Free Ronan's Bride by Gayle Eden

drop.
    A last kiss, just over that still sensitive spot between the lips, then he eased her down, and repaired her breeches.
    Too amazed and having too much to process, she was aware when he leaned into her, his embrace tentative, and that his body was a band of steely hungers. He breathed rigid.
    She did not know how much time passed before he finally spoke in a husked voice, “The entry door is but a few feet. We should be not much more drowned by trying for it.”
    “Aye,” she answered, feeling him pull back, before he found her hand and they dashed out into a much colder rain.
    At the entry of the hall behind the kitchens, he loosed her hand. When she passed through the arch, into the open kitchens, Ronan turned and went back the other way.
    Sefare hurried through, smiling at the teasing and clucking of servants upon seeing her wet clothing and hair.
    A hearth fire roared, herbs overhead wafting down scents of basil, thyme, rosemary, lavender, amid the wood and aroma of bread and meat. She passed the slab tables and blocks, tubs, and servants busy at their work. She turned in a passageway, narrowly constructed, that led to the floor above the great hall.
    Having seen her drowned condition, the servants were quickly behind, entering the solar and getting her hot bath prepared.
    “My Thanks, Mag.” She nodded to the girl in warm wool kerchief and apron. When the fire was laid, the door closed. Sefare stepped into the water. During her bathing, she heard the boy Daykin next-door speaking, and knew Ronan was in his chamber. A bath also, being prepared.
    The castle did not heat much from the fires, and the rains were battering at the shutters, seeping through drafts with scent and chill. She lay with her head on the rim of the brass tub after soaping and rinsing head to toe. Sefare wondered that she had not realized Ronan was a man who had never made love to a woman. Considering his past and scars, she should have.
    One would not know it from his kisses, nor his touch—and she had knowledge that men who were experienced—could or would not—pleasure a woman half as much. It was too, a mixture of the storm, the unknowns between them, and the fact she was as timid in intimacy as he. Nevertheless, she had trusted him without thinking of his skills or lack of experience, or his scars. She had trusted him enough to have nothing enter her mind but letting him pleasure her more.
    She sat up in the tub and sleeked her hair back, rising and looking down as rose glycerin scented water sloshed off her milky skin. She had always seemed boyish compared to most women, and had oft been told that by the women who sewed her gowns. Certainly, the Count’s sisters had poked fun at her shallow breasts and slim hips.
    His mother oft snarled before the whole table, that him wedding a scrawny woman was why no heir was produced. Sefare knew the Count had two dozen bastard children, which were but slaves on his lands. She thought there were no heirs from her belly because God had some mercy, and answered at least one of her fervent prayers. The Di Matteo’s were an incestuous bunch, forcing weddings between first cousins and half siblings. She shuddered. That life was over, past, hopefully.
    Sefare stepped out and dried, wrapping the linen around her, before sinking to the thick fur before the fire. The curls around her head dried. She detected scrapping and sounds next door. A servant brought her warmed wine, fruits, bread, cheeses, and then left. Seated, as she was, the tray beside her, she ate until she finished it, and was half through with the wine, when the door dividing the solar eased, open.
    Gazing over her shoulder, she could see that the chamber behind Ronan was only lit by amber firelight. He leaned a shoulder against the facing, his mask on, his tunic a soft gray, breeches and boots equally supple.
    His wet hair was tied at the nape. A strand caught at the shoulder, telling her it was only confined there, and not braided. He