Royal Blood. Rona Sharon
from behind trees and bushes, gamboling around him, bubbling with laughter. He resembled a splendid sightless lion being baited by a flock of noisome ducks masquerading as butterflies, or he could be Aengus, Renée mused, the Celtic god of love, pestered by the four birds flying about his head, symbolizing kisses. Guffawing and calling to them, he was having a hard time deciding which he should seize upon. Predictably, Mistress Blount stumbled into his arms.
“Oh-hoa, my little nightingale!” exclaimed Lord Stanley as his muscular arms locked around a lanky young woman with light blond hair.
“You may never guess my name, sir, for we are not acquainted.” The woman smiled at his half-covered face with what Renée recognized as budding interest.
“By all means, introduce yourself!” he suggested jovially, making the woman laugh.
“That is my sister you are fondling, sir!” a blindfolded Sir Walter Devereaux fumed hard by.
“I show your sister naught but courtesy, sir. Do not doubt it!” replied Stanley.
“Show her aught else, and you’ll be wedded at sword point by suppertime,” Wyatt gibed.
“There’s my husband,” Anne whispered dolefully, indicating the man wandering aimlessly, companionless, calling his wife’s name insistently, for none of the “birds” would flirt with him. He looked awkward, lofty, and ridiculous. “He will expect me to sing to him.”
“I thought you wanted to be caught by the Viking,” Renée whispered back. She had already made up her mind to let Wyatt catch her, for he was harmless. She planned to wrest a witty poem from him. Annoyingly, the hulking hindrance, Michael Devereaux, was guarding the lane to her hideout like a rockfall or rather a tenacious cat stalking a songbird. Was he hunting for Anne?
“I cannot, not in the common gaze. But…might I beg a favor? Will you give him a message from me?”
Renée’s ears prickled. “What is the message?”
“Tell him I would see him again.” Without warning, Anne nudged Renée into the lane, into the fair giant’s path, and dashed to her husband.
Michael waited for Renée’s friends to flounce off or be caught before he made his move. Wyatt and the peacock were prowling after her. Hence, he planted himself between them and her. Not a moment passed when he was unaware of her whereabouts. While her fragrant scarf blindfolded his eyes silkily, his senses followed her bodily presence like a mariner navigating by the pole star, as he had stalked the hart in the thicket. He listened to her hushed conversation with Anne and as soon as she stepped into the lane he seized her wrist.
“I have you fast now.” Michael smiled, pulling her closer. He slid his hands around her slim waist, embracing her sylphid body to his. She felt wonderful in his arms, lithe and delectable. He wanted to carry her to a magical wood, lay her on a bed of moss, peel off her clothing, feast his eyes on her beauty, scatter kisses on her quivering maidenly flesh, and make her mad with desire for him. A privilege he would never have. But he would have a kiss. “Will you not greet me that I may hear your voice and guess your name?”
“Twit.” She felt rigid, the light musk of natural perspiration spicing the costly perfume she wore. Around them, birds in brocades and silks chatted with and giggled at their captors, whether because they wanted to be recognized and kissed or could not contain their exuberance.
“Sing a whole song for me, little wrenne, that I may hazard a guess.” As Michael waited for a response, he felt her stiffening, tilting back, discouraging further contact. She did not want him to kiss her. Stung, he let go. He untied her scarf from his eyes and was struck dumb seeing how beautiful she was up close in the white light of day. Her face was alabaster smooth, delicate as a white orchid; her dark-lashed eyes were stunning amethysts. He met them squarely, unsmiling. “Once again you have outwitted me, madame.”
Renée blinked up at him. “Why did you not try to guess my name?” she asked softly.
“I knew your name.”
Annoyance erased any hint of vulnerability or shyness. Her gemlike eyes flared, becoming brilliantly hard in intensity. “You knew me but would not demand your reward?”
He was flummoxed. Did she want him to kiss her? “Name your pleasure.”
She snatched her scarf from his fingers, hissing, “Go and be hanged!”
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