The Mistress Of Normandy by Susan Wiggs Page A

languorous strokes. Bringing his face very close to hers, he studied the clouds of pink color in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes.
    “There is naught so heady,” he whispered, “as a battle won.”
    “You do not play fair,” she replied breathlessly.
    “Where you are concerned,” he said, “I forswear fairness.” The wind stirred the hedges, and a shadow drifted over her face, deepening the color of her eyes to opaque silver. She shifted beneath him, the slight movement bringing his every nerve to a state of burning aliveness.
    “Lianna, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the moment we met.” He touched his lips at random over her flushed and startled face. “You make me want to forget who I am, to forget there’s a world and a time beyond this moment.”
    She took a deep, dreamy breath, and he caught it with his mouth, absorbing the warm sweet nectar of her lips. The times he’d held a woman in his arms were few, but had he kissed a thousand women, he knew not one of them could seize his soul as Lianna did.
    She lay still, naive, accepting. Her lips felt like moist velvet as he brushed them with his own. She tasted of morning dew and mystery, as if her body held some secret just out of his reach. He burned for her, longed to unlock the person she was, to peel away the layers of her outward identity and cast them aside like petals plucked from a daisy.
    Madness, he thought, feathering kisses over her brow, into her hair. Madness to indulge in this forbidden tryst. But oh, how he wanted to explore the insanity. His hand found the sweet curve of her breast. He lifted his head. She eyed him with soft inquiry. Her lips were moist, love-bruised.
    “We’d best start back,” he said reluctantly.
    Wistfulness darkened her eyes. “Why?”
    “Because you are a funny little pucelle who enjoys guns and tries my convictions, and I am a knight-errant bound where my travels take me.” He forced himself to speak easily as he helped her up. “Did your maman never teach you better than to consort with strange men?”
    “I am an orphan, and you don’t seem like a stranger to me.”
    Although she spoke matter-of-factly, he recognized the glint of pain in the sea-silver depths of her eyes. He drew her against him, startled anew by her smallness, her sturdiness. He whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
    She nuzzled her cheek against his chest. “You’d never hurt a woman. You told me so.”
    Desire swelled in him; he choked it off with a fresh dose of guilt. Before long she would learn who he was, and he’d never have the gift of her trust again.
    At a leisurely pace they started back toward their horses, easing into a relationship that Rand knew could flourish only for a few more days—even hours, perhaps. He showed her a bittern’s nest occupied by four brown-speckled eggs. She showed him a limestone deposit and a ruined Roman aqueduct. He wove a crown of wildflowers and placed it on her head. She fashioned a tiny catapult from a green ash bough and showed him how to fling a stone fifty paces.
    Rand scowled at the makeshift weapon. Putting it into his belt, he caught her against him. “You are impossible.”
    “I am practical.”
    “You are beautiful.”
    “Prate not about the way I look. I would rather have you admire my skill at weaponry.”
    He grinned. “Are all at Bois-Long as bloodthirsty as you?”
    “Some are worse,” she said simply, and turned away.
    Some are worse. Could she be speaking of her mistress? As he watched her untether her horse, his throat went tight with apprehension. Taking her by the shoulders, he stared at her. “Will your mistress punish you for taking the horse?”
    Confusion, then amusement, chased across her features. “Of course not,” she said, flushing.
    Relieved, he dropped a kiss on her brow.
    “Will you come back?” she asked softly.
    He swallowed. “I don’t know....”
    “Are you leaving, resuming your travels?”
    “My plans...are