lips parted ever so slightly, and he needed no more invitation to push his tongue gently between them. As he did so, he moved his hand to cup the malleable flesh of her breast.
As her tongue boldly intertwined with his, she made a sound in the back of her throat, half moan, half whimper.
The small noise broke the spell, and reminded him who she was, as well as what she was.
Despite her responses, she was Lady Genevieve Perronet, the betrothed of Lord Kirkheathe, niece of stern Lord Pomphrey Perronet, and on her way to be married.
With more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge even to himself, Dylan pulled away and tried to smile as he looked at her. The corona of blond curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face was a little disheveled. Her cheeks glowed, and her bold, blue-eyed gaze seemed to transfix him and render him speechless.
As well as fill him with a burning desire.
He did not want to talk, let alone say a farewell.
He pulled her onto his lap. No tender, tentative kiss this time, but a passionate taking of her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, clutching him as if she never wanted to let go. With increasing need, he stroked and caressed her, drawing forth small moans and sighs that spurred him on, as the shifting movement of her body increased his arousal.
Usually, he preferred to take his time and linger over every delightful step on the path. Here, now, with this young woman who looked so innocent yet who kissed with such wanton abandon, he simply could not wait.
Still kissing her, he fumbled with the ties of her cloak, determined to undo it Finally, with a low growl of both want and frustration, he tore the strings and shoved it from her shoulders. He did the same at the back of her bodice, until it was loose enough for his hands to travel inside to the warm, satiny flesh.
She gasped when he touched her, then arched, another moan breaking from her slender throat.
He kissed her there, too.
“Dylan,” she whispered fervently, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. “I... I must go.”
Even then, she cupped his face with her palms and pressed more kisses upon his cheek.
“Stay,” he murmured, grinding his hips in response to the pressure of her buttocks.
One hand left the confines of her bodice and went to her ankle. He began to slowly push her skirt higher, his hand running up her slim bare leg.
He had to possess her.
The bell that summoned the servants to the evening meal began to ring.
Dylan went still as a stone when he realized what he had been about to do. With a betrothed lady. In his aunt’s rose garden.
He had not even intended to kiss her. He had thought only to say a brief and suitably touching farewell in the garden before this evening’s feast.
He had meant every word he said to Griffydd. His flirtation with Genevieve Perronet was just that: a flirtation. A bit of meaningless fun while they were at Craig Fawr.
He simply had not been prepared for the startling intensity in her eyes as she had looked at him, or the extreme sadness in her voice as she spoke of leaving. Nor had he at all anticipated the fire of passion in her willing kiss.
Anwyl, he, a man who had been intimate with a number of women and fathered children by some of them, had never guessed shy, demure Genevieve Perronet possessed the power to be so astonishingly arousing.
Appalled by his lack of self-control, he gently pushed her off his lap and stood. “Forgive me, my lady.”
Her hair more disheveled than ever, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks red and her bodice loose about her body, she regarded him with obvious confusion.
He tugged his tunic back into place, then strode to the gate. His hand on the latch, he paused and glanced back, to see that Genevieve had pulled her cloak around her shoulders.
“Farewell,” he said softly, and then he opened the gate and left her.
That evening at the feast, Genevieve anxiously searched for Dylan DeLanyea. She had to be subtle about it, for her uncle was sitting beside her. Although her hawklike relative seemed most interested in discussing matters of state with the other nobles around him, he was not ignoring her.
The comfortable hall was filled with fine and titled men and their wives, both Norman and Welsh: the Baron DeGuerre, Sir Urien Fitzroy, Sir Hu Morgan, Sir Roger de Montmorency, to name but a few. Their host was quite well-known in his own right, and rather fearsome to look at, Genevieve thought, with his scarred face, one eye and limping gait.
The women of Craig Fawr were friendly and seemed quite nice, except perhaps for Griffydd DeLanyea’s bride. Seona was with child again, and it seemed she was having a difficult time. Perhaps that was due to the fact that her second pregnancy came so hard upon her first, for her infant son was not yet a year old. Still, Genevieve envied her the children, and looked forward to the day she would be a mother.
She also envied her hostess, who seemed to be everything that Lady Katherine said a chatelaine should be: kind, competent, pleasant. Everything at Craig Fawr was well-regulated and comfortable, too. Genevieve sighed and hoped that she would be so successful when it was her time to take on such duties.
The center of most people’s attention tonight, however, was Trystan DeLanyea. Like all the DeLanyea men, he was comely. He shared Dylan’s dark, curling hair, worn to his shoulders in the manner of his father, brother and cousin, so that altogether, they reminded Genevieve of a band of savage Celts. Trystan also shared Dylan’s sensual lips, although he did not smile as much. He lacked his cousin’s snapping black eyes, possessing instead the grave, gray eyes of his older brother.
So, Genevieve mused as she regarded him, he was young and handsome, but he did not fascinate her, not as Dylan did.
She had been rather astonished to think that Dy-lan was not already married, but perhaps, she thought with a secret, satisfied smile, he had never met the right woman before.
She wondered where he was. She knew he was still at Craig Fawr. She would have heard if he had ridden out, for he came with a troop of ten men, although his own castle, Beaufort, was not very far away.
It had to be love she felt for him, she told herself. She seemed to melt whenever he looked at her with his passionate dark eyes, and when he kissed her... there were no words to describe what she felt then.
And he must love her, too, to embrace her as he had in the garden.
Of course, they had perhaps gone a little far, but that only proved that he returned her love. He had looked so sorry when he stopped and even more when he said farewell. If he did not come to the feast, she didn’t doubt it was because he thought their situation hopeless, since she was betrothed to Lord Kirkheathe.
“We will leave at first light,” her uncle said beside her, momentarily drawing her attention away from her silent search. “Be ready.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“The journey to Lord Kirkheathe’s
