A Rose in Winter (67 page)

"You're lagging, madam," he chided with a grin, eliciting a small start from her as he gave her rump a light, playful slap with the back of his hand.

Erienne struggled with the pangs of uncertainty. Making love in the dark had kept much from view, and though her hands had become familiar with his body, to see him naked in the full light of day was rather startling. Despite the scars, he was a most impressive specimen, and since she was his wife, she would just have to get used to seeing him without the adornment of clothes.

She smiled as she faced him, deciding such a task would not be so difficult. "You ought to be coddling your wounds instead of embarking on such activity, my lord."

"Never fear, madam." His smile was almost a leer. "I have a thing or two more to teach you in the way of pleasing a man."

"You would have me please you, my lord?" she asked warmly.

The heat of his gaze set her blood on fire and struck sparks along her flesh. "My fondest dream, madam."

Her mouth curved in a sublime smile while her eyes grew dark and sultry, burning into his and promising him more than he had ever expected. She moved with sensuous grace before him, and his eyes followed where she led them. Deliberately she pulled the straps of her chemise off her shoulders, allowing the garment to dip low over her breasts while she worked behind her waist at the ties of her petticoat. When she bent to push the gown and petticoats free of her hips, the stiff-boned corset pressed her bosom upward, threatening the sagging chemise with an overflow. The garments fell to her feet, and the straps slid another degree, exposing part of a soft peak above the lace trim as she worked to free her stays. The corset was thrown atop his breeches, and she shrugged, letting the chemise slip over her hips and then to the floor.

Christopher's eyes smoldered with desire as they moved with leisured thoroughness over the soft, delicately hued breasts, on downward to the slender curve of her waist and the long, sleek limbs. He held out a hand in invitation, and her eyes in turn slowly raked the long length of him, nearly taking his breath away when they paused in bold admiration. She knelt on the bed beside him and leaned down to press her lips to his. Her small, darting tongue played chase with his, tasting the stronger brew of brandy, while her roaming hand made him catch his breath at the pleasure it evoked. Her mouth dipped to where his heart pounded in his chest, and a kiss touched that broad expanse above the bandages, then her lips came back to press against his throat while her tongue lightly traced his skin. Her fingers glided over him, and the building force of passion threatened the crumbling wall of his restraint, and each kiss that touched his skin pushed him farther to the brink. He was a fuse ready to be ignited, and her touch was the flaming torch that sparked and teased.

His hands lifted her, and he led her with purposeful intent, bold in his knowledge and gentle in his regard of her. He felt the warmth go through his body as she covered him, and he saw her eyes go soft and limpid, her lips part as a small shiver went through her. She moved against him with silken grace, turning their passions end over end in an everrushing race. It was a moment meant to be, a time wnen tney came together in full awareness of each other, eternally bound by their love and union, like the stars in the heavens, the fish in the sea, unable to exist long without the other. She was his; he was hers. The world could fall apart, and they'd still be one. Conflicts and angers were banished, and whispered words of love mingled with sighs of ecstasy as they were caught together in a rapturous expression of their love.

Chapter Twenty-one

A fortnight passed in heavenly peace, yet with a speed that equaled the degree of its pleasure. The spring weather was nervous and seemed determined not to settle on any path. On an evening it spat great clinging flakes of snow, and with the dawn, drizzling rains misted the gently swelling bosom of the moors and ran in crystalling rivulets down the stoic, rocky faces of the seaward cliffs. Seabirds mounted swirling currents in spiraling pairs, while hawks hurled piercing cries of challenge to all who ventured on their lands. In the greening bushes tits and peewees chortled the reveling songs of spring. Another evening fell, and the gloaming brought the throaty croaks of frogs and the distant trill of a bashful nightingale.

For Erienne, it seemed that she could hardly start upon a day before it was gone. In the evenings she nestled in her husband's arms, and when not stirred to impassioned heights, she simply rested upon that oak-ribbed chest, feeling the brush of his lips on her brow or a nuzzling kiss against her ear. She came to know his face, the way his lips twitched or the corners dipped when he was about some inanity. Though his eyes wrinkled slightly when a mediocrity smote his fancy, he could just as easily give uproarious vent in rich appreciation when she failed to see the cause for mirth. She came to learn there was a baseness to him too, when he would lift her in his arms and brook no denial, when his kisses could be fierce and demanding, his passion all-consuming. His amorous zeal left her panting and breathless but thoroughly content in the warm security of his embrace. In those moments after their passion was spent when she could still feel the heat of him burning through her, she would look up into his face with eyes warmed with love. He was the husband that women dreamt of having for their own, and Erienne was still somewhat stunned by the realization that he was hers.

In those days she also found in him a sensitivity that made him capable of perceiving her need for tenderness. With quiet serenity he could admire the darting flight of a swift or sit for long moments with his arms folded about her while they silently enjoyed the dying glories of a day.

His moods were like the changing character of the seasons and weather, sometimes infinitely gentle, at other times curt and angry because of some injustice or offense. She learned to read the tensing muscles in his cheeks and the lowering of the brows as forewarnings of a storm and was thankful that his anger was never carelessly applied or anything but just. He could be a source of delight as he displayed a depth of brawny tenderness that lent him an almost boyish exuberance, and yet he was totally a man, sure of himself and at ease with the world.

At first, Christopher rested to let the healing progress. Before the first week was past, he began to rise at the first gray light. Easing from her side, he would draw a pair of breeches over his naked loins and stoke the fire to chase the chill from the room, then in the growing light near the windows, he would lift the sword to test the arm and try a thrust, only to wince and rub the side when it would not bear the stress. He moved slowly, trying not to aggravate the wound, stretching forward and back, lifting and lowering the piece, attempting a thrust again, and then starting over.

As the second week began, he could swing the sword with enough force to snip a candle or a finger-sized twig. The blade twinkled as he executed a series of attacks and ripostes too fast for the eye to follow. Erienne watched silently from the bed with a mixture of pride and worry, marveling at the flexing muscles across his shoulders and back, yet dreading that time when he would be well enough to venture forth as the night rider.

"You make me afraid," she murmured one morning when he came back to sit beside her on the bed. "The thought plagues me that I will see you slain and, like your mother, will have to flee to find a haven for our babe."

"By the grace of God, madam, I will prove wiser than my enemy." He lay back across the bed, resting his head in her lap while he reached up a hand to caress softly her smooth, flat belly through the light fabric of her nightgown. "I have a fancy to see our offspring and plant other seeds where this one grows, so you needn't fret that I'll be foolhardy, my love."

Erienne ran her fingers through his hair. "I hope the hour quickly approaches when you may give up the mask and guise. I want to tell the world and all the women in it that you're mine." She shrugged lightly. " 'Twould not overburden me to tell my father of our marriage, either."

Christopher chuckled. "He'll croak."

Erienne giggled and leaned over him. "Aye, that he will. Louder than any wily toad that e'er's been born. He'll stamp and snort and claim injustice, but with your babe growing in me, I doubt that anyone will lend an ear to the question of annulment." Her eyes gleamed with twinkling humor. "Besides, what suitor would look twice at me when I've grown fat with child?"

Christopher raised up on an elbow and leered at her. "Madam, if you think your father or any suitor could get past me to try to separate us, then let me assure you that the highwaymen have not yet seen such a wrath that I would display should that happen." His brow raised in question. "Do you doubt what I say?"

Erienne gave a flirtatious shrug, then rolled to the edge of the bed and bounced to her feet with light, lilting laughter floating behind her. Before she could catch up her robe, however, Christopher swung around the end of the bed and caught her close against him, slipping his arms around her waist and holding her tightly to him. Their lips met in a long, slow kiss of love, and after he drew away it was a full moment or more before Erienne opened her eyes to find the grayish-green ones smiling into hers, and her arms tightly clasped about his neck.

"I believe you," she breathed unsteadily.

His mouth returned to savor hers for another blissful eternity, and when he raised his head again, she released a long sigh.

"I can understand why you never kissed me as Lord Saxton. I'd have known you instantly."

" Twas what I feared, madam, but you don't know how hard it was to resist the urge." His kisses played upon her lips, touching as light as a butterfly's wings, then he set her away from him and released a long breath. "As much as I would rather spend the day with you, madam, I suppose I must don my disguise and venture from these chambers."

"There's always tonight," she whispered.

He grinned down at her. "I won't be bound to darkness again."

"We could always light a candle," she suggested sweetly.

"Better yet," his grin widened, "just come when I beckon."

Except for Bundy and Aggie, none of the other servants knew the truth. When the master's chamber was not in use, Aggie kept it locked, and no one entered Erienne's rooms without approval. The others wondered at the seclusion of the master and his lady, and despite their many guesses, none came even close to the truth. When Lord Saxton finally descended to the realms of earth with his lady at his side, their worries faded. Even then, some detected a subtle change in the mistress. They laid the reason for her buoyant spirits to her husband's convalescence and continued to admire her devotion to such a fearsome man. This attitude was seen in her unhesitating acceptance of the hand or arm he offered, the quick, sweet smile when she looked up into the face of the mask, and her readiness to be near or to touch him.

The Lady Erienne was most beautiful, and her airy laughter and light, ever-ready humor infected them all. With her presence, it seemed the sun shone brighter and the day grew warmer. Their hearts were lightened, and they attacked the chores of spring with a zealous determination to please her. The great stone hall came alive and began to function and once more took on an air of being something more than a dark, gray mansion.

Spring spread across the countryside like ripples over a pond. The tenants dragged out plows, curried horses and trimmed and reshod their feet, and otherwise prepared for the vernal breaking of the land. The enchanted couple strolled about the grounds of the manse, and the pace of the crippled one gave the spry one ample time to investigate each wonder. In the folds there were newborn lambs, and near the stable a new filly tippled along on shaky limbs behind her mother. An arrogant pair of geese led their furry goslings to a pond, then they hissed and stretched their necks as the couple passed. Erienne's delighted laughter gave them pause, and they tipped their heads in wonder at this unknown sound, then returned to count their brood with diligence as the master and his lady moved on.

The path wound outward, down behind the house, out across the open space, and among the trees. Once in the shadows and out of sight from those above, Lord Saxton straightened and moved with more agility as they hurried hand in hand through the dappled gloom. They reached the cottage, and the black-garbed man scooped the lithe form into his arms before plunging through the doorway. Had a spy been set to observe, they would have seen nearly an hour's space of time elapse before the two emerged again. That very same spy could only speculate as to the activities within, for when they did come forth, it was as Christopher Seton and Erienne Saxton.

Around the glade this pair of woodland nymphs danced. He swept her in a waltz to a duet that was sometimes off tune, sometimes rent with giggling and laughter as they made their own music. A breathless Erienne fell to a sun-dappled hummock of deep, soft moss, and laughing for the pure thrill of the day, she spread her arms, creating a comely yellow-hued flower on the dark green sward while seeming every bit as fragile as a blossom to the man who watched her. With bliss-bedazzled eyes, she gazed through the treetops overhead where swaying branches, bedecked in the first bright green of spring, caressed the underbellies of the freshlet zephyrs, and the fleecy white clouds raced like frolicking sheep across an azure lea. Small birds played courting games, and the earlier ones tended nests with single-minded perseverance. A sprightly squirrel leapt across the spaces, and a larger one followed, bemused at the sudden coyness of his mate.