Dragon's Knight, page 6
Married, that was right. Aislynn was to be married.
Jarrod felt a renewed sense of unrest. He listened carefully as she went on, “My mother died when I was quite young. My father…he was not himself for a time afterward and it was during this time that Christian left us.” He looked at her, saw the sadness in her gaze, the glisten of tears she refused to shed. “You have no notion of how good it was to have him returned to us. He brought new life to Bransbury—to my father. He must be found. I can know no true happiness until it is so.”
Jarrod took the unused cup from the tray on the table and poured some of the wine into it. Without saying a word, he held it out to Aislynn.
Taking a deep breath, she moved forward and Jarrod rose. As she took the cup, he motioned her onto the chair. She took a drink of the wine, her gaze fixing on the flickering glow of the fire in the hearth.
Jarrod drank from his own cup. Even in his wine-clouded state, Jarrod wished he had some words of comfort. He did not, but her distress weighed heavily upon him. He told himself that it was her own sympathy for him, misplaced as it might be, that made him wish for some words of comfort.
Aislynn drew him back from these thoughts, whispering, “Have you discovered anything more of this Ashcroft? Have you any notion of how to get there?”
Jarrod shook his head. “Nay, but with the name in my possession all I need do is ask directions along the way.”
She sighed. “I am so glad that you have learned this much and am grateful for your efforts, but my worry has been little eased. It still makes no sense that Christian would remain away from Bransbury lest something had happened. I can not credit that he would break a promise to me lest something was dreadfully awry.”
He could not argue with that. Christian did keep his promises. “It is true, he does. Yet that does not mean something has happened to him. There could be any number of reasons for his being delayed.”
She turned to him, her gaze direct. “You do not really believe that naught is wrong or you would not have come all this way to find him.”
Jarrod could not meet those wide blue eyes, which seemed to see too much. “You must not allow yourself to become fanciful in this. I am certain that all is well.” As he said the words, Jarrod told himself that it had to be true.
Suddenly, he felt the chafe of waiting till morn to set out to find this village. He had always preferred action to conversation. Words were too easily distorted. As had been the loving and loyal words of The Dragon’s brother only days before he had betrayed him.
Aye, Jarrod would be glad to begin his new course of action. He did not wish to examine the accompanying thought that his restlessness was stronger than ever in Aislynn Greatham’s presence.
Jarrod took another long drink of his wine.
Aislynn raised her own glass. She too took a long drink before setting it back down, staring at her slender fingers as she twisted them around the base.
Jarrod found himself studying her averted profile, the dusky fringe of her lashes, the sweet curve of her cheek, which was pale cream in contrast to the apricot velvet of her cap. There was a definite trembling in the mouth that had pursed so many times with anger in his presence. He was drawn to her vulnerability, beckoned by it. She was so very delicate, so small, and seemed as if she would be so very easily broken. At the same time he realized what strength lay inside her. He had seen it time and again over the past days in the way she looked after her father—and in the confrontations with himself.
She lifted one hand and wiped it across her cheek. It was a furtive gesture and, if he had not been studying her so closely, Jarrod might have missed it.
Yet he was watching her. And he realized instantly that she was crying.
An intense jolt of protectiveness tightened his chest.
Before he could stop himself, Jarrod moved around the table to her side. Acting purely on instinct alone, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. The bones felt fragile under his hard, callused hand. He swallowed as she looked up at him, her periwinkle eyes damp and unguarded in the light of the candle.
Jarrod spoke roughly, awkwardly. “Pray do not cry, Aislynn. I will find him.”
Rather than stopping the tears as he had hoped, this made them spill over onto her pale cheeks in a flood of sorrow. God’s blood. He had not meant to make things worse.
Now what was he to do?
Jarrod’s experience with women had not involved much in the way of comforting. He refused to remember the one woman for which he would have done anything. She who had wanted none of him. That pain was too great to bear…
Aislynn was here—now, and she seemed to welcome his care. He raised his other hand to the soft curve of her cheek. “Aislynn, I…please do not weep so. I promise you that I will bring Christian home to you.”
She peered up at him, her face pale, her gaze now searching, afraid to hope. “How can you make such a promise?”
He took a deep breath. “Because I am that certain I will do so.”
She sniffed. “Truly?”
He forced himself to hold her eyes without wavering, although his felt hot from not only the wine, but the loveliness of her. “Aye, truly.”
Before he knew what she meant to do, she had leaped up from her chair to throw her arms about his neck. “Thank you, thank you so very much. I simply could not bear it if he were not to return to us, nor could Father. Father is really not as strong as he appears, you know. His leg, it pains him so at times. That is the true reason that he has not gone after Christian.”
Jarrod stood very still. Aislynn was soft and yielding against him, so delicate, while at the same time decidedly woman. Feeling a distinct and decidedly unwanted stirring deep in his lower belly, he recognized it for what it was instantly. Desire. Jarrod tried to breathe evenly.
He told himself that he must think clearly here, must not allow himself to feel this way. He would concentrate on the fact that he must now do whatever he had to in order to bring Christian back, no matter how difficult it proved, or how long it took.
Yet as he stood there, he continued to be aware of other feelings and thoughts, the gentle, warm, woman scent of her, the press of her breasts against that area between his chest and belly, the heat that flickered gently but distinctively in his own blood. These sensations reminded him of the fact that he was a man and Aislynn was a woman.
She sighed, her breath stirring the fabric of his tunic over his heart. And finally he could deny his senses no more, giving in to them as he recognized that Aislynn indeed was small. But far from feeling like a child in his arms, there was a definite womanly roundness to her diminutive form. Her breasts were round and firm against him and as he slowly slid his hands further down her back, her narrow waist curved into hips that were perfectly proportionate to the rest of her.
Though he willed it not to, his heart thumped in his chest. He was aware of the increased tugging in his belly, the heady hints of desire that thickened the blood in his veins.
Aislynn became very still in his arms and, though he knew that he should not do so, Jarrod looked down. Straight down into those glorious damp periwinkle eyes, with their spiky wet lashes. Again he put his hand to her cheek, his fingers brushing the edge of her cap, and suddenly Jarrod was beset by a desire to see her without it. With trembling fingers, he reached up and pushed it back from her forehead, never breaking the contact with her gaze until the heavy mass of moonlight slipped free. Only then did he allow his gaze to take in the shimmering length, which fell to her hips. “So beautiful, Aislynn.” He reached to touch it, noting that the fine strains seemed to cling to his callused fingers. “So soft.”
A barely audible sound escaped her, drawing his gaze back to her face. He watched her lips part and her breathing quicken. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from those sweet pink lips.
Aislynn’s voice was husky and questioning as she whispered, “Jarrod?”
Jarrod’s head spun. Whether it was from the feel of this beautiful and surprisingly shapely woman in his arms, or from the wine, he did not know. And at this moment he did not truly care.
His gaze went back to her mouth—so delicately full—so inviting.
He could never in his life recall wanting to kiss anyone as badly as he did Aislynn in this moment. And if there were reasons for not doing so, he could think of none of them.
He bent and placed his mouth on hers.
For a brief instant, Aislynn became very still, her heart thudding in her chest, which felt too tight to breathe. And then she pressed her mouth to Jarrod’s, unable to do anything else, though she had no understanding of what had happened here. Perhaps it was sympathy, or his own sadness that made him take her in his arms. She did not know. She knew only that it had somehow become something far different, and she wanted this difference with every fiber of her being. She felt the strength and suppleness of those lips on her with a sense of disbelief, but also a heady rush of some strange unidentifiable longing. It made her heart race and her blood quicken in her veins.
Aislynn could think of nothing save the thrill of these sensations. She wanted to be closer to Jarrod and she pressed herself as closely to him as clothing, skin and bone would allow.
His lips parted and she felt her own follow suit, felt the hot inner dampness of his mouth. Aislynn’s belly spasmed and her fingers tightened on his tunic with near desperation as she raised up as high as she could go on the tips of her toes, wanting to increase the pressure of their lips.
As if he sensed her need, or perhaps because he was as eager as she to deepen their contact, Jarrod lifted her up against him. Aislynn sighed with pleasure and relief as she finally put her arms around his neck, holding him to her as he did her to him.
And he went on kissing her, nibbling, tasting, exploring her lips and mouth until her head was whirling. But, far from confusing her, this only served to make Aislynn certain that she wanted more, that the ache growing inside her could only be assuaged by closer and closer contact with this man.
Jarrod’s head was spinning with the wine he had consumed and his own powerful reactions to Aislynn. He was overwhelmed by her open and sensual responses to him, driven to have more of her, of her passion.
He wanted—needed—more.
When Jarrod suddenly took his hot mouth from hers and held her slightly away from him, Aislynn feared that he might put her down. But he instead settled on the bench she had just vacated in one swift and sure motion, then pulled her squarely across his lap.
Immediately his lips came back to hers. But only for a moment before they left her mouth to trace a trail of heat across her jaw and down the tender flesh to the base of her throat.
Aislynn’s head fell back and she was grateful for Jarrod’s strong hand on the back of her head, for she felt so weak she could not hold the weight of it. When his hot mouth came to the edge of her gown, her heart began to beat so loudly that she was certain he must hear it.
Jarrod, thwarted in his efforts to press his mouth lower along her silken flesh by the heavy velvet, reached up to cup her breast in his free hand. His eyes closed as he felt the nipple harden against his palm through the denseness of the fabric.
The quickness of her breathing, the heaviness of her lids drove him on. He turned Aislynn more fully against him, running his hands down her sides to her bottom. Again the velvet and whatever else she might be wearing beneath it frustrated him, for though he could feel the shape of her it was just not intimate enough.
His voice was husky with desire as he moved to kiss her again, whispering with an impatient groan, “Pray, why do you wear such heavy gowns, Aislynn? There is no need to cover yourself so fully.”
Aislynn did not move her mouth from his, trying to think of some answer for this strange question when all she wanted to do was feel. Finally she murmured distantly, “For warmth. Have you not noted the chill in this keep?”
When he groaned again, his arms encircled her more closely and she reveled in the feel of her own body as it awakened wherever he touched her. She was aware of her own softness, the curves of her breasts, hips, her thighs, in contrast to the hardness and strength of his body.
When his large hands splayed across her waist, slipping down to hold her hips, hold her more tightly to him, she felt a new surge of heated warmth in her stomach. As her breathing quickened, her mouth seemed to open of its own accord, searching blindly for his.
And found it. Jarrod’s tongue slid inside and Aislynn’s breathing ceased entirely. A soft moan of longing escaped her and her fingers slipped into the dark hair at his nape, holding him more fully to her mouth as his hands continued to glide over her, molding each curve.
She realized that she felt her own desire to touch him, to explore his hard masculine form. Aislynn’s questing fingers slid down, across his chest. The muscles tightened distractingly as they passed beneath her fingers, and she thrilled at the sheer powerful maleness of him.
Jarrod rose again, this time keeping her in his arms, and moved across the floor. Aislynn knew where they were going. Knew and could summon no thought or emotion save relief that the ache inside her would surely soon be eased.
Jarrod laid her back on the bed and kissed her once, deeply, before easing away. Aislynn saw him reach for the hem of his tunic, and a sudden breathless disbelief that this could all really be happening made her close her eyes.
When a muffled groan that was far different from the previous ones that issued from his lips sounded, her lids flew open. Jarrod stood beside the bed, his tanned chest bared, one hand reaching up to rake his hair back from his brow as he stared at the object in his hand.
She whispered. “Jarrod?”
He did not look at her but continued to stare at whatever he held in his hand. “Dear God, what have I done?”
It was a moment before Aislynn’s surprised and passion-dazed eyes could make out what he was holding. And even after she could fix upon the scrap of blue ribbon, she could find nothing about it to cause him to pull away from her.
He wiped a trembling hand over his face, again saying, “Dear God!”
She rose on boneless legs and took a step toward him, reaching out with a hand that she saw was quaking even more than his. “What is it, Jarrod?”
Still he did not look at her. “I…what we…This is wrong. I do not want this.”
Her voice was dull with the pain that stabbed through her, but she held her head high. “You are right. We should not have drunk the wine when both of us were feeling so badly. You had told me of your having no family and then you comforted me about Christian. We…I let our mutual sympathy for each other…”
She got no further as he ground out, “Do not waste your pity on me, Aislynn. I have my freedom and that is the way I want things to be. It is you, Aislynn, who welcomes ties, you who are to be wed.”
She froze. “Yes, I…”
He turned to stare into the fire, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “Just go. I beg you.”
Not knowing what else to do, Aislynn spun about and, somehow, not only found, but managed to open the door. She moved down the corridor to her chamber feeling as if she were crawling through a dense fog.
All the while she could hardly fathom what had occurred between them. Even more confounding was the way it had ended.
Telling her that he did not want it!
It had been Jarrod who had kissed her, not the other way around.
But for whatever reason he had done so, there was no misunderstanding his true position. He had made it all too clear that freedom was the one thing he desired, the freedom to come and go as he would. He wished for no ties to Aislynn, had reminded her that it was she who was to marry.
Yet how was she to forget that Jarrod Maxwell had kissed her, caressed her. And what kisses, what caresses. Aislynn had never imagined that a man’s lips upon her could feel thusly, his hands upon her body. She had been enraptured—enchanted from the moment Jarrod had kissed her. It was as if he had somehow, by placing his lips on hers, worked an invisible magic upon her that had set her entire body alight.
And to him it had meant nothing.
As she moved to her bed, she still felt as if she were seeking her way through that fog of confusion.
She ran her hands over her face. If only she had not drunk the wine, perhaps she would now be able to think more clearly.
Even if he was determined to be free, how could Jarrod simply end it as abruptly as he had? And what had the ribbon he had been holding to do with it? Was it possible that there was a woman involved, a woman who understood that he would not be bound?
The thought brought on such a wave of anguish that Aislynn was unable to stand. She sank down on the edge of her bed.
Thinking about the way his arms had held her, the way his hands had touched her, she could not help wondering how this could possibly be. Surely no man could behave that way if he loved another.
Aislynn could not understand Jarrod Maxwell at all. She only knew that she wanted him still. She put her hands to her head, wishing she could block it all out. Would that Jarrod Maxwell had never come to Bransbury, had never awakened her.
She crawled beneath the cover fully clothed. It was mad to spend so much of her energy on worrying over why he had drawn away from her. He had never pretended that he was here for any reason other than Christian’s well-being.
There was no need for her to worry about what would happen between them now. Jarrod Maxwell would be gone in the morn. Unfortunately, Aislynn felt less comfort in this thought than she would have wished.
