Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Rose awoke, feeling more rested than she had in years. She stretched, and reached out her hand feeling for Tristan beside her, but he wasn’t there. She sat up and scanned the cottage, but he was nowhere to be found. She scooted to the edge of the bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes. Then she stood and crossed to the door. Opening it wide, she spied Tristan walking up the path.
“I was just coming to wake you,” he said, smiling.
She stepped out onto the flat cool white stones. “What is it?”
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful sunrise,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the shore.
She gasped as they crested the sandy slope. Deep red spread out across the sky and the water. And now that the fog had cleared, she could see the white cliffs of Dover across the channel, but the rising sun had also painted the alabaster bluffs red. The sight touched her soul-deep. She stared in awe. “Tristan,” she gasped.
The waves rolled high as if spurred on by the magnificent sight.
“Have ye ever seen anything so beautiful?” she said, raising her hands up to the red sky.
“Never,” he swore.
His ardent tone drew her gaze, and they locked eyes. He no longer watched the writhing sea or the expanse of red sky. He had eyes only for her, and they bore through her, insistent, searching, and hungry. A rush of desire filled her. She stepped closer to him and splayed her hands wide on his chest.
He seized her and thrust her close. The storm in his eyes mirrored the crash of the waves against the rock. His eyes were intense, piercing deep beyond the layers of her being to the deepest part of her—her raw longing, her restless heart, her hunger for more. Her fingers bit into his biceps. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest, surely harder than the wind was strong. His body was stiff with tension. The pulse at his neck throbbed. He was like a caged animal, and with a fitting growl he thrust her away from him.
“I am sorry,” he bit out. She could feel the tension pulse off him in powerful waves. “This was not part of our bargain. I am sorry to overstep my bounds.” He turned on his heel and thundered toward the cottage. She watched him, her body frozen, wanting, needing. He disappeared over the slope. His sudden absence, the loss of his arms around her, spurred her feet forward. She raced through the sand, then onto the grassy slope. The tough grass bit at her bare feet, but she didn’t care. Her only thought was of her one desire, Tristan.
Running down the stone pathway to the cottage, she threw open the door. He stood at the table, his hands splayed wide on the surface. The muscles of his back and shoulders visibly tensed beneath his tunic. He turned and faced her, his eyes lit with fire that burned as his touchless caress penetrated the barriers of flesh to her beating heart.
He stormed toward her and grabbed her, crushing her against his taut body. His lips seized hers. She groaned into his mouth, her tongue meeting his, stroking, tasting. Her body shuddered and ached and craved so much more than his kiss alone. His fingers dug into her hair while she pulled at his tunic. She wanted to touch his skin, to run her hands along his bare, sinewy shoulders. His lips tore away from hers and burned a fiery path down her throat. She arched her back, aching for his hands to touch all of her.
But they were not truly husband and wife.
“Nay, we cannot,” she cried.
He thrust her away. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his breaths coming in short heaves. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
She wanted to weep for the loss of his touch. She gripped her head with her hands. “I want you,” she groaned, the words spoken as if of their own accord. Her hand flew to her mouth. He started toward her again, his eyes narrow and hungry, but she scurried back. “You stay there,” she ordered. Then she backed up against the opposite wall. “And I will stay right here.”
He nodded, his chest heaving. “Philip should be here at any moment.”
Several minutes passed. Neither of them had moved, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Thank God,” Rose blurted the instant before Philip stepped into the cottage.
“Good morrow,” he said, smiling, but then he looked at Tristan on one side of the room and Rose pressed against the wall on the other side. She quickly tried to smooth her hair and straighten her tunic, but Philip’s slight smile told her she was too late. He started to back out the door. “The Messenger is anchored just offshore,” he said quickly before shutting the door behind him.
Tristan took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “It is time to go.”
Rose stood straighter, and once more smoothed the wrinkles from her tunic. “Aye,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “That would appear to be the case.”
Tristan reached out his hand. “I will send one of the men back to gather our few affects. Shall I escort you to our dinghy,” he said with forced brightness.
She dipped in a stiff curtsy. “That would be lovely, thank ye.”
They left the cottage together and started down the field. “The sky has brightened,” she said.
“It has, indeed, although I do not like the looks of those clouds gathering in the east.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “They do look rather ominous.”
“Powerful,” he agreed, his hold on her hand tightening.
Her heart started to race again. “Unbridled even.”
He dropped her hand and cleared his throat, taking a few steps away from her. “Perhaps you should just go on ahead and let one of the crew help you into the boat.”
She nodded and hurried forward, hoping to outrun her own desire.