My True Love by Karen Ranney Page A

smile and her flushed cheeks was a greater danger to his peace than the chaos of war itself.

 
    Chapter 7
     
    A nne held tight to his hand, wished that she were not so cowardly. A Sinclair is brave. Fearless . An incantation that had been repeated to her and by her since she was a child. A recitation to balance the terror that storms induced.
    They were nearly to the bridge when the lightning struck again, a sword of light that brought with it a stench of fiery air. As if God himself lived in the clouds and was annoyed by their show of defiance. The earth rumbled, lifted up beneath the pummeling. She fell to her hands and knees just as the thunder roared.
    It was as if the earth had ended. The world stilled horribly for a second and then exploded. The ground shuddered. Boulders fell around them. Dust rose, was dampened, enshrouded them in a cloud, as if Langlinais was disintegrating around them.
    Stephen pressed his hand to the back of her head. She needed no further urging to press her face against his chest, grip his shirt, and murmur a silent prayer. She closed her eyes, more than frightened. All of her childhood terrors were being realized in this moment. And all of its wishes.
    Just the day before, Anne had worried for him. Had lain in her borrowed bed and stared at the ceiling, fervent prayers easing her to sleep. Now he knelt with her and held her to him. A dream? Another vision? No. There was too much will in this man, too much power.
    His injured arm was protected by being bound to his body. Her lips rested against his fingers, breathed against his skin.
    An eternity later the sound gradually faded, the storm appeased. Her grip on his shirt eased. She pulled back. Not far, but enough to glance up at him.
    He was looking down at her.
    Anne reached out her hand and brushed her fingers over his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the softness of it newly shaven. His unsmiling lips were full and almost hot beneath her fingers.
    She’d expected to see him pale. Wan, perhaps, from the sick room. But this man bore no signs of illness.
    Beneath his restraint, just beneath the somberness of his look, was another man, one who looked out at her from flashing eyes. One she might have feared had she not been so fascinated. There was a look in his eyes she’d never seen, not in all her visions. As if he saw her as a woman and had his own thoughts about what he’d like to do with her. It was a look the men of Dunniwerth were always careful to mask. She was Anne Sinclair and, as such, almost inviolate.
    But this man dared. A discovery, then. He could silence her with a look and make her cheeks heat. Not from embarrassment, which might have been wiser. Instead, anticipation. Her blood rushed, hot, through her body. Her breath grew tight.
    Stephen lowered his head slowly. She might have pulled back, but she didn’t. Simply waited and sighed when she felt the texture of his lips, the heat of his mouth. She arched closer to him, her lips falling open beneath his. He coaxed her to him, the emotion hinted at in his gaze there in full measure in a kiss. He murmured something, a word, an enjoiner, an endearment, or a command, she wasn’t sure. His hand came up and flattened gently against her cheek, tilted her head. She moaned, a simple sound that echoed her body’s enchantment with such a thing.
    She wanted to be inhaled by him.
    Her helpless murmur connected them, a breath passed from one to the other. The kiss grew deeper until there was only darkness in her mind. The sweeping majesty of a sky without stars.
    A breath escaped her, one and then another. There were no thoughts in her mind, only an ache that brought no pain. It spread through her body, heated her breasts, raced to her toes. She was a secret becoming unveiled, a rumor being shouted, a girl changing to woman.
    Her fingers dug into the linen of his shirt, pressing against the texture in frustration. His skin was shielded and covered and barred from her, and she