With Her Kiss (Swords of Passion) by Cerise Deland Page B

nor courage, not morals or conviction.
    And what of me? How can I judge any other when I am seduced so easily? When I leave all prudence behind to take a man to me who is not my husband and who could die at the King’s hand for saving me—and fucking me?
    The far door creaked open, then closed.
    She tore at the sheets to cloak her body.
    “Please, modesty is not as thrilling as all that loveliness.” Geoff waved a hand at her as he strode into the room and smiled at her with good cheer. “I have seen you and I wish to view you at my leisure.”
    She sniffed, wrapping the sheet about her torso.
    He sauntered towards her, his pale eyes shining in pleasure. “I am pleased to see you up and walking about.”
    He greeted her as congenially as if they were man and wife and this another ordinary day. He walked towards her, his imperious body haloed by sunlight as if he were an angel. No hand of God, this man. He was a giant, all tough sinew, honed by decades of warfare, wielding swords and battleaxes.
    Seeing her food untouched, he caught her chin between two fingers and turned her face this way and that. “Why have you not eaten?”
    She jerked from his grasp. “I had not yet had the chance. Besides, there is the menacing view of that tub.” She tipped her head towards the object. “I do wonder if you will ever permit me to wash alone.”
    He grinned, the fiend, his gaze raw with lust. “I do not stop you. Avail yourself of the pleasure now while the water is warm.”
    She frowned at him. “An honourable lord would not offer such.”
    He cast her a sideways glance. “I am honourable. And I am, at this juncture of your life, your lord. And I do offer. I enjoy the sight of you, naked and within my reach.”
    “Oh, that I had a hairbrush within reach to throw at you.”
    “Testy this morning, are we?” Pursing his lips, he strode towards the table and poured wine from the pitcher into the two cups.
    “I wish no wine.”
    “You need it. You have lost a stone or more and I do not yet like the colour of your skin.”
    She lifted one hand to her cheek. “I need a mirror.”
    “Alas, my failure to supply a lady with the most vital tool to her vanity.”
    “What’s the matter with my skin?”
    “You need roses there. But never fear. I will make them bloom again.” His implication came with a wink.
    Her cheeks flamed. Damn the blush. “Huh. You have assaulted my person often enough.” She extended her hand to accept the cup. “The wine will be a welcome substitute.”
    “If only you had the choice. But you don’t. Drink this.”
    “I suppose you will not leave until I do as you ask.”
    “You suppose correctly, my lady.”
    She sipped and turned away.
    But she heard his footfalls, spurs jangling, heading back towards the door. “You are leaving?”
    “Relieved, aren’t you?”
    “Aye.” No. Truth was he was her only company, and, prickly as he was, she wanted his conversation. And indeed, she eyed the tub and thought of the excitement, the thrills of delight that travelled her flesh when he surrounded her in that warmth.
    “Good day then.”
    “Wait!” She hated that she had called him back. “I want—”
    He spun to her, one long auburn eyebrow arched. “What?”
    Curse the man for his compliance and his charm. She searched her mind for a reasonable matter to inquire about. “Tell me, how came we here? Did you write to Lord Marshall?”
    “I sent a courier, aye. As soon as I learnt of your imprisonment, I made a plan and knew I needed to withdraw to a stronghold that John would hesitate to attack. You do not remember, then, that I have told you all this?”
    She hated to admit it. “And you have his permission to stay here?”
    “For now. Until you are recovered. You know that Marshall and his wife and children are in Leinster? That he remains in John’s disfavour?”
    “Leinster. Ireland.” She frowned, her memory obviously faulty. Not Dublin. “Forgive me. My wits are still