Free The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart

himself.”
    “Was he?”
    His smile was small, bitter, but not without amuse ment. “I doubt it. If he w er e , I wouldn’t have had to w o r k so hard to get w h e r e I am. I n de e d, I think Morgana wou ld remember if she’d m a n a ged to couple with the pr i n c e of darkness himself. As it is, I i m a g i n e he was a handsome tinker. Or even a landholder. Someone who has no memory of what a tum b l e with a w itch brought forth. ”
    He was s t an d i n g very close to the bed. She c o u l d smell th e herbs, mixed w it h the warm summer b r ee z e and the wondrous scent of the forest. She could lie back a n d stare at the moon and try not to pay attention to what he was do i n g .
    She glanced at him with a doubtful expression. “ Y o u are going to do it, aren’t you?” s h e asked, wishing she could think of a better euphemism but failing entirely.
    “To be sure.”
    “And it’s g o i n g to be painful. I know that full well. Even with the tenderest of husbands, the act is uncomfortable a n d degrading for women. It was or d a i n e d that it be so, so that we should pay for the sins of Eve. And you aren’t, ” she a d d e d boldly, “th e most tender of hus bands. I imagine you’re planning to pay me back for c o s h in g you on the head with the water jug.”
    He finished u nt y i n g the shirt and stripping i t from his strong, l e a n body. “Oh, I don’t know if I need to go that far. Mind you, I’m not about to turn my b a c k on you again. But there are other ways of ensuring y o u r future obedience.”
    She looked at him un ea sily. She could endure p a i n. Her father h a d been quick to punish a recalcitrant child and the Sisters of the Everlasting Martyr had lived up to their n a m e. She could kneel for endless hours on a cold stone floor, eat nothing but thin g ru e l and drink foul w at e r . She could survive ritual whippings and beatings and solitude. But she wasn’t sure she could survive th at intent expression in Alistair Darcourt’s golden eyes.
    “Please,” s h e said, sudden degrading fear fi l l i n g her voice.
    His smile was unnerving. He knelt down on the bed, leaning over her, and he seemed huge and dark and smoth e ring as he blocked out the moonlight. “Indeed, I do just as I please,” he s a id. “You’re my destiny, Elspeth of Gaveland. Or my curse. It remains to be seen.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    He picked up a strand of her hair, running it through his long fingers, a n d once more she was mesmerized by the beauty of his hands. “White and black, they shall combine,” he murmured, bringing the long, silky strand to his li p s . “Pure as snow, as blood-red wine.” He moved down, settling his body over hers, the heavy animal furs between them, and yet she could feel h i m , every bone, every muscle, hot against her tender flesh. She could feel the pulse racing through h e r body and his, feel the t h u d di n g of her heartbeat matching his. “You’re white,” he whispered, his v o i c e only a breath of sound. “Pure as snow.” His mouth drifted over her brow, her cheekbones, and s h e shut her eyes, feeling h i s l ips feather against h e r trembling lids. “And I’m black and evil, darkness personified.” He kissed the tender spot behind her ear, his tongue h o t and damp.
    She was having trouble breathing. She was burning up beneath the mountain of covers; she was freezing cold, shivering. “Is that all there is to the prophecy?” s h e choked out.
    He levered himself off her, his mouth traveling down the s i d e of her neck as he tugged the heavy covers away from her. “Flame and fire destroy them b oth,” he whis pered against her skin. “Death a n d rebirth, blood their troth.”
    “It sounds a little extreme to me,” she s a id in a strangled voice as his hand drifted back up the front of her thin linen chemise. His skin was hot, burning through the material; the fingers deft, sliding, reaching, and cov eri n g her breast.