Read With Her Kiss (Swords of Passion) for Free Online Page B

her constantly. Tearing off her clothes. Sponging her body. Feeding her again and again. Cutting her hair. Pressing his warmth to hers and curving her flesh against his own rock-hewn body. In that cocoon, she would drift and sink to black oblivion, only to have him at her once more, making her drink. Drink. Then she would push him away and slip down into the frothy down that surrounded her.
    “She still has no idea where she is,” a youthful man said.
    “That will come. She needs to drink more.”
    “Nooo,” she rasped and curled into a tighter ball.

    * * * *

    Gruel and bread and cups and spoons. She licked her lips, the goods dribbling from the corners of her mouth. She wanted more and her captor would not give it.
    She cursed at him.
    “Ah, good news. She can speak,” her tormentor proclaimed.
    Another man, whose voice held less timbre, rejoiced.
    “We’ll let her rest, then try again, Matthew. Meanwhile, get the maids to fill the wooden tub in my lady’s solar.”
    “No maid can lift her,” the young man objected.
    “I will do this. She is still full of lice and filth, Matthew.”
    She put her fingers to her nose. Aye, I smell ripe as a garderobe pit.
    “But it is not seemly, my lord, that she would be aided in her ablutions by a man.”
    “It is not right that you do it, Matthew. And only I can lift her as gently as she needs. Now go. Do as I tell you.”
    “You will come down to the hall for supper?”
    “No. My apologies to Lord Marshall’s steward, but I remain here. Bring mine up, please.”
    She had heard both men’s voices these past few days. She had not looked upon them fully, for her eyes were burned by any light after so many days in the dark. She knew the one man was a youth. Twenty years or so. And the older man? Much older. His father, it seemed from the familiar tones of their resonant baritones. Yet neither man nor lad addressed each in that manner. Who were they?
    And where was the man who had spoken Latin to her in the shadows of her dungeon? The man with the shaven head and worried voice. Where was he? And what had he asked her to say in the dark?
    Her head spun with all her questions—and once more wearied by it all, she stopped seeking answers for yet another day.
    She heard footfalls, the jangle of spurs and the swish of a sword as one man crossed the room and closed the door with a thud. His mien was rigid, commanding, solicitous of her.
    Alone again with this man who does not leave me. This man who reminds me so of the one I should not want.

    * * * *

    Broth and water. Hot and cold.
    Warmth infused her flesh, her bones melting in the liquid serenity. She sighed, sinking backward against furred sinew. She lolled, surrendering to the solid form behind her, around her, enfolding her. Security like this had not been hers for how long? Tender strokes of a nubby towel along her arms and over her breasts and belly. Her hair swirled in the water. Her scalp, massaged by careful fingers. She sank, grateful, melting into the warmth of it.
    Her captor sighed in satisfaction. And beneath her hip, his arousal stirred, thick, hard and insistent. Squirming, she summoned her strength to peel her body from his. The effort made her light-headed. She reeled and she fell backwards.
    “You felt that?” he asked, his deep voice full of surprise and desire. She was used now to his musings, whispers of his hopes to make her well, help her eat and have her walk once more. Forever he cajoled her, entreated her and scolded like a doting papa. She gauged her recovery by his sonorous monologue, at once consoling, less despairing each day.
    She forced her eyelids to open, slits only lest her body rebel. Her mind warred over her effort, battling against disappointment, yet surrendering to the need to see if what she heard or felt was some heaven she had not envisioned, peopled by this one man who never left her side.
    Grey walls of stone surrounded her. Ah —she fought tears— another dungeon . Yet…it