Free Heart's War (Heart and Soul) by Kathryn Loch

Rose’s pulse pounded wildly and the air fled her lungs. Her gaze focused on his lips and she could not tear her attention away.
    He surprised her when his lips curved up in a hint of a smile. “I see I am not the only one to struggle with curbing my tongue.” He moved even closer, his chest brushing against her breasts. Heat bloomed deep within her; her breasts were hard and aching. The scent of him beguiled and dizzied her. “You have always been a strong-minded woman, Rose. I find that trait . . . intriguing.” He traced a finger over a lock of hair that descended down her ear to her throat.
    She battled to find her voice. “I thought you liked your women soft and willing.”
    “Aye,” he murmured. “Ye have given me practical reasons for this marriage. But there is more. Are ye willing, Rose? Are ye willing for all this marriage entails?”
    He lowered his head, his fingers moving away the hair at her throat. Before she could draw a breath, his velvet lips touched her skin. He opened his mouth and his tongue traced a path of liquid fire. Her lids fluttered closed, her head falling back as if she had not the strength to hold it up. His tongue traveled over the frantically pulsing vein in her throat. He nipped her lightly with his teeth. It was as if a bolt of lightning shot through her body, striking deep within her and igniting a fire of the most primal fury. She heard herself making tiny mewling noises.
    His hands gentled their grip, lightly stroking, his long fingers traveling up her arms to her shoulders , where he slid them down, tracing the contour of her breasts. Her body quivered. The fabric of her dress was suddenly abrasive against her skin.
    Brynmor panted, his warm breath heating her dampened skin, but then abruptly, he hauled himself back. He spun on his heel and strode away, his boot heels slamming against the stone floor.
    Rose blinked in shock, trying to pull her senses back together. She swayed in the alcove, her heart pounding, unable to catch her breath. His voice whispered in her thoughts.
    Are ye willing, Rose?
    A blush burned on her cheeks as she realized she knew the answer to that question. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hurried above-stairs to her room.
    She passed an archer loophole and looked across the bailey. Approaching the gates, a massive group of refugees carried litters and assisted their wounded. Every keep under Brynmor’s command had barred their gates against enemy troops, forcing the wounded to travel great distances to Powys. Brynmor was the only one who dared allow them entrance. “Oh, Blessed Mary,” she whispered. She gazed longingly at the door to her room and then looked back to the bailey. She drew a deep breath, summoning her courage, and descended the stairs.
    ****
    Brynmor strode out of the door of the keep and staggered against the wall. He caught himself with his hand and struggled to drag a breath into his lungs. The taste of her still whispered across his lips, along with the feel of her soft skin. Her feminine scent combined with the sweetness of her namesake invited him to close his eyes and find peace and comfort in her arms. His fingers felt as if he still touched her, the soft sounds she had uttered only made him want to give her a reason to cry out his name in complete abandon.
    A deep tremor passed through him and his p ulse quickened. The power of his lust frightened him. She was a beautiful, noble-born lady someone to be protected and cherished. He didn't deserve to make her his wife.
    A disturbance at the gates jerked him out of his thoughts. More wounded streamed into the bailey.
    “Damnation,” he murmured.
    Brynmor stepped into the bailey. Where was Petran? He had just seen him a moment ago. After a few minutes of searching, Brynmor turned the corner and came to a halt when he spied his steward speaking to a refugee.
    “My lord steward,” the old woman said, her eyes wide and her face pale. “Please say it be not true.”
    “What