Rosamund had always loved the touch of a man’s mouth on her breasts. She almost purred her contentment. How long had it been since she had lain in a man’s arms enjoying his attentions? It seemed like forever. Her fingers glanced over the nape of his neck. His hair was dark and just lightly sprinkled with silver. She entwined her hand into his locks, kneading his scalp with what became a growing urgency.
He raised his head, and his green eyes were glazed with his rising passion for her. He began to kiss her hungrily, their bodies twining and untwining with their lust. His mouth touched her throat, her shoulders, her chest. Their lips met and burned as they kissed seemingly without end. He could feel her heart beating wildly. The pulse at the base of her throat leapt like a netted salmon. His lips moved to her breasts again, then down her torso. Rosamund was making little mewling noises that alerted him to her pleasure. The white heather that scented her body warmed, growing stronger with her passion. It intoxicated him, and he could feel himself growing harder with his desire for her. He could not ever remember a time when he wanted a woman so very much.
“God help us!” she half-sobbed, and he understood her concern.
His fingers began to brush the curls on her mons. A single finger explored.
She whimpered softly, her thoughts jumbled. But then, for a moment her practical nature pushed to the fore, and again she questioned what she was doing. Yet when his long fingers began to brush the insides of her thighs with a seductive stroking, she felt herself concentrating only upon her need for him. But why him? Because it is he for whom you have waited, her voice within replied. “Oh, yes,” she said aloud, knowing, but not quite understanding.
The big hands caressed her, pulling her into his arms again, sweeping down her back to cup and fondle her buttocks. “I cannot get enough of you,” he said quietly. “Your skin is like silk. Your body perfection.”
“I need you inside of me, Patrick,” Rosamund heard herself telling him.
“I need to be inside of you,” he replied. Then his big frame covered her, the fingers of their two hands intertwining as he slowly possessed her.
She felt the lengthy hardness tenderly seeking entry into her body. He was bigger than the two men she had previously known, but Rosamund opened like a flower for him, absorbing his length within her love sheath until he filled her. Their eyes met again, as they had earlier when this madness began. She felt as if her soul were flowing into his, and for a moment she was frightened.
He saw the look upon her lovely face and quickly reassured her. “ ’Tis all right, my love,” he told her. “I sense it, too. We are one now in every sense.” Then he began to move upon her, and within moments Rosamund found herself lost in passion as they sought to satisfy each other.
Her eyes now closed, she was enveloped in sensation. The rhythm their bodies created overwhelmed her. She moved from delight, past pleasure, to pure, hot ecstasy. She cried out as stars and moons exploded behind her eyelids, her voice rising to a scream of utter satisfaction as her nails raked down his long back. The thrust and withdraw of his manhood did not cease. He drove her further and further, until her cries of gratification echoed again and again within the stone walls of the small chamber.
And his own shouts of enjoyment mingled with hers until, with an intense howl of triumph, his love juices gushed forth in a tremendous rush, flooding her body with their heat. With a groan of repletion he rolled off of her, pulling her into his arms as he did so. “I have no words,” he finally gasped.
“Nor I,” Rosamund sighed deeply. She had never, never, never, ever been made love to with such tender, such passionate, such fierce intensity. Owein had never taken her like Patrick Leslie. And as for Henry Tudor, his only desires were for himself. What just happened between herself and the Earl of Glenkirk had been achieved by the two of them together. There was almost something mystical to it. It was as if they had been together like this before. From that first sensation of sudden recognition until now, it was as if they were old and dear friends. Lovers.
“I cannot be parted from you,” he said quietly. His hand smoothed down her auburn hair.
“Nor I you, my lord. But shall I shock you if I tell you I do not wish another husband now?” She almost held her breath waiting to learn what he thought.
“I can understand your feelings, Rosamund, but someday you may change your mind. I, however, will not. Like you, I do not choose to wed again. I have a son, older than you, I suspect. He is wed and has sons. And there is the matter of why the king has asked me to leave my Highland home and come to Stirling.”
“I shall be your mistress, then, and gladly,” Rosamund told the Earl of Glenkirk. “Something happened tonight, my lord. You know it, and I know it. I suspect you do not understand what it is any more than I do. But there it is. Something deep within me knew you at first sight. That same something bids me stay with you for now. There will come a time when I will seek to return to Friarsgate. Or perhaps you will need to return to Glenkirk. And when that time comes, we will know it, and we will part again as we obviously did at some other time and in some other place. My poor cousin Tom will be most shocked, for this behavior is very unlike me. And there is something you should know. I have a suitor-Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn. He expected to wed with me on St. Stephen’s Day, though I told him nay. He will come to court seeking me and attempting to foist his will upon me. But I do not wish to remarry.”
“Do you become my mistress to thwart him, Rosamund?” he wondered aloud.
She propped herself upon an elbow and looked down into his face. “I become your mistress because I choose to be and because there is something obviously unfinished between us from that other time and place. You know it, Patrick!”
“Aye, lass, I know it,” he said. “I am a Scot, and I understand these things.” He reached up and pulled her down into his embrace once more, kissing her. “I loved you once, Rosamund.”
“I know,” she replied softly. “And I loved you.”
“I will love you again,” he told her.
“I know,” she said with a little smile. “I already love you, though it be madness to say it, Patrick.”
He laughed softly. “The king has the lang eey, or long eye as you English would say. I shall ask him about this wonderful insanity that has afflicted us, my love.” He drew her even closer and pulled the coverlet about them. “Will you remain with me?”
“For a little while, my love,” she responded. “My poor Annie will wonder where I have gotten to, and fret. She is one of my own Friarsgate folk. And I would prefer that what we have be between us alone for now. Soon enough there will be talk and speculation about the Earl of Glenkirk and the queen’s English friend.”
“You are very discreet,” he teased.
“I don’t want to be discreet,” Rosamund told him. “I want to shout from all the rooftops of Stirling that I am in love and am loved in return.” She chuckled. “People would think me mad, especially if they knew the circumstances of our love, my lord.”
He nodded. “I can hear the gossips now. There is old Glenkirk, come down from his Highland eyrie, and carrying on wi a lass young enough to be his daughter.”
“But there will be others who say old Glenkirk is a lucky devil to have such a lusty young mistress and keep her satisfied, too,” Rosamund teased him back.
He laughed. “I suspect you care no more than I do what people say, Rosamund.”
“I don’t care,” she admitted. “Once I might have cared, but no more. I have outlived three husbands. I have spent my entire life doing what was expected of me, doing what I was told, for I am naught but a mere woman. But I have given Friarsgate three little heiresses, and I have kept the land well and will continue to do so with the help of my uncle Edmund. Now I wish to live for myself, if only for a little while.”