The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (35 page)

“It’s
all right,”
she
said in
a
whisper. “I’m your wife.
Your destiny. Take me.” And she arched
up
against him,
s
e
eking him.

He lost control.
For
the first time in his
l
i
f
e,
a w
o
ma
n
overpowered him. He
thrust against
her, breaking through the frail
barrier
of her maidenhead,
s
i
n
king
d
e
e
p
into
the
glorious
tightness
of
her.
She cried
out
then,
a
s
m
a
l
l
,
soft
sound,
and
he
kissed
her, his
mouth
coveri
n
g
her face,
drinking
her tears, tasting
her soft mouth.

And
then he noticed she
was
still
clinging
to him. Instead of turning
cold,
she was holding
him tightly, and
if
her
desire
had faded with
the pain, it hadn’t vanished entirely.

He
was
at
her mercy, yet there
was one way he could
still salvage
his
p
r
i
d
e. He
reached between their bodies and touched he
r,
hearing her choked
gasp with male
satisfaction.

He
began
to
move then, thrusting
slowly deep
inside
her,
determined
not
to
lose all control
until
she’d grown
used
to
it. He
half-expected
a
protest,
but she
was
beyond speech, melting in
his
arms,
meeting him
in
the
eternal
advance
and
retreat
o
f
desire.

And
then
he could
no
longer protect
her. Red-hot
pas
sion
ripped away
the
last of his epic
self-control,
and
he surged into
her, again and
again.
He barely
heard her
choked
gasp, the tiny
scream
of
fulfillment
he’d managed
to
wring from her.
And then he followed,
thrusting
into
her tightly welcoming
body, giving her his essence, his
s
ou
l
,
his love.

Giving her his
son.

Elspeth l
ay
on
her
back in
the
soft bed,
Alistair
spread-eagled
over
her. His long
black
hair was entwined
with her silver-blonde strands. His
arms
and legs
were
wrapped around
h
er
s
.
His body still
rested
within
hers.

The
soft
breeze dried
the
tears
on
her
face. She
hadn’t even
realized she’d
cried. Her breathing
was
taking
for
ever
to
return
to normal, and
her
heart was still racing, shuddering
inside
her.

Was
it
a
w
i
t
c
h
’s
curse?
Or
was
it an act of God? It didn’t
matter. She lay in
her husband’s
arms,
and
was
content.

It
couldn’t
be
true.
Surely
she wasn’t content to lie
beneath a
dangerous
madman.
S
h
e
was
deliriously, wildly happy, alive
for
the
first
time
in her
life. It
made
no difference if he
was everything they said he
was. She
must
be fully
as
mad as he
was
purported
to
be. She
loved
him.

Destiny,
he’d
c
a
l
l
e
d
it.
A
prophecy.
She
was
too
pragmatic
to
believe in such
things.
Too
pragmatic to
believe
in
falling
in love
with
a
dangerous man
who happened
to be her husband.

But
practicality
didn’t
alter things.
She
loved him.
And
she would let nothing
short
of
death
tear her from his
arms.
U
n
t
i
l
he grew
ti
r
e
d
of
her.

He would,
of
course.
Helva
and
Gilles had been more
t
h
a
n
happy
to
tell her
stories about
his legendary
a
pp
e
t
it
e for
women
and
debauchery.
An
untutored
nun would
soon lose
all
appeal
to a
man of
his sophisticated t
a
s
t
e
s
,
and
while
she’d
been willing
to
do
anything he
wanted,
she
doubted he’d have
t
h
e
inclination
to
t
e
a
c
h
her more.
For all
she
k
n
e
w
,
this last
hour might
be
all
she’d ever
have of him.