faded. Reality asserted itself in the form of a heavy arm pinning her torso. A large hand lingered dangerously close to her breast. A bearded chin tickled the sensitive place just below her ear.
Her back was pressed up against Owein’s chest. His thighs cradled her lower body. And that stone pestle pressing against her buttocks? Her body went rigid, her chest no longer able to send air into her lungs. That was no pestle!
She tried, gingerly, to shift away. Owein started, his sudden gasp of breath rasping her ear. He murmured a soft word and drew her closer. His hand found her breast. Squeezed.
Flames licked her belly, and lower. Panic clogged her throat—panic and breathless anticipation, wrapped together in one inextricable Gordian knot. Owein murmured again. A soft kiss brushed her shoulder. His hand left her breast to travel a slow torturous path down her stomach, across her hip, along her outer thigh. Catching the hem of her undertunic, his warm fingers delved beneath, stroking upward on bare skin. Her tunic rode up around her waist, baring her lower body. Clara pressed her legs together, dreading, wanting …
The heel of his hand pressed the triangle of curls that guarded her sex. There was an exquisitely sensitive bit of flesh there, and he sought it out, rocking and shifting his hand against it. The movement sent a spiral of heat through Clara’s limbs. A soft moan escaped her lips. Instinctively, she moved her hips, mimicking his rhythm.
“Aye, Eirwen, like that,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.
Clara froze. Eirwen? Owein’s wife?
His fingers stroked, teased. Her unruly body ignored the panic in her brain, opening to accommodate him, her legs parting as if of their own accord. His fingers slipped between, into slick wetness.
His next stroke was more intimate than she could bear. It was as if he’d touched the very center of her soul. A soft sob escaped her lips. Moisture gathered in her eyes.
“Eirwen,” he murmured again.
She closed her eyes. Oh gods. She didn’t want him touching her this way—not when he thought she was another woman.
She shrank back, trying to evade his probing fingers. The movement only served to press his phallus more firmly against her bottom. His braccas were undone, she realized with a sickening start. His hard flesh pressed like a hot brand on her skin. His hands drifted to her hips, lifting her slightly as his erection probed between her legs. The tip of his shaft pressed against her slickness.
By Jupiter! He could take her this way! It would be like the image he’d sent into her mind.
It was all she could do to haul enough air into her lungs to speak. “Owein!” Another breath. “Stop!”
“Hush,” he said, planting a wet kiss on her ear. “Let me love ye. There’ll be little enough chance after the babe is born.”
Hot tears gathered in her eyes. Behind her, Owein’s phallus withdrew slightly. His hands positioned her hips for the joining thrust.
“No!” Taking advantage of the slight space between their bodies, she twisted her torso hard, rolling toward him. His surging shaft jabbed her hip.
She wrenched one arm free. Planting her hand on his shoulder, she shoved with all her strength. “Owein. It’s Clara. Stop this.”
“What—?” He blinked and jerked back as far as he could manage in the close quarters of the hut. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he stared at her, his expression blank. His braccas hung open, revealing the shadow of a huge erect phallus.
Clara wrenched her eyes from that. She shrank back against the opposite wall, hastily pushing her tunic over her legs. Dawn light streamed through the door and the gaps in the thatch ceiling, creating a haze inside the shelter. A patch of light landed on Owein’s chest, drawing her eye. A sprinkling of russet curls were visible through the loose lacing of hide shirt.
Clara reached for her cloak, pulling it across her lap. Scant armor, but all she had. Owein’s gaze flicked over her, then down at his phallus. A sheepish expression crept over his face. He did up his laces.
“You were having a dream,” Clara said shakily. “You thought you were with your wife.”
Owein’s eyes turned hard and his mouth went down at the corners. Clara’s hand crept to her throat. A Legionary had killed Owein’s wife. One of her father’s men. What would Owein do if he discovered Clara’s lie?
She should tell him the truth. Confess her identity and be done with it. But if she did, would he abandon the