“But no longer?”
“He left me. I suppose somewhere up there”—she gestured to the heavens—“is a snowy park in which he hunts for hare in the moonlight.”
He did not respond. Then, sleepily: “If he was anything like the monster you deposited upon my pillow, he is probably tearing through pristine angels’ boots at this very moment. I believe I can hear the cherubim and seraphim now groaning in chorus.”
She laughed. Such pleasure warmed her chest, more than she had felt in months. But unlike the peaceful happiness she had known before, an undercurrent of longing swept through her, as though true joy were just on the other side of a door she daren’t open.
Her companion was quiet, his eyes closed, the movement of his chest regular as though he dozed.
“I am sorry Gon?alo has caused you to lose sleep,” she said.
Without opening his eyes he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. In repose his face was starkly handsome, and with a day’s whisker shadow seemed too rugged for either monk or nobleman. As she had wanted to touch his back earlier, now her fingers tingled with the desire to stroke the plane of his cheek and hard jaw, and to delve into his dark hair and know its silky texture. She wanted to feel him.
“Do you find something amiss with what you see?” he asked without opening his eyes. “Is this the reason for your long study?”
She laughed. “Are your eyelids transparent?”
“At war, a man learns to hone all his senses.”
“I am glad you honed them so that you returned home alive,” she said.
“Thank you. At this moment, I am as well.”
Her head was spinning and her heart beat hard. So much feeling swirled inside that it seemed to fill her entirely. She had never had such a friend. And yet as she enjoyed his laughter and companionship, the longing swelled.
“Today,” she began, uncertain of her words, “after Monsieur Sepic announced his conclusions, I wondered if . . .” What was she saying? “I want to find the murderer, of course. The actual murderer. But . . . I am afraid of this ending.” She whispered, “Please don’t let it end.”
He turned to her and the lamplight cut across his sober face and shadowed his eyes. He leaned down and slid his hand around her cheek and into her hair. A caress soft as a prayer passed along her jaw, then beneath her lips. It made her shiver with pleasure and fear.
“I thought you were asleep,” she whispered. “Before. When I was staring at you.”
“How, do you imagine, could I sleep when you are near?” His voice was low.
Butterflies danced in her stomach. “Do you intend to kiss me now?”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You made me promise to never again kiss you in a stable.”
She stared at his lips. “I now relieve you of that promise.”
Chapter 15
The Wolf and the Hare
He kissed her. Lips barely touching, mostly it seemed that he breathed her, a caress of warmth against the coldness surrounding them.
“You are exquisite, Ravenna.” His voice sounded remarkably unsteady. But his words were nonsense.
“I am no—”
Then he truly kissed her. Capturing her lips quite securely beneath his, he scooped his hand around the back of her neck and tilted her face up so that her mouth came against his fully. She had never kissed anyone except him, briefly and against her will. She had not known that a kiss could be like this. Neither harsh upon her mouth nor gentle, his mouth commanded hers to return the kiss, and she did—eagerly. He tasted of golden wine and felt at once like home and danger, delicious and thrilling. Her hands found their way to his shoulders and gripped, and he leaned into her, trapping her beneath him. This time, beset by the most powerful urge to push herself against him, she didn’t mind being trapped. When his lips coaxed hers apart, a rushing, insistent heat funneled through her.
She might have made a sound; he lifted his head. His indigo eyes questioned.
She forced words through her quick breaths. “I thought when you kissed me this morning on my brow that you hadn’t any more interest in kissing me like this.”
“No.” He sounded breathless too.
“But—”
“A promise is a promise.” He cupped her face in both his hands, and his gaze upon her mouth looked as hazy as her muddled head. The wine was strong, but they hadn’t drunk that much.
“If I made you promise to continue kissing me like this now,” she said, “until I say otherwise, would you honor that promise too?”
“A man is only as good as his word.”
“And deed, I hope,” she managed to say before he covered her lips again. This time as he tasted her, his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Ripples of pleasure followed. He did it again and her lips parted. Her mouth wanted him inside her. She wanted him inside her. Then he was there, stroking her and making her weak. Pleasure. Longing. Tangled together, hot and wanting. All the feeling inside her needed more than even the thrilling connection of lips, more than these caresses, and much more than the connection of bodies through clothing. Tentatively she allowed the tip of her tongue to stroke his.
“Ravenna.” Her name came upon a groan that seemed to come from his chest. She felt it rumble against her breasts. “You mustn’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing. I want to touch you.”
He gave her what she wished, and the confident caress of his tongue against hers shot spikes of yearning straight down her body. She ached profoundly, and she knew it was the mating urge. She wanted to be closer. As close as possible. Intimately close. The need surged everywhere—upon her tongue that he caressed and between her legs where the ache was fiercest, and in her breasts too.
“And to be touched by you,” she said. She wanted him to touch her. Needed him to.
His palm smoothed from her face to her shoulder, then to the neckline of her gown above her breasts. He bent his head, and where his fingers played at the edge of her bodice he put his mouth.
Shocking pleasure. Soft heat with the rasp of his whiskers against her skin. His lips caressed. She sank into ecstasy.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin, his mouth hot upon her. “This. You.” His hand curved beneath her breast and cupped it. His groan mingled with her gasp.
He lifted his head. His eyes looked fevered, almost hazy, and as full of desperation as she felt. Her throat made a whimpering sound of protest, and she reached up and clamped his hand to her firmly. Fingers laced over his, she made him hold her. Her nipple was tight beneath the fabric. His dark eyes held hers as he stroked over the peak. Another whimper escaped her, then another. Now nothing mattered but the need to feel him more, to have him where she ached hardest. She separated her thighs and pressed up to him. But the narrow gown made it impossible.
She broke her lips free and tugged at her skirts. “Help me. Help me.” Desperation drove her.
With strong, remarkably capable hands, he pushed her skirts to her thighs, then higher. She spread her knees and let him bear up against her. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. A sound came from her throat, a sound she’d never heard, of pure pleasure, echoed by rumbling pleasure in his chest.
“Ravenna.”
Bending his cheek to hers, he pressed her into the straw, and there was only feeling and pleasure and the aching that grew yet more desperate now as she clutched at him and urged him against her.