The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (31 page)

He
finished
u
nt
y
i
n
g
the shirt
and
stripping
i
t
from
his
strong,
l
e
a
n
body.
“Oh,
I
don’t
know if I
need
to
go
that
far.
Mind you, I’m not about
to
turn my
b
a
c
k on
you
again.
But
there
are other ways of ensuring
y
o
u
r
future
obedience.”

She looked at him
un
ea
sily. She
could
endure
p
a
i
n.
Her
father
h
a
d
been
quick
to punish
a
recalcitrant
child and the Sisters
of the Everlasting
Martyr
had
lived up
to
their
n
a
m
e.
She
could kneel
for
endless
hours on a
cold stone
floor, eat nothing but
thin
g
ru
e
l
and drink foul
w
at
e
r
.
She could survive ritual whippings
and
beatings
and
solitude.
But
she wasn’t sure she
could
survive
th
at
intent expression in
Alistair
Darcourt’s
golden
eyes.

“Please,”
s
h
e
said, sudden
degrading
fear fi
l
l
i
n
g
her voice.

His
smile
was
unnerving.
He knelt
down on
the bed, leaning
over
her, and he
seemed
huge
and dark
and
smoth
e
ring
as he
blocked
out the moonlight. “Indeed,
I
do just
as
I
please,”
he
s
a
id.
“You’re my
destiny, Elspeth
of
Gaveland.
Or
my
curse.
It remains
to
be
seen.”

“I don’t understand.”

He picked up a
strand of
her
hair, running it
through
his
long fingers,
a
n
d
once
more she
was
mesmerized by
the beauty of
his
hands.
“White
and
black,
they shall
combine,”
he
murmured,
bringing
the
long, silky
strand
to
his
li
p
s
.
“Pure
as snow,
as
blood-red
wine.”
He moved down,
settling his
body over
hers,
the
heavy
animal
furs
between
them,
and
yet
she
could
feel h
i
m
,
every bone, every
muscle, hot against
her tender flesh. She
could feel
the pulse racing
through
h
e
r
body
and his, feel the t
h
u
d
di
n
g
of her heartbeat
matching his. “You’re
white,” he
whispered,
his v
o
i
c
e
only
a breath of
sound.
“Pure as snow.” His
mouth
drifted
over her brow,
her
cheekbones, and
s
h
e
shut her
eyes,
feeling
h
i
s
l
ips feather against
h
e
r
trembling lids.
“And I’m black and
evil,
darkness personified.” He kissed
the
tender spot
behind
her
ear, his tongue
h
o
t
and damp.

She was
having
trouble breathing.
She was
burning up beneath
the
mountain of covers;
she was freezing cold, shivering.
“Is that all
there is to the prophecy?”
s
h
e
choked out.

He
levered himself
off
her, his mouth traveling
down
the
s
i
d
e
of
her neck as
he tugged the heavy
covers away from her. “Flame and
fire destroy
them b
oth,” he whis
pered against her skin. “Death
a
n
d
rebirth, blood
their
troth.”

“It
sounds
a
little
extreme
to
me,”
she
s
a
id in
a
strangled
voice
as his
hand
drifted
back up
the front of her thin
linen
chemise. His
skin
was
hot, burning
through the
material;
the fingers deft,
sliding, reaching, and
cov
eri
n
g
her breast. She jerked,
arching
off
the bed
in
silent
protest,
but
he
s
i
m
p
ly
pushed her back down, holding
her shoulders
p
i
n
n
e
d
against the
rough
mattress as
he
put
his mouth where
his hand
h
ad
been
all
too briefly.

She’d
never paid
much
attention
to
her body before.
Her breasts had
simply
been there, small, in
the way,
with
no
earthly use
since s
h
e
’
d
never intended
to
marry
or
bear
children.
Alistair’s
mouth
on
her
breast
was an astonishing
revelation
of
feeling so overwhelming
that she wasn’t sure she
could
bear it. His mouth pulled at
her,
hotly, wetly, h
is
tongue
circling
h
e
r
nipple, and
she felt
it
grow hard in his
mouth, felt her other
breast tighten
in
sympathetic response,
and
she
made
a
low, helpless sound
of
protest.