The Mark of the Rose (The Black Wolf Series) by Marsha Canham

Author:Marsha Canham [Canham, Marsha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Published: 2021-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

Viewing it from the outside, the window in Ellyn’s tower room was a tall, narrow slit, barely wide enough to fit her two hands with thumbs touching and fingers splayed. From the inside, the wall was shaped like a broad wedge with a flat sill where an archer could stand and fire down into the courtyard. Huddled in the warmth of a blanket and standing in the niche, she had an excellent view of the moor and the forest. The storm was as yet too far away with too many miles of rolling hills standing in the way of any sounds of thunder reaching Bloodmoor. Nevertheless, the air tasted metallic and the darkness of the distant sky reflected her mood: Gloomy with flashes of intense mortification.

She had wanted to sink below the surface of the water and drown herself when Terrowin had burst into the bathhouse. There was surely no mistaking what she and Rennwick had been doing; they were both flushed and out of breath, wrapped in each other’s arms. Terrowin had instantly done the chivalrous thing and turned his back, though she suspected it was only the unwelcome news he had brought that had repressed remarks he might otherwise have made. Renn had helped her out of the tub and bade her dress quickly, as he had done, then escorted her to the bottom of the tower staircase before leaving her there, wet and cold and shaking in a welter of confused emotions.

Hearing that Nottingham was camped on the far side of the moor would have been more than enough to unsettle her. But having just had one of the most shattering experiences in her young life, it left her too dazed to think of much else.

She had not known her body could respond the way it had to Rennwick de Beauvoir. For the past sennight she had thought of him in every unflattering way she could imagine, as an abductor, a mercenary, a callous bastard who she had even thought, at one point, to try to poison. The deed had only been thwarted by the accidental spilling of the nightshade berries intended for the morning porridge. But for that the four knights would have been dealing with the bloody flux and she would be out in the forest on her own.

Here she stood instead, her inner thighs tenderly chafed, tingling with the memory of him thrusting between them.

Could she ever look at him again without recalling the feel of his heartbeat pounding next to hers, or the taste of his lips, the rasping warmth of his breath against her neck, or the urgency of her own begging whispers?

Or the pleasure? Gracious sweet God, the sharp drenching pleasure they had shared that had made her cling to him and never want to let go.

What had possessed her?

Indeed, what had possessed either one of them? He had just finished claiming his duty was to protect her from harm, but who was going to protect her from herself? What she

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