drawn deeper and deeper by muscles that were becoming just too damned proficient at undermining his authority.
He skimmed his hands down to the firm, pearly skin of her breasts and took some satisfaction in hearing a faintly rasped warning. She was just as close as he was, but twice as determined to squeeze every delicious shudder of pleasure from his body before she relinquished the reins of passion.
Bowing to the demands of chivalry—not to mention the sharp nip of her teeth—Lucien moved his hands away. He curled his fingers tightly against the rivers of heated sensation her swirling, suckling tongue and lips were drawing from his flesh and pressed his head back into the soft pillow of moss. Staring up at the phosphorescent greens and blues that sparkled on the ceiling of the grotto, he watched the eddies of steam whorling above them and wondered if either of them would have any skin left on their buttocks, backs, and knees. Probably not, he grinned. Why should this excursion be any different from the dozens they had taken before? A day spent in the secluded privacy of the Silent Pool and the grotto usually left them both so chafed they were forced to sleep on furs for the next few nights.
Lucien closed his eyes and tried not to think about her hot, sliding flesh, but that was like not thinking at all. Not breathing. Not living …
Servanne felt the powerful shudder that gripped his body and she slowed the rhythm of her hips to hardly more than an insistent throb. She pushed herself upright and saw the gray eyes open a sliver, but she only smiled and trailed her fingers down onto his hard, flat belly, marveling that she never failed to discover new areas of sensitivity. The chiseled beauty of each muscle and sinew was branded into her mind and on her body. The texture, taste, and scent of him was as much a part of her as her own skin. He was her love and her life, and even after six months of wedded bliss, their hunger for each other was as insatiable as it had been the first hour after their rescue on the beach.
Bloodmoor was Lucien’s now, but there were too many memories haunting the gloomy towers and battlements to keep a smile on his face too long. He had destroyed the cell on the eagle’s eyrie and scorched the donjon to the bare walls before sealing the cavernous death chamber behind block and mortar … but it was not enough. The Wardieu crest was emblazoned everywhere with its depiction of the dragon and the wolf locked in eternal combat. Lucien had proudly reclaimed his name and birthright, but there was too much of Etienne in every room, every court, every uncertain eye that followed him from hall to bailey.
Moreover, Prince John—who had been only too eager at the time to put his seal to the documents Lucien had handed him at the point of a bloody sword—had had those same six months to stew over his embarrassment and humiliation. Having to admit publiclly to Etienne Wardieu’s duplicity and declaring Lucien to be the rightful heir of the De Gournay titles and estates had sent the regent away from Bloodmoor in a state of mortified rage. Sooner or later he would exact his revenge. The fact he had even waited this long before showing signs of doing so was a credit to the lords and barons who had come forward in Lucien’s support. Their names were undoubtedly marked for future consideration as well, but for the time being, they were King Richard’s men and safe enough from John’s machinations.
Servanne had suspected something was afoot when Lucien had sent Alaric and Gil to Brittany two months ago, ostensibly to check on his lands and estates in Normandy. The glowing reports of prosperity had come swift on the heels of letters from Queen Eleanor, who thought it churlish and disloyal of him to remain in a country that had treated him so badly. For his part in winning the safe return of the little princess to Brittany, the dowager had rewarded him with a barony in Touraine, and was anxious to know what further bribes he would demand of an old woman’s heart before he deigned to return to her court, where he belonged. Sir Richard of Rouen made a fine captain of the guard, she added, but she missed her black wolf’s sharp wit and brooding strength.
A second