was going to kiss her, and turned slightly so that she could lift an arm about his other shoulder.
There was something almost unbearably erotic, she thought, about feeling the warm, soft flesh of his mouth against her own but only the wool of his mask surrounding it. He kissed her with parted lips as he had done before. Eurwyn had never done that. Neither had Geraint—she closed off the thought. And he traced the seam of her own lips with the tip of his tongue, something that shocked her and sent raw pain—no, not really pain—shooting down through her body to set up a throbbing between her legs.
“Oh,” she said when he was finished.
But he did not immediately ride on again as she expected or kiss her again as she hoped. He was looking at her, but it was too dark among the trees to see his eyes clearly. And the moon and stars had disappeared, she realized. Clouds must have moved over.
“Shall we get down, then?” he asked her, his voice low and husky against her ear.
She was not so naive that she did not understand him. Or so dazed by his kisses or her own desire that she did not understand all the implications. It was something that had horrified her as a girl of sixteen. It was something she had deplored in others. It was something she would not have thought herself capable of even considering.
“Or shall I take you home?”
Take me home. Oh, yes, take me home. “We will get down,” she heard herself whispering.
He held her steady while he dismounted and then lifted her to the ground, as he had done the last time outside her home. He kept his hands on her waist, as he had done then, and kissed her briefly on the lips.
“You are sure, Marged?” he asked her.
Her legs felt boneless. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. “Yes.” She was still whispering.
Chapter 17
HE released her in order to tether his horse and lift a bundle from its back, and then he took her by the hand and led her farther in among the trees until it was so dark that she did not believe she could even see the end of her nose. She stretched out her free hand ahead of her.
“Here.” He stopped walking and held her hand firmly while he appeared to be spreading on the ground the bundle he had drawn from his horse’s back. “Lie down.”
Looking back the way they had come, she could see the lighter grayness of the world outside the forest. Here it was blacker than night. She lay down. It was a blanket or a cloak that was beneath her.
When he came down beside her and cupped her face with one hand and found her mouth with his own, she drew in her breath sharply. His mask was gone. She raised her hand to his face. And so was the wig. He had short, thick hair. Wavy. He opened her mouth with his own, and his tongue came slowly and deeply inside. She heard herself moan.
She was wearing breeches, she thought suddenly. It was going to be awkward. But he did nothing about them for the moment. He was unbuttoning her jacket and then her shirt. And his hand was coming inside, over her shoulder, down the valley between her breasts, and then around to cup one of her breasts, to feather his fingers over it, to rub his palm over her nipple, to pinch it gently.
Oh. Eurwyn had never . . . “Oh.”
His mouth was moving down over her chin, down her throat, trailing hot kisses to her breast, opening over its tip and closing again. His tongue rubbed the nipple.
“Ah.” She arched up against him. Both her hands held his head, her fingers pushing into the thick curls.
And then his mouth was on hers again and she could feel his fingers dealing with the buttons on her breeches. She lifted her hips when she could feel that they were all open and reached down a hand, helping him to slide them off along with her undergarments. She felt the cool night air against her bare flesh. She felt as if she were on fire.
She did not help him with his own clothes. He still wore Rebecca’s robe, and she guessed he wore some kind of breeches beneath. He did not completely remove them. She could feel the fabric against her legs as he came onto her and eased them wide. When