no move toward her, she rose on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his. His lips felt so soft and warm,
the kiss unbearably sweet. She had expected lust, not this tenderness that welled up in her chest until she felt she might
burst with it.
When she dropped back onto her heels, he held her face in his hands and ran a thumb along her cheek. “You need only tell me
if you change your mind.”
Did he not want this as much as she did?
“But I hope to God you won’t,” he said before the uneasy feeling could take hold. Then he scooped her up in his arms and held
her across his chest.
Their eyes were locked as he dropped to his knees and lay her down on the makeshift pallet. As his mouth met hers, she felt
as though she were still sinking back. The kiss was warm and deep, their tongues moving against each other.
When he broke away, she would have complained—except that the kisses he ran along the side of her face felt so good. A deep
sigh escaped her, and she gave herself over to following the course of his lips. He pressed kisses along her jaw and behind
her ear. As he moved down her neck, he unfastened her cloak and pushed it off her shoulders.
“I love this spot, right here,” he said and ran his tongue along the hollow above her collarbone.
She forgot she wore her brother’s clothes until she felt the warmth of Stephen’s breath through the cloth at her throat. Wanting
to feel his mouth against her skin, she began tugging at the tunic and shirt that were in the way.
“Let me,” he said, taking hold of her hands. “Please.”
Grinning, he rose to his knees, unfastened his cloak, and tossed it in the corner. He lifted her tunic and began to pull her
shirt out of her leggings ever so slowly. The smooth linen fabric moved against her skin, followed by a rush of cool air.
She would never have guessed that his lips, his tongue, his loose hair, would feel so good against the bare skin of her belly.
As he inched his way slowly upward, exposing more skin as he went, she felt a tightening in her womb.
Oh, my. She shivered with the sensations racing through her body. When he abruptly stopped and pulled her shirt back over
her stomach, she opened her eyes wide.
Stephen was on his hands and knees above her, a frown of concern on his face. “You are cold.”
“Nay, I am not,” she said.
The brocade of his tunic felt rough under her fingers as she took hold of it and pulled him down. Despite the deep, lingering
kiss she gave him, he held his body away from hers.
“I want to feel you against me,” she whispered.
“Oh, Isobel,” he said, sliding down beside her and burying his face in her neck, “you will undo me.”
He held her tight against him so that she could feel his warmth from her head to her toes. She pressed her face against him,
blocking out the faint smell of rotting apples from the orchard and the heavier smell of mildewed thatch. She wanted to breathe
in only his scent. Horse and healthy sweat and wool and leather. And just Stephen.
When he kissed her this time, he did not hold back. The passion exploded between them. She wrapped her arms around him and
pressed against him until a blade of grass could not have fit between them. And still, she was not close enough.
When he rolled on top of her, he felt so good that she tore her mouth away to tell him. Before she could form the words, he
slid down her body, kissing her through the cloth until, again, he found bare skin. His mouth felt as good on her belly as
the first time.
As he moved upward, she breathed, “Don’t stop this time.”
He moved so slowly that her breasts were aching for his touch long before he got to them. Hardly aware of what she was doing,
she ran her own hands over them. She heard Stephen groan and felt his large, warm hands cover hers.
“Jesus, Isobel,” he whispered, “you cannot expect me to go slowly when you do that.”
“Must you go slowly?”
He gave a half-strangled sound and lifted one of her hands to press his mouth against her palm. When he ran his tongue in
a circle over it, she felt her nipple harden through the fabric beneath her other hand. She drew in a sharp breath as he ran
his thumb along the underside of her breast.
“Mmmmm,” came from her throat as he dragged his tongue along the line his thumb had just traveled. She arched her back, lifting
her breasts to him.
“Aye,” she breathed as his other hand slid under her shirt, and “aye,” again, when it finally covered her breast.
The rough skin of his thumb over her nipple sent ripples of sensation down to the depths of her belly.
She meant to offer another word of encouragement. But then he rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb, and the sounds
that came from her lips would not shape themselves into words. She felt the warm wetness of his mouth on her other nipple
and was lost in a swirl of sensation.
How did he know how she wanted to be touched before she knew it herself? The more he touched her, the greater was her need.
Never, never did she imagine it would be like this.
He pulled her up to a sitting position, and they leaned against each other, both breathing hard.
“Stephen, that felt…” She tried, but she could not find words to describe it.
“Can we take this off?” he asked, fingering the bottom edge of her tunic.
“You first,” she surprised herself by saying.
He rewarded her with a wide grin that lit up his eyes. Before she knew it, he whipped off his tunic and shirt together in
one quick movement and sat before her bare-chested.
She drew in a long breath as she ran her eyes over the hard muscles of his chest. How many other women had looked at him like
this and found him so beautiful it made them ache? She would not let herself think of those other women now. Today he was
hers and no other’s.
She reached out and ran possessive hands over his chest, feeling the roughness of hair over the sinewy muscle and warm skin.
This close, she could see that black hairs were interspersed with the curly auburn hair on his chest. She followed the hair
down to his flat belly.
Would it feel as good to him as it had to her to kiss him there? When she dropped her head to try, he gripped her shoulders
and pulled her up onto his chest. She feared she’d done something wrong—until he smashed his mouth against hers.
“Your clothes now. All of them, off,” he gasped against her ear. “I need to feel you naked against me.”
She lifted her arms without a word and let him pull shirt and tunic over her head.
“My God, you are beautiful.”
A small voice in the back of her head asked how a man who’d seen so many women’s breasts could manage to sound awed. When
he lifted his gaze to her face, though, he looked as though he meant it. Whatever he might think later, right now he wanted
no one but her. It was enough.
When Stephen gathered her into his arms again, she understood. Skin to skin, it had to be. His chest felt so good against
her bare breasts she had to close her eyes to bear it. The kiss he gave her was at once so gentle and so full of longing she
felt as if he were squeezing her heart in his hands.
Stephen, Stephen, Stephen. No other man could kiss like this, she was sure.
A surge of lust ran through her that had her rubbing herself against him like a cat. Without lifting his mouth from hers,
he rolled her until she felt the scratch of the wool blanket beneath her back. She ran her hands over him, reveling in the
feel of skin and tight muscle beneath her fingers.
He kissed her throat, then moved down to suckle first one breast and then the other. Sensations tore through her until she
was arching against him and begging for she knew not what.
When he began to ease down the top of her leggings, she felt a moment of panic. ’Twas a serious sin she was about to commit.
At least she broke no vow, in this brief respite between marriages.
It was
possible
Stephen could get her with child. But how likely from just one time? Not once did she conceive in all her years of marriage.
Surely the risk was small. In any case, she would be married soon enough.
Stephen ran his tongue along her abdomen, wiping all such thoughts and fears from her mind. If she never felt this reckless
joy and passion again, she would have it now.
She lifted her hips to help him slide the leggings down. As he pulled off first one leg, then the other, he paused to kiss
her thigh, her knee, her calf. He sucked her toe into his mouth as he ran his hand slowly up the inside of her leg. A shiver
ran through her.
He had her completely naked now. She watched his chest rise and fall as he raked his eyes over her. His slow perusal sent
her pulse beating so hard she thought he must hear it.
When she shivered again, he lay down beside her and spread the other blanket over them.
“Are you warm enough, sweetheart?” he asked and kissed her shoulder.
She nodded and tried to concentrate on the feel of his callused hand running up and down her side. And not on how easily “sweetheart”
and “love” rolled off his tongue.
“What is it, Isobel?”
So much was right, she did not want to ruin it. She rested her hand on his shoulder and met his troubled brown eyes.
“I did not know it would feel as good as this,” she said and felt the taut muscles relax beneath her fingers.
He nuzzled her neck and playfully bit her earlobe. But that was not what she wanted now. She moved his hand from her side
to her breast and turned in to him to give him an open-mouthed kiss. His playfulness vanished.