what it was like between us? You used to press yourself close to me, kissing me until we could hardly breathe.
‘You spoke words of love, and I believed them.’ His hands stroked down again, moving towards her hips. ‘Or have you forgotten the promises you made? That I would be your husband and no other man.’
The words came to her lips, the truths she was too afraid to speak. When her father had learned that she had given her innocence to Warrick, his rage had been so strong, she had no doubt at all that Harold would have killed him. She had never seen him so furious, and she saw that same anger mirrored in Warrick’s eyes now.
‘I was there on the day you married Alan. I stood and watched while de Courcy claimed you as his wife. I joined the guests at the wedding feast, and every bite was like dust in my mouth. And when they took you away to share his bed—’ Warrick’s voice broke off, and it was filled with such frustration and rage, it frightened her.
But then his expression turned sensual. ‘I know full well that you do not want me.’ His hands encircled her waist and he held her closer, making her aware of his desire. ‘But I do not believe it has anything to do with honour. You are afraid of remembering what it was like between us.’
She was shocked at the response of her own body to the pressure of his hips. His sinful words brought back memories of the forbidden, of skin upon skin. She ached at the sensation of his hard body pressed to hers, and it made her heart beat faster. Her breasts grew tight against her gown, yearning for his touch.
Alan had never made her feel anything at all in their marriage bed. She had endured her husband’s attentions but never had he made her feel alive—only guilty. And during her pregnancy, she had given excuses for him not to share her bed.
Warrick traced his finger over her cheek and down her throat. In a low voice he said, ‘I find myself wanting to say yes to your husband’s proposition. For you are bound to obey, are you not? Especially when it means saving this castle.’
‘I don’t want you,’ she gritted out. ‘Not like this.’
But the words were a lie. Her blood was coursing through her body, making her remember the fierce response that only he could conjure. In the past, his kiss had echoed within her skin, arousing her until she had cried out with desire. He knew just how to draw out her response, though she tried to force back the feelings.
Warrick threaded his hands in her hair, leaning in so close, she felt the planes of his hard body against hers. ‘I would have Alan’s full permission to claim you, in the hopes of conceiving a child. But he would never know what truly happens between us.’
His hands moved down her spine, and with the heat of his skin, she felt herself awakening beneath his touch.
‘I want you to know what you’ve been missing during these three years. You chose the wrong man, Rosamund. And when I touch you, you’ll wish to God you had stayed with me instead.’
‘Don’t do this.’ She would not stand for his threats, not now. In one motion, she unsheathed her knife and held it to his heart. ‘I may be Alan’s property, but I am not yours.’
‘Not yet,’ he murmured.
And when he released her, leaving her behind, the blade clattered from her fingertips.
She was shaking so badly, she could hardly stand. God help her now.
* * *
Warrick returned to de Courcy’s bedchamber, his mood grim. An honourable man would refuse this bargain and walk away—he knew that. But in three years, he hadn’t forgotten the fury at watching the woman he loved marry someone else. He had endured countless lashes for her sake, believing she would remain true to him. And after it was done, his father had watched him bleed.
‘She was never going to wed a man like you. Rosamund de Beaufort is too high-born.’
The agony of his wounds was so harsh, he could say nothing. But his father’s words cut deeper than any lash.
‘I should have ordered them to kill you instead. Your life is worth nothing.’
He had grown accustomed to his father’s hatred, after all these years. Edward de Laurent believed the lies of his wife, not the truth. Warrick had long ago given up the idea that his father would ever see him as a man of worth.
But he had been mistaken in thinking that Rosamund would be different.
She claimed she had married Alan to save Warrick’s life...and that might have held some truth, but why had she not fought to stay with him? This beautiful maiden, who had met with him in stolen moments, promising to love him for the rest of her life, had suddenly grown cold. She had turned from him, leaving him to spend years with only a sword for company.
And now Alan wanted him to sire a child upon her? It was the strangest turn of fate he’d ever imagined.
He had wanted to ignore this summons to Pevensham, truthfully. He had no place upon an estate such as this. Although he was of noble birth, he would never be anything more than a warrior. There were no estates he could inherit, no lands for him to rule. He was expected to marry and live with his brother Rhys.
Or die in battle, if his father had his way.
Over the years, his stepmother Analise had convinced Edward de Laurent that Warrick was simple-minded and incapable of leadership. Absently, he rubbed at the scar upon his wrist. His gut tightened at the memory of the woman, and he pushed back the darkness. She was dead now, and his father had taken a third wife.
But the fact remained—Edward de Laurent had believed Analise’s claims, hardly giving any attention to Warrick. The need to prove his father wrong had drawn him into the king’s service and into countless battles.
Now, he had been given an opportunity to control lands that spanned even greater a distance than his family’s. No longer would Edward de Laurent look upon him as the spare son who would live at home, possessing no estates of his own. Warrick could command of his own castle, and be equal in status to his brother Rhys.
All he had to do was murder an innocent man...or sleep with the man’s wife, he thought wryly. Neither was an honourable choice.
And yet, Alan was right. His brother Owen fully intended to take possession of Pevensham, and it was possible that he could harm Rosamund. Certainly, the man wouldn’t hesitate to kill an unborn child if it threatened his inheritance.
Warrick reached for his sword, and he clenched the familiar hilt. If he agreed to sire a son with Rosamund, there were endless risks. She might not conceive, and all would be for naught. Or if she did, others might question the child’s legitimacy. Even if it came to pass as Alan desired, it meant that the child would grow up believing that another man was his father.
There were no clear answers, yet he stood at Alan’s bedside. It was best to speak the truth. ‘I have spoken to Rosamund, and she does not wish to dishonour her marriage vows.’
‘She will do it if I command it of her.’
Warrick had no intention of forcing any woman. Even the woman he had once desired beyond all else. ‘I will not take Rosamund against her wishes.’
‘She understands what is necessary to protect Pevensham. This is her home, and she
