Lord Of Danger by Stuart, Anne (free ebook reader for android txt) 📗

she looked up. The moment stretched on, seemingly forever, and the only sounds were the wind rushing around the stone battlements overhead and the crackle of the fire.

When she could stand it no longer she lifted her head to glance at him. There was no reading his expression; he was adept at covering his reactions, and he seemed merely curious. “I have spent a great deal of time in the East,” he said. “And I have learned there are many ways to conceive a child, even when it seems unlikely, and many ways to avoid conception when the time is not right Are you so interested in being a mother?”

“Most women are.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

There was a lengthy silence, and then he spoke. “Be brave, sweet Alys. Ask your question.” His voice was a taunt, and there was unexpected humor in his eyes.

She bit her lip. “Are you less than a man?”

“More than a man, most would say,” he replied. “Be more specific.”

He was tormenting her, enjoying her discomfiture, and she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Have you been gelded?”

He caught her chin in his hand before she could look away, his long, strong fingers cradling her face. “You’ll find out eventually,” he said, and put his mouth against hers.

She was too stunned to react She simply sat there, letting him kiss her, letting him cup her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as she closed her eyes and gave herself up to frightening, floating feeling.

He moved back, and she let out a little cry of disappointment, opening her eyes to stare up at him dazedly. “Why do you tease me?” she whispered.

“Because it’s so much fun,” he said, brushing his mouth against her cheekbone. She moved her face, to give him better access, and she found she was shivering. He felt it too, drawing back with a frown that should have been terrifying, but for some reason his frowns no longer frightened her.

“You’re cold,” he said. She didn’t deny it. “It seems I should do my best to warm you up.” Before she realized what he’d intended he scooped her body up in his arms. It wasn’t that difficult a task—though she was plump she was small, and Simon of Navarre was quite strong. He carried her across the room to the alcove, mounting the dais that held the big bed, and set her down carefully, covering her with a fur throw. She was still shivering, though she knew she shouldn’t be cold, and she stared up at him mutely, waiting, wondering.

“That should warm you up,” he said, tucking the cover around her. “I think it would be better if I didn’t lie down with you.”

“Why?” She was beyond being shocked at her own temerity.

“Because I don’t think you’re ready to find out the truth,” he said lightly, starting to turn away.

“I’m still cold,” she said in a very small voice.

He paused, his tall body rigid in the dim light. And then he turned, looking down at her as she lay, helpless and waiting in his bed. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. She only knew she was cold.

“As you wish, my lady,” he murmured. “Never let it be said that Simon of Navarre couldn’t be chivalrous.” And he lay down on the bed beside her, the fur throw between them, and pulled her shivering body into his arms.

It took her a while to realize that that was all he intended to do. To hold her against the warmth of his body, her face pressed against the rich wool of his dark robe, to let her feel the steady beat of his heart against hers through the heavy fur, to let their breath rise and mingle in the night air. She could smell spices, rich and fragrant; she could smell his skin, the scent of wine on his breath; she could close her eyes and revel in the sounds and scents and feel of the night around her.

And she did, relaxing her tense body, and slowly the shivers began to leave her. She lay against his arm, blissful, drowsy, as he slowly brushed her hair away from her cheek, his long, delicate fingers stroking her skin. And then she slept, his body pressed up against her, his fingers entwined in her hair.

She slept, and dreamed of wizards.

His precious little virgin bride was as innocent as he suspected, Simon thought, staring down at her sleeping face. He was hard as a rock, pressing against her leg quite insistently, and she probably thought it was his magic wand. He wanted to laugh, but for some reason his sense of humor had fled.

She looked very young lying in his arms, far too young for a jaded soul like him. It wasn’t a matter of years - there might not be ten years between them. It was a matter of all he’d seen and done. He’d lost something, something there was no regaining, and if he were possessed of any decency he would let her be, rather than soil her by taking that precious innocence.

But he had no decency, only a certain devious common sense. Much as he wanted to take her, here and now, he was going to deny himself that pleasure for the time being. She slept in his arms, and he was content to have it so. And when she awoke, he would teach her how to mix poison that could kill a king.

She was half-besotted with him, and he knew it, even if she failed to recognize the symptoms. He told himself he should be displeased, but in truth, he found he enjoyed it. She was a fascinating combination of cowardice and bravery, primness and sensuality. She responded to kisses with a natural delight that suggested even greater pleasure in the offing. Perhaps he should push Richard into formalizing the marriage. This all might disappear overnight—war and illness and death were common, and each of those disasters could change his course of action, and his