Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page A

enjoy it.”
    Her color rose higher. She understood his meaning.
    As Gunnar held his breath, she hesitated a moment, then slowly leaned in to take the bite. Her lips never touched him, but just before her teeth closed on the meat, her tongue brushed the tip of his thumb in a caress so subtle that he wasn’t certain he’d truly felt it.
    His blood was certain, though. Danger or not, it sang to life in his veins and rushed to his tarse, where he could easily imagine her tongue performing the same trick. By the gods. Did she have any idea?
    Of course she did, her modestly lowered eyes notwithstanding—a conviction that was confirmed when she delicately licked a droplet off her own fingertip—the same fingertip he’d suckled—then looked up at him through those thick lashes of hers in a way that nearly made him groan aloud.
    By the gods, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was out to seduce him. Perhaps winning her truly would be an easy thing.
    But not if his lust got ahead of him. He needed her love, not merely her desire. He needed to take his time, to woo her, to make certain he had not just her body, but her heart. He needed to slow down.
    A glance toward where her father sat beside his lady wife’s empty chair provided some of the chill he needed: Royal blood. Powerful father. King’s niece. If he fouled this, the whole of England would be after his balls.
    Even so, it took him a while to shepherd his wayward thoughts back into line. Eventually, though, the weight at his crotch eased, and he managed to turn the conversation to safer subjects for long enough to get through supper. News of the waning campaign in Wales. The chill weather. Court gossip she might have heard.
    He must have kept things too safe, however, because as they finished the wedge of gingerbread that ended the meal, she rose, apparently ready to retire.
    “Forgive me, my lady,” Gunnar rose, too. “I am too seldom amongst gentlefolk to recall how to be good company to a lady.”
    “What? Oh, no, you mistake me. You do not escape so easily.” She lifted a hand and crooked a finger, and Screaming Lucy abandoned her place at the table with the fosterlings, collected a brace of serving women, and hurried off.
    “My lord?” Lady Eleanor turned to her father. “I readied a gift for Sir Gunnar all those years ago and had no chance to give it. I would like to do so now.”
    “Of course. Have it brought.”
    “’Twould be better given in the solar. Do we have your pardon to leave?”
    The earl frowned. “Will others attend you?”
    “Of course, my lord. Lucy goes now with servants to fetch things and meet us there.”
    “Fine, then.” Lord Ralph waved them off. “We will be along shortly.”
    Eleanor put out her hand. “Come, monsire .”
    As before, he found he had little choice but to obey. He rose in surrender, and let her lead him upstairs.
    The solar of Raby Castle was larger than the hall of most manors and far more pleasant, what with ell upon ell of heavy tapestries lining the walls and what looked to be acres of thick rugs upon the floor. Enough candles lit the chamber to make it glow like a clear dawn, but as they entered, a servant, apparently stationed there for no other purpose, hurried to light more. As he worked, they stood silently, Eleanor rocking up and down on her toes in a way that belied the bland look on her face, until at last the man finished and vanished with his lighting rush, leaving them suddenly and unexpectedly alone.
    Alone .
    “Your woman is not here yet,” said Gunnar.
    “No.” She lifted her chin to look directly into his eyes, challenging him with the slightest curve of a smile. “My lord father will not be pleased.”
    His pulse pounded in his skull, silencing everything but the voice that urged him toward her.
    “Then we will not tell him,” he murmured, and then somehow she was in his arms, her lips sweet and hot on his. With a groan, he lifted her against him, and her body melded