Darcy Branwyn

From: Venus Rising

England, 1192

…She felt sick about it, about another woman in the bed they’d just shared, being coxed and pleasured by him. She closed her eyes tightly. “Take a real wife, Matthew, and then keep me as your mistress.”

“I will not…” He said it a little too loudly then cut it off, no doubt because he didn’t want it to be like that between them. “I love you, Lady Berkley, but you’re trying my patience.”

She winced; she was pushing his limits, but she’d do anything to keep him alive. “I just want you,” she whispered. “That’s all. Not my dowry, not the land, not even a legitimate child.”

“You’d have our children be bastards then?” He sounded incredulous.

“Anything,” she repeated.

“I won’t allow it. Damn it, woman,” he said, reaching for her and pulling her out of the chair. She opened her eyes, looking into his face and hating the dark look in his eyes.

Her perfect, uncomplicated, patient man, and she’d reduced him to this. She sniffed, tears blurring her eyes. “Just don’t hate me for it,” she said hoarsely.

“Hate you?” And then he pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned her cheek automatically against his chest. Every moment of contact was priceless. “What I’ll do is take this paper and quill, and you back to our chamber then keep you there until I’ve had you so many times I’ve finally broken that stubborn cage around your heart.”

The what?

No. Her heart was broken, not locked up tightly.

Wasn’t it?

“Matthew?” she questioned.

“I will,” he said, his arms coming more firmly around her; she could hardly breathe. “I swear it, Jennifer, and you won’t leave that chamber until your mine.”

Good God what was she doing to him? Who did she want? The man that had so swiftly made her love him, taught her to laugh again, or this tense man that wouldn’t let her go for anything?

No. Don’t think about it, Jennifer. She couldn’t afford to lose him. It didn’t matter what version of him she was getting.

“I won’t live without you,” she said. “So be it. Do what you must.”

He pushed her back just enough to look at her face, his hands on her arms. He watched her questioningly.

“I’ll be your prisoner, a spoil of war, call it what you will. I’ll be your mistress secreted away in your chamber where no one can see me but you and Lizzy.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I won’t sign that paper.”

“God, Jennifer. It was so simple. We were going to do this, then I was going to check on your boots and then we were going to spend the rest of the day by ourselves riding my lands and making love in the grass.”

She sniffed, wanting that very much, actually.

He let go of her suddenly, then turned to the paper. Taking up the quill he signed her name himself. “Matthew,” she warned, grabbing for his hand but it was too late. It wasn’t a great forgery but it wasn’t terrible either, considering how little time he’d had to know her writing. “How could you?”…

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