hand, her sleeve whispering against the bodice of her dress, and then her fingertips touched his.
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to exult, but he could not wait any longer, and he pulled her to him, seeking her mouth, and her heat, and her substance.
But he was not prepared for the reality of Ghisla, her breasts and her belly and her hips pressed against him; the collision rocked him, radiating in his legs and emptying his thoughts, and he groaned her name in wonderous disbelief.
She was no longer in his head and his heart but in his hands. She gripped his face like she too was clinging to a dream, and then his mouth found hers, soft and insistent, and violet rose behind his eyes and surged beneath his tongue.
She dragged her mouth away and moaned his name, “Hody, Hody, Hody,” the way she often called him in song, and for a moment, his own face rose in his mind, as if he looked at himself in that moment through her. Harsh angles and empty green eyes, his back bent to hold her, his lips wet with her kisses. Then his face was gone and her lips returned, consuming him.
Salt—were they her tears or his?
He couldn’t kiss her fast enough, hold her close enough, or taste her well enough, and impatience guided his hands over her hips and around her waist, up the cage of her ribs and over the swell of her breasts only to retrace the same path, seeing her in the only way he could. She bit at his lips and nipped at his jaw, and her words came back to him from so many years ago.
I want to be inside you. And I want you to be inside me.
She ripped her mouth from his and pushed herself away only to immediately return to his arms and bury her face in his neck, her hands clutching his back, almost clawing.
“I do not know when you lie,” she said.
He stiffened.
“You know when I lie, but I don’t know when you lie,” she whispered, keeping her face buried against him.
“I have not lied to you.” He had not told her all of the truth, but he had not lied.
“Everyone lies. Do they not? But you have the advantage of hearing what most cannot . . . what I cannot.”
“The advantage? My lack is what created my advantage . . . so it is hardly an advantage.”
“I do not know when you lie,” she insisted again.
He eased her back, his hands bracketing her small face. Her jaw was locked and her chin jutted out against his thumbs. He wanted to kiss her again, but there were words in her throat. He could feel them gathering beneath her chin.
“And I cannot read your mind, woman. So you must tell me what you are trying to say.” His voice was gentle even if his words were dismissive. She had made her name an issue; she could hardly argue now about him calling her woman.
“You say you have love for me.”
“No. I said I love you.”
She swallowed, her throat moving beneath his hands. “But how do I know if you lie?”
“For what purpose would I lie?”
“Why does anyone lie? Because the truth is too hard.”
“You know I love you.”
“I know nothing.”
“Do you love me, Ghisla of Tonlis?”
“No,” she snapped, defensive.
“You lie,” he shot back.
He grinned, and she . . . laughed, the sound brushing his lips with surprised mirth, and he kissed her again. She met his mouth with all the desperation and wonder he felt, but fear hounded her, and she pulled back almost immediately.
“Someone will hear us,” she lamented. “If you are seen with me . . . if you are seen kissing me . . . he will kill you.”
She stepped away, and he let her retreat. Not because he feared for himself, but because her distress was palpable. For a moment they simply breathed, bringing their emotions under control.
“I will walk with you,” he said. “Back to the temple. I have guarded you before. It will not raise alarm if I do so now.”
“All right,” she whispered. Disappointment limned her words, but she touched his hand, a glancing caress, and turned toward the stairs. He followed her, staff in hand, still enveloped by the rosy waft of her scent.
The sentry near the stairs didn’t even raise his head. The guard at the castle doors had left his post, and the watchman on the wall was not doing his job.