Bertrice Small - Until You

Edmund arose quickly, and taking his wife’s hand, bid Rosamund and Logan good night as he hurried his wife from the hall. Maybel, who had opened her mouth to protest their swift departure, suddenly realized what her husband was all about, and her jaw snapped shut as their eyes met in understanding.

“Where am I to sleep, lady?” the laird asked his hostess.

Why was he in such a hurry? she wondered. Had he met another woman while she was down in England? “Bide with me a while, my lord,” Rosamund said, and she arose to pour him a goblet of her best wine. After all these years of his alleged devotion, he was going to desert her for some other woman? Most certainly not until she decided if he was worth marrying! She swallowed her temper, and smiling, handed him the wine. “This is my favorite time of day, or rather, evening,” she told him as she brought her own goblet back to her seat by the fire. “Everything is quiet, and there seems to be a peace on the land as at no other time.” She sipped her wine.

He couldn’t resist. He enjoyed it better when she fought him openly. “Are you attempting to ply me with good wine and then seduce me, madame?” He cocked a black eyebrow questioningly at her.

“Have you always had such a fine opinion of yourself, Logan?” she demanded with a show of her old spirit. The beast! Could he read her mind?

“Always, my darling,” he told her with a brash grin. He saw her fingers tighten about the stem of her goblet. “You are contemplating hurling the contents of your vessel at me, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted through clenched teeth. “Oh, yes!”

“I have a better idea, and it will save my doublet and not waste your good wine,” he told her with a grin. Then, setting his own goblet aside, he stood up. “Get up, Rosamund, and I will help you calm your temper,” Logan said. “But let us put your wine aside first,” and he took the goblet from her hand and set it upon a table. He drew her to a standing position. “From now on,” he said, “when you wish to do violence to me, you will instead kiss me.”

“What?” Surely she had not heard him aright, but then he was folding her arms behind her as he pulled her into his arms. His head was descending to meet hers. His lips were pressing themselves to her lips. With the touch of his flesh on hers, Rosamund’s knees gave way, but he was holding her so firmly that she did not fall. Her eyes had closed of their own volition, and her head began to spin.

Then he raised his mouth from hers and said, “Kissing is much nicer, Rosamund, than quarreling. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

“I have never quarreled with anyone the way I do with you,” she said as her head cleared. “You are the most annoying man.”

“You are no longer angry at me,” he teased her.

“Nay,” she said. “I do not think I am.”

“You see?” he said as he released her from his embrace.

“Will I have to fight with you in order for you to kiss me?” Rosamund asked him provocatively.

“For now, aye,” he told her. “You are not an easy woman, and I must bring you to reason if we are ever to marry, my darling.”

“Bring me to reason?” Her outrage was more than evident. Her little balled fist hit him a blow on his arm. “Not an easy woman? Who the hell are you to criticize me, Logan Hepburn? Do you think you are some paragon of perfection? Even Jeannie, God assoil her sweet soul, knew better than that!”

He wanted to laugh, but he did not. Instead, he yanked her back into his arms and kissed her until she was breathless and half-swooning. “I will master you, you impossible wench, if I must spend the rest of my life doing it,” he said to her. Then he kissed her again and again and again until she was whimpering with pleasure. Finally he set her back on her feet, holding her arm lightly as she swayed for a moment. “There,” he said. “You should be calm again. Now, show me where I am to sleep this night, Rosamund Bolton.”

She shook her head to clear it, saying nothing. He was irritating! He was impossible! He was overbearing! But God’s wounds! His kisses were divine. She was surprised to discover that she could move her legs now, and so she led him upstairs to the guest chamber. Opening the door, she stepped back to allow him through. “Good night, my lord,” she said softly. More softly than she had intended, but at least she could speak, Rosamund thought.

He stepped past her, and then turning, said low, “Not tonight, Rosamund, but another night, we will share this bed together.”

“I have not said I should marry you, Logan,” she replied quickly.

“I have not said I should ask you, Rosamund,” he told her. “I have simply said that one night soon we will share this bed, you and I. Good night, madame.”

Astounded, she stepped away from the door as he reached to close it. Her heart was beating madly. She began to consider what it might be like in his arms, and then she thought of the last time she had lain in a man’s arms. “Patrick,” she whispered, but even as she said his name she knew that the Earl of Glenkirk would never deny her the happiness with another man that he could no longer give her. And with that thought came the realization that the premonition they had both experienced when they had first met had finally come to pass. She would never see Patrick Leslie again in this life. And with that knowledge Rosamund knew she was suddenly free to love once more. She would always love Patrick. She knew that. He would live hidden in that secret place in her heart known only to her. But her life had to go on, and she knew now that she could not live without love.

Logan stood, his back to the closed door, breathing slowly. Deeply. Her mouth had been far sweeter than he had remembered. The sensation of her full breasts against his chest had made his senses reel and his manhood ache with his need. The boldness of the words he had just spoken to her burned in his throat. Instinct had warned him it was too soon, but how he had wanted her in his bed this night. Tom’s advice had been good, but he could not play this game with her forever. He had not the patience for it, he knew. He loved her too much. Logan wanted Rosamund as his wife. And his wife she was going to be sooner than later. He slept badly. As did Rosamund.

Her dreams were wild, jumbled impressions that left her tossing and restless and more awake than asleep. She awoke bleary-eyed and irritable, but she was ready to begin preparing the trap they had devised the previous evening to rid Friarsgate of her cousin Henry Bolton once and for all. For all of her life she had been troubled, first by her father’s youngest brother and now by his son. Her uncle’s bones rested in the family burial ground. But Rosamund knew she would not feel safe until her cousin lay beside his father.

To her surprise, she found Logan gone when she came down into the hall. He had, a servant informed her, departed at first light with just a few of his clansmen. Then her uncle Edmund entered the hall.

“You are awake at last, niece!” he said jovially. “Logan has left me instructions for our part in this charade. We must begin today, for the sooner this is over and done with, the better for Friarsgate. I do not relish a winter defending ourselves from not just four-legged wolves, but two-legged ones, as well.”

“He might have said good-bye,” Rosamund said, annoyed.

“I thought you might have said farewell to each other last night,” Edmund murmured innocently.

She threw him an evil look. “I showed him to his chamber and went to my own,” she said. “I assumed he would be here when I returned to the hall and would speak with me himself instead of giving instructions to you, uncle.” She felt her anger beginning to rise, and then the oddest thing happened. She remembered her anger of the previous evening and how he had calmed her. She could almost feel his lips on hers now, and as she did, the anger began to drain away. “He was wise to leave early,” she said suddenly, surprising Edmund. “We must be scrupulous in our execution of this plan, or we will fail miserably. What would the laird have us do, uncle?”