The Welshman's Way

“I suppose,” she said, pouting. She gave him a sidelong glance that was at once proud and impertinent, questioning and very enticing. “Will you please get off me? You are...”

“What?” he asked softly, leaning forward so that his lips were close to hers. “What am I, my lady?”

Gently he kissed her. At first, he simply enjoyed the long-denied sensation of a kiss. And then, miraculously, wonderfully, he realized she was returning his kiss, with a tentative innocence that bespoke passion awakening. The notion that he could inspire such a feeling within her increased his own ardor. His tongue tenderly yet insistently probed her lips, until they parted for him.

When his tongue thrust slowly inside her mouth, Madeline could scarcely comprehend the host of feelings struggling within her. The foremost was nearly overpowering surprise. Touch of any kind was forbidden in the convent, even to the touch of a hand when passing food. The kiss alone had been intoxicating; this was beyond that, sending her spinning into a realm so exciting that she could barely think beyond the pleasure as his lips moved over hers, delightfully slowly, firm and possessive.

And if a kiss could make her feel that way, what of the other things some of the other girls had spoken of, secret things, whispered about in the corner of the garden when the holy sisters were not near?

Heady with the excitement, Madeline clutched his muscular shoulders, his flesh hot beneath her hands, and instinctively began to undulate beneath him.

He had saved and protected her. He would help her still. He was strong, handsome, virile. A warrior.

And then she felt his hand upon her breast. Startled, she thrust him back. “Stop!” she cried, surprised and horrified not so much by his unexpected action as by her own lack of self-control. This was too much intimacy, too soon. What she felt must be lust, could only be lust. Blushing with shame, she shoved him away. “Stop that!”

Indeed, his grin could have been lust personified. “You like being kissed.”

“No, I do not.” She squirmed beneath him, trying to make him let her up.

In response, he moved his hips, the slight motion awakening a yearning so strong she could scarcely believe it.

She lay still, staring up at him, horrified. “I...I want to be a nun!”

“I thought you were getting married.”

“Yes. No. Get off me!”

“Very well.” Mercifully he rolled away. “You want to live among women for the rest of your days?”

“Yes.”

“That would be a great waste,” he murmured, smiling at her as he rose slowly and reached for the dalmatica.

“How dare you!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet. “I am betrothed!”

He pulled on his garment, then faced her, his expression unreadable. “How dare you?” he asked coolly.

“Me? It was you! You knocked me down, you—”

“If you do not wish to be kissed, do not look at a man that way. If you are indeed betrothed, you should act like it.”

She drew herself up. “What `way’ did I look at you? And I am acting like a betrothed woman! I keep asking you to take me back to my brother.” She had merely regarded him as she would any other man...hadn’t she?

“Are you trying to say you did not enjoy the kiss?”

“No, I did not! I could not enjoy the embrace of a...of a peasant!”

“You do not know I am a peasant.”

“You are not a nobleman.”

His infuriating smile broadened.

“Do you intend to help me or not?”

“I said I would, so I will.”

“Then you will please have the goodness to stay far away from me.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“I’m hungry. What is there to eat?”

He pulled out yet another piece of stale bread from his pack and tossed it at her. She caught it just before it landed on the ground and then watched as he picked up his weapon and walked toward the horse. “We should go soon,” he said.

She took a bite of the bread and marveled that her teeth did not remain behind. Chewing slowly and avoiding meeting his gaze, she nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No.” He saddled the horse and tied on his pack. She kept silent as she ate and watched him. He was no nobleman, say what he would. He couldn’t be.

And he should not have kissed her. It was all his impertinent doing. Indeed, she would do well to be rid of his company. Truly, she did not enjoy his lips upon hers. How could she? He had taken a great liberty.

Would he try to take another such liberty before he left her?

“We must go.”

His blunt words roused her from her reverie. Brushing the crumbs from her garment, she joined him as he left the byre. Outside, the sky was cloudy, yet she did not think it would rain again soon. Puddles were plentiful, however, and the leaves of the trees still dripped. All in all, the scene before her was as dismal as her future if she returned to her brother.

But she had to find out what had happened to Roger—Roger, whom she had almost forgotten, just because this rascal claimed that her brother was probably uninjured.

The Welshman linked his hands together and waited, crouched beside the horse. Obviously the intention was that she should ride, so she placed her foot in his hands and let him lift her onto the saddle. Then she waited with bated breath for him to join her. She could almost feel his body behind hers, touching her, and told herself that she was dreading the contact.

He did not mount the horse. Instead, he took hold of the horse’s bridle and began to walk toward the road.

“Where are we going?” she asked coldly.

“To a Norman’s manor I know of.”

“Whose manor is it?”

“Sir Guy.”

“Sir Guy?” There was something vaguely familiar about the name, but Guy was common enough. “Is that all of his name you know?”

“Yes.”

“How is it you are welcome at a Norman’s manor?”

“Would you rather I left you to find another escort, my lady?”