To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(60)

She scratched her nails down his back.

“Helen,” he rasped, “that isn’t wise.”

“But I don’t want to be wise,” she whispered back.

That did it. Whatever thread that had held him snapped. He lunged, driving his length into her softness, pummeling her, thrusting into her, panting and uncivilized.

She wrapped her arms about him and held on as he plunged and writhed above her, watching him, watching his strong, scarred face. Even when the edges of her vision blurred and pleasure began to sweep over her in hot beats, she still forced her eyes open, watching, watching.

And he watched her back, his gaze locked with hers, his eye darkening as he neared his crisis. It was as if he strove to communicate something he could not say but could only demonstrate with his body. His lips twisted, his face flushed, and his mouth opened wordlessly, but he kept his eye locked with hers even as he pulsed hot life into her body.

Chapter Twelve

Thereafter, when the sorcerer relieved him from his guard duty, Truth Teller would hunt the mountain for the purple flower. It took some time, for he had only the light of the moon to search by, but eventually he had gathered enough buds to grind them into a powder. Then he set about finding two horses. This proved an even more difficult task, for the sorcerer kept no horses. But one night Truth Teller took what coin he had and hiked all the way down the mountain to a farm in the valley below.

When he awakened the farmer and explained what he wished to purchase, the man frowned. “Your purse is too small. I can only sell you one horse for that amount.”

Truth Teller nodded and gave the farmer all the money he had in the world. “So be it.”

And he hiked back up the mountain before dawn with only the one horse. . . .

—from TRUTH TELLER

Helen woke in the wee hours of the morning in Alistair’s bed. The embers of the fire still glowed in the hearth, but the candle sitting on the table by the bed had long ago guttered out. Next to her, Alistair’s breathing was heavy and slow. She’d not meant to fall asleep here. The realization brought her fully awake. She needed to return to her own room and her children.

With that thought, she quietly inched from the bed and padded to the mantel. There was a jar of tapers here, and she bent and lit one in the fire’s embers, then lit several candles so she could see to dress. She looked around. Her wrap was half under the bed, but she couldn’t see her chemise. Muttering softly to herself, she took up the candle and approached the bed to look. The chemise wasn’t under or next to the bed. Finally she leaned over the great mattress, searching for the chemise amongst the bedclothes. She paused as the soft candlelight illuminated Alistair.

He lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung high over his head, the sheets pushed to his waist. He looked like a sleeping god, his muscled shoulders and arms dark against the white sheets. His face was slightly turned toward her, and she saw that he’d taken off his eye patch sometime during the night. She hesitated briefly before leaning closer to examine his exposed face. She’d only seen him without his eye patch on that first night at the door, so long ago now. Then, she’d been overwhelmed with a feeling of horror. That horror had taken precedence in her mind, wiping out any detailed impression.

She saw now that the eyelid on his missing eye had been closed and sewn shut. It was sunken, true, but beyond that, there was nothing more distressing than a normal closed eye would be. The rest of that side of his face was another matter, of course. A deep gouge ran diagonally across his face, starting below the closed eyelid and ending at a point near his ear. Below that was an area pitted and reddened, the skin thickened and leathery-looking, perhaps some kind of burn scar. Smaller white lines were scattered across his cheekbone, obviously the result of knife cuts.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” he rasped.

Helen jerked, startled, only just missing dripping candle wax on his shoulder.

Alistair opened his eye to regard her calmly. “Are you examining the beast you let bed you last night?” His voice was deep. Rough from sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured rather inanely. She saw now that her chemise lay half under his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked.

“What?” She yanked at the chemise, but he lay over most of it, and she couldn’t pull it out from under him without ripping the fine fabric.

He didn’t move. “Why be sorry? You have the right, after all, to see what your lover looks like under the mask.”

She gave up on the chemise for the moment and glanced about distractedly for the wrap instead. Really, it felt quite odd to be having a conversation whilst nude. “I didn’t want to seem, well, rude, is all.”

He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him, taking the candlestick from her hand and setting it on the small table by his side of the bed. “It’s not rude to want to know the truth.”

“Alistair,” she said softly, “I must return to my own room. The children—”

“Are most likely sound asleep,” he murmured. He tugged at her arm, and she half fell across him, her breasts crushed to the heat of his chest. He leaned up and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “You know that.”

“Do I?” he rasped against her lips. “Someday you’ll leave, but right now I know only that it’s very early and my bed is very cold without you in it. Stay.”