Page 45
“He almost threw himself into my clutches.”
“I believe you.”
He loomed over her so quickly she didn’t even have time to stumble back. “Then why did you run away?”
Would he understand? “Because you’re a warrior just like him.”
He didn’t understand. “I’m not just like him. I’m nothing like Robin of Jagger.”
“Except that you live for combat.”
“I don’t live for combat.”
“What would you do if you couldn’t fight? If you’d lost a leg or an eye and could never ride into battle again?”
He flinched. “That won’t happen.”
“Even now, after you were so badly wounded, you still can’t wait to get back into the field, can you? Your hand itches to take up your sword. You could scarcely wait to attack those outlaws tonight!”
“Because they had you.” He wrapped his hands around her chin and lifted her head. “It doesn’t matter why you run or who takes you prisoner, I’ll always get you back and I’ll always take vengeance on those who hurt you. I’m sorry I captured your husband, but that’s nothing between you and me, so tell me you’re angry and let me soothe your ire, and then let us go on with our marriage.”
He was right. Capturing Robin had nothing to do with them, and she didn’t blame him for Robin’s death.
And she was right. He didn’t understand why she refused to lavish her love on him. “I’m not angry.”
He was so big, and he smiled at her widely. “For tonight, I’ll let you get away with that falsehood. Because—I am.” Turning to one of the trunks, he flung it open, gathered up an armful of different kinds of cloth, and placed them on the table. Lifting the tent flap, he stepped outside.
She stood in the middle of the tent and shivered and wrung her hands. Would he hurt her? She couldn’t contemplate the humiliation of going to the abbey and asking for help in bandaging her own wounds. Was there an escape from this trap?
A rush of fresh air alerted her to his return, and she looked at him with haunted eyes.
He was naked.
Huge and naked.
Ready and naked.
It wasn’t his anger she should be fearing. It was his passion.
Her head whirled as she tried to adjust. She’d been dreading him, but from what she could see, he was just like any other man. He had nothing on his mind except a wedding night.
Well, not exactly like any other man. And not exactly on his mind. But she’d been married before. Why should she care? It was just an act, quickly over and pleasurable only to the man.
Her body tightened as she gazed at Hugh. He must have stood out in the rain, for all trace of mud had disappeared. The blond of his hair had turned dark with water, and moisture gathered on the sides of his face where his beard now showed one day’s growth. Drops of water clung to the light dusting of hair that covered his legs and his arms. They collected at the top of the arrow of hair on his chest and ran in rivulets past his navel down to…
Who was she kidding? She loved this part of marriage. It had been the only thing she’d missed—and she’d missed it for longer than she cared to remember.
“Take off your clothes.”
It wasn’t a request; it was a demand. His rough voice betrayed anger still, and she didn’t understand.
“My squire helped me undress. Shall I help you?”
He took two big steps forward and she stumbled back. “But you’re furious!”
“Aye.” She’d lost her wimple, so he went to work on her cotte, slipping the sleeves over her shoulders and letting the garment drop to the ground. “I almost got you killed today.” He stepped back and stared, then smiled. “You’re soaked all the way to the skin.”
She looked down. The white linen shift had been transparent before; now, plastered against her skin, it showed every curve, every dimple. Her nipples, puckered against the chill, thrust themselves toward him like two blushing wantons begging for attention. The cloth had just slipped between her thighs, and the mound of brown hair struggled to free itself from entrapment. Independent of her volition, her whole body spoke, and too obviously he comprehended every message.
