The Mistress of Normandy. Susan Wiggs
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first time. The idea gave her a sudden, deep sense of her own worth, not as a political commodity, but as a woman.
As if he understood, Rand caressed her cheek. “Do you see now? You are lovely, sacred, worthy.”
Shaken, she closed her eyes, spread out her arms and opened her hands as if to grasp the very air around her. Filled with the scent of flowers and the enlightenment his words brought, she tasted the quiet exultation of a dream fulfilled. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another. It was right. It had to be right. She wanted him now, not just for the child he could give her, but to satisfy the yearning in her newly awakened heart, to unleash the desire she recognized in his taut body and emerald-bright eyes. His hands were hard fists at his sides, as if he were clenching them against the urge to touch her.
How to tell him? she wondered wildly. She could not possibly blurt it out: Excuse me, but I cannot contain my passion for you and I need a child, so would you please make love to me?
Gripped by shyness, her tongue thick and clumsy with words she’d never thought to utter to any man, she snatched a yellow violet and rolled it between her fingers. “Rand...I have been thinking on...a matter. I think it is time we were honest about...certain things.”
His eyes dimmed almost imperceptibly. “What things?”
She inhaled a gulp of air. “Well...our feelings. I confess I am graceless with words. I know you have certain desires. I have felt this in the way you hold me, and kiss me.” A blush suffused her face with heat. “Doubtless you hold the favor of many women,” she rushed on, growing more embarrassed with each word, more entrapped in her own awkward speech.
“You presume a great deal,” he said.
She blinked, discomfited by his easy, bemused tolerance. “Of course, you might have been with a woman these weeks past.”
Suppressed laughter gave his voice a compelling richness. “Why don’t you ask me?”
She couldn’t bring herself to frame such a question. “You are free to do as you will. But I was wondering, if you could see your way, perhaps, to act on these feelings.” She lowered her head. “Do you not feel some...some measure of desire for me? That is—”
“Lianna,” he broke in, “I love you.”
Her head snapped up. “So you said,” she whispered. “At least, you said you thought you loved me.”
He stepped forward, brushed a wisp of silver-gilt hair from her temple. “I no longer think so. I know.”
Why did his declaration mean so much to her? She needed only his seed. Still, there was that deep agony within her that had nothing to do with procuring an heir and everything to do with the man standing before her.
Sudden doubts pricked at her. She was married; she could never share more than stolen trysts with Rand. Yet she wanted him so desperately....
He regarded her with a steady gaze. His lips curved into a tender smile. A smile she trusted.
The doubts vanished.
“Well,” she said, wondering if the raw inner tenderness she felt could truly be love. “Well. ’Tis settled, is it not?”
His smile widened. “What is settled?”
She forced herself to face him squarely. “Why, the matter I was trying to speak to you about. You’ll make love to me now, won’t you?”
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