Bride Of The Tower. Sharon Schulze

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      Chapter Three

      Will sank down against the lissome woman who had, unfortunately, ceased her provocative movements beneath him, and buried his face in her hair while he gathered his strength. By the rood! The way his head throbbed and his stomach roiled, he must have fair climbed inside an ale barrel last night.

      ’Twas a shame he couldn’t remember anything, for his body was most pleased indeed by the woman beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and sought to settle himself. ’Twould not do to lose the battle and swoon—or worse—over his bedmate.

      She didn’t have the feel of his usual choice—short, buxom and well-padded. She fit perfectly against him, though, nigh tall enough to reach his shoulder when they stood, he’d guess, and her body’s gentle curves all the more stimulating against him for the lack of excessive flesh. He nestled atop her with a sigh and rested his aching head on the soft mass of dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder. Ah, this was satisfaction indeed! Why had he never before realized the allure of a strong, slim woman?

      He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.

      The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.

      A noble lady…

      Christ on the Cross, what had he done?

      Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.

      She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.

      ’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.

      Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.

      She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.

      She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.

      Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….

      With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.

      What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.

      He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.

      “Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”

      His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.

      Challenging.

      And she’d always loved a challenge.

      A silent voice inside her brain warred with the soft, yearning part of her that wanted to inch closer to him, to tempt fate.

      To tempt him.

      Yet her good sense warned her to beware this intriguing man despite the way her senses fought to cease all thought—to feel, to react, to follow the instinctual draw of his body to her own.

      Sound reasoning won out, and she gathered her hair in her hand to free it. “You need not call me anything at all,” she snarled.

      Rather than release her, however, he wound her hair about his hand until his knuckles pressed against hers and she was forced to shift nearer to him else she’d fall. His breath whispered against her cheek, warm, distracting. “But I must,” he insisted, his voice low, rough, intimate. СКАЧАТЬ