Authors: Ann Lawrence
Lord of the Mist (31 page)
She linked fingers with him. Going down on one knee, she
touched her mouth to his pulse. There were no more words between them as she
licked along his inner arm. His blood ran hot.
Ready, nearly shaking with want, he pulled her astride him.
But he could not contain the need to conquer and possess. He rolled her beneath
him, rising on his hands and staring down at her. And it was he who was
conquered as she whispered his name. It was he who was possessed when she
arched and met his every move, her fingers molding each muscle of his back and
hips.
In a rush of sensation, at the height of her release, he
gave himself to her.
* * * * *
The air cooled. She knew they must dress and return to the
others.
He stroked Cristina’s hair from her cheek. “I have neither
castle nor finery to offer you. I have only myself and my children. Will you be
my wife?”
“Oh, aye!” she whispered. She put her arms about his neck
and kissed him hard. “I know I’ll never want for anything in your care.”
Breaking from his arms, she spun around the glade, twirling,
her hair belling out from her shoulders.
She reveled in the freedom, the caress of the cool air, the
sight of him, naked and painted with moonlight. She danced into his embrace.
His arms were strong, his body warm against hers.
“It seems right and proper to love you here,” he said.
“How so?” She looked up into his silver eyes.
“You are so much a creature of the forest.”
He kissed her throat, her cheek, her lips, and she knew she
needed him as surely as she wanted him. “And it seems right and proper to tell
you I love you,” she whispered, “in this the place where first I saw you.”
Wales
Winter 1205
Cristina stood on the top of a hill and looked over the
untamed land Durand had claimed. Months before, their company had ridden into
Wales, hungry and exhausted. A ruined keep, its ramparts lined with ravens, had
emerged from the rising morning fog.
About its walls, about twenty peasants ignored the crumbling
of their great house and lived their simple lives. Their baron, long dead
without issue, had not risen from his grave to haunt their party when they had
moved into his keep.
Nor had the peasants done aught but go about their chores.
They had taken one look at Durand’s torque and another at the birds on the
ramparts and accepted him to a man.
Now, as she stood on the hill, she acknowledged all had not
gone completely smoothly. Adrian missed the life and mother he so well
remembered. But in balance, Robert was fascinated by Felice and carried her
everywhere. Luckily Robert also had a facility for languages that quickly
allowed him to act as translator between his father and the peasants.
Nona grew fat and happy along with Oriel. The ancient priest
from the nearby church had joined Nona and Luke on the same day he had joined
her to Durand.
Each day, she thanked God for her new family. Each night,
she basked in the warmth of Durand’s embrace.
Sheets of fog stretched in layers of white and gray over the
valley floor. She must imagine the lush greens that were unlike any she had
ever seen in her many travels. She would travel no more. Her heart was here.
A man emerged from the mist. He wore an unadorned green as
dark and rich as the hills and forest surrounding them. And she knew that when
the sun broke from the clouds, it would touch his hair with a thousand shades
from black to red.
When he reached her, she put out her hands.
“I should have known I’d find you here.” He lifted her
basket and they walked together down the hill. “I’m off in an hour,” Durand
said, putting an arm around her waist. “With luck, the abbey over the mountain
will give us a fair price for the Aelfric, despite the hole in it.”
“And if they don’t, there are other abbeys,” she said. “We
have each other, this place, and peace. We’ll manage.”
He kissed a smudge on her nose. “Never underestimate the
power of peace. I’m taking Adrian and Robert with me.”
The mists enclosed them as they drew closer to the old keep.
“With the promise of Nona and Oriel’s babes on the way, we
have everything,” she said. “And smell this.” She plucked a wild rose from her
basket. “It may be the last. ‘Tis a gift of nature and now, when I give it to
you, ‘tis a symbol of my love.”
He took the flower and considered it. “You have given me so
much. And I have naught to give you.” Then he grinned and tucked the rose into
his tunic. “Mayhap there is something I have.”
He reached up and pulled the torque from around his throat.
He settled it about hers and it lay there, warm from his skin, heavy in
meaning.
“Durand…why?” She touched the torque with her fingers and
looked up into his smiling gray eyes.
“‘Tis simple, Cristina. You rule my heart.”
The End
Award winning author Ann Lawrence writes both historical and
paranormal romance with strong heroes and equally indomitable heroines. Her
books reflect her love of English history and Arthurian legend. But whichever
genre Ann chooses, she likes to include a puzzle for her readers to solve. Ann
loves hearing from her readers.
Ann welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website
and email addresses on her
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Ann
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Ellora’s Cave Publishing
Lord of the Mist
ISBN 9781419946103
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Lord of the Mist Copyright © 2001, 2013 Ann Lawrence
Cover design by Dar Albert
Cover photography by Igorzii, Charazin, Grape Vein and
CURAphotography/Fotolia.com
Electronic book publication April 2013
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