somehow knew it was day.
Disturbing images peopled his half sleep: Otto pursued by a shapeless shadow; his sisters standing with quirts in hand, supervising his kitchen staff, who toiled in front of a roaring fire dressed only in loincloths; himself locked in a dungeon room while Underhill stood outside the door, complaining that his feet were cold.
Then he was in his own bed again, lying on his side, and felt the covers being lifted behind him, and then the gentle depression of the mattress as a woman slipped into bed with him. She pressed herself up against his back: he could feel her breasts, her thighs, her arm coming over his side so her hand could stroke his chest. She was tall, able to kiss the back of his neck as her feet entwined with his.
Sighing, he rolled over toward her, his arm wrapping around her to hold her closer, and he opened his eyes. Black hollows stared back at him where her eyes should have been, black, empty wells in a face white as death.
His own shout woke him. He sat up quickly, feeling the sweat that drenched his skin, realizing with relief that he had awoken from lying on his back, not his side. There hadbeen no phantom woman in his bed. It had been only a dream.
The sound of his own breathing was loud in the confines of the curtained bed, his eyes accustomed enough to the darkness to see the dim shapes of the bedposts and disarranged bedcovers. His breath caught. He felt it again, the sense he had known last night of not being alone.
He stared into the deep shadows in the right-hand corner at the foot of the bed. He could see nothing in front of the bedpost, could see nothing but the dark, bulbous shape of the post itself, yet some sense told him there was something—some one —there.
Serena sat frozen. He was looking at her. Right at her: she didn’t dare move. Did he truly see her, or only sense her, as he had seemed to in the king’s hall that first day, and again atop the tower?
She had come to see if he slept, and had sat in the corner of the bed watching him toss and turn, curious, needing to know his secrets. She had wondered what nightmares tortured his sleep.
At last he looked away, flinging wide the curtains on the left of the bed and swinging his legs out so that he sat on the edge of the mattress. He bent over, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingers scratching through his hair, then suddenly looked over his shoulder at her once more, staring hard for a brief moment. He stood and walked naked to his dressing room.
Serena released her breath in a whoosh, still too shaken to move. She wished he would stop doing that—staring at her as if he knew she was there. It was positively unnerving. As had been the sight of his bare buttocks.
Firm, well-sculpted buttocks.
She’d seen plenty of them in her time—her brothers and the men-at-arms had never been shy about bathing, and took some incomprehensible delight in flashing their derrieres ateach other and at any female servants—but buttocks had never widened her eyes the way that glimpse of Woding’s smooth flanks had.
Smooth, hollowed at the sides, just the size to be held and squeezed.
Her mouth turned down, and she was appalled with herself. Where had that thought come from?
She could hear water flowing in the dressing room. He had to be bathing.
She had watched Briggs at the task. Her curiosity over the fittings of the bathing room, with its long, deep tub and built-in basin, had overwhelmed her reluctance to see Briggs’s huge, hairy belly and the jiggling, peeping pink mouse that was his manhood, poking its puny bald head from a nest of wiry hair.
She somehow knew Woding’s manhood would not look the same.
The warrior in her said this was the perfect time to investigate that issue, when he would likely sense her presence and be made uncomfortable. He would not want to remain in a home where he had no privacy, where every time he took his drawers down he felt someone was staring. As much as her brothers had
Disturbing images peopled his half sleep: Otto pursued by a shapeless shadow; his sisters standing with quirts in hand, supervising his kitchen staff, who toiled in front of a roaring fire dressed only in loincloths; himself locked in a dungeon room while Underhill stood outside the door, complaining that his feet were cold.
Then he was in his own bed again, lying on his side, and felt the covers being lifted behind him, and then the gentle depression of the mattress as a woman slipped into bed with him. She pressed herself up against his back: he could feel her breasts, her thighs, her arm coming over his side so her hand could stroke his chest. She was tall, able to kiss the back of his neck as her feet entwined with his.
Sighing, he rolled over toward her, his arm wrapping around her to hold her closer, and he opened his eyes. Black hollows stared back at him where her eyes should have been, black, empty wells in a face white as death.
His own shout woke him. He sat up quickly, feeling the sweat that drenched his skin, realizing with relief that he had awoken from lying on his back, not his side. There hadbeen no phantom woman in his bed. It had been only a dream.
The sound of his own breathing was loud in the confines of the curtained bed, his eyes accustomed enough to the darkness to see the dim shapes of the bedposts and disarranged bedcovers. His breath caught. He felt it again, the sense he had known last night of not being alone.
He stared into the deep shadows in the right-hand corner at the foot of the bed. He could see nothing in front of the bedpost, could see nothing but the dark, bulbous shape of the post itself, yet some sense told him there was something—some one —there.
Serena sat frozen. He was looking at her. Right at her: she didn’t dare move. Did he truly see her, or only sense her, as he had seemed to in the king’s hall that first day, and again atop the tower?
She had come to see if he slept, and had sat in the corner of the bed watching him toss and turn, curious, needing to know his secrets. She had wondered what nightmares tortured his sleep.
At last he looked away, flinging wide the curtains on the left of the bed and swinging his legs out so that he sat on the edge of the mattress. He bent over, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingers scratching through his hair, then suddenly looked over his shoulder at her once more, staring hard for a brief moment. He stood and walked naked to his dressing room.
Serena released her breath in a whoosh, still too shaken to move. She wished he would stop doing that—staring at her as if he knew she was there. It was positively unnerving. As had been the sight of his bare buttocks.
Firm, well-sculpted buttocks.
She’d seen plenty of them in her time—her brothers and the men-at-arms had never been shy about bathing, and took some incomprehensible delight in flashing their derrieres ateach other and at any female servants—but buttocks had never widened her eyes the way that glimpse of Woding’s smooth flanks had.
Smooth, hollowed at the sides, just the size to be held and squeezed.
Her mouth turned down, and she was appalled with herself. Where had that thought come from?
She could hear water flowing in the dressing room. He had to be bathing.
She had watched Briggs at the task. Her curiosity over the fittings of the bathing room, with its long, deep tub and built-in basin, had overwhelmed her reluctance to see Briggs’s huge, hairy belly and the jiggling, peeping pink mouse that was his manhood, poking its puny bald head from a nest of wiry hair.
She somehow knew Woding’s manhood would not look the same.
The warrior in her said this was the perfect time to investigate that issue, when he would likely sense her presence and be made uncomfortable. He would not want to remain in a home where he had no privacy, where every time he took his drawers down he felt someone was staring. As much as her brothers had
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