He rubbed his cheek against the hair he clutched and closed his eyes. Her muscles tensed in readiness. But she held back. It was too soon. She would have but one chance.
“I desired you from the start,” he murmured as he kissed the side of her face. “But when I saw you on the castle wall that day with your hair blowing all about you, I knew I would take you under William’s very nose if we both remained in the castle.”
He rose up on one elbow and ran his finger down the side of her face and along her throat. As his eyes followed the line his finger traveled to the neck of her tunic, his breathing quickened, and she sensed his mood change. He leaned down and kissed her where his finger stopped, at the lowest point of the neckline of her tunic.
And still, she waited.
She drew in a sharp breath when he cupped her breast. Misunderstanding her reaction, he groaned with pleasure. He ran kisses along her collarbone, his breath hot and damp against her skin.
This was nothing like with Rayburn. It was a shock to realize Edmund wanted to make love to her, to give her pleasure. She felt violated nonetheless. Clenching her fists, she closed her eyes and counted.
The next thing she knew, Edmund was on his hands and knees above her, and his tongue was in her ear. Panic nearly overtook her reason; it took all her resolve not to scream and beat her fists against his chest.
He moved down her body, murmuring her name. When she felt the wet of his tongue touch her nipple through the thin fabric, she fought the urge to grab him by the hair and jerk his head away. That would not save her.
Slowly, she reached her arms up behind her head and under her pillow until she felt her dagger. The movement made her back arch slightly.
“Aye, aye,” he moaned, and clamped his mouth painfully over her breast. He was moving against her now, pressing his erection against her hip and suckling her breast.
Holding the sheath of her knife with one hand, she pulled on the hilt with the other. She had the blade free. She was ready.
William and the other men followed Stephen through the brush and tall grass along the river side of the castle wall. The mud sucked at his boot as he stepped in a hole of icy water.
“Old Jacob told me about the tunnel,” Stephen said in a low voice over his shoulder. “It’s been here since the castle was built.”
William would never criticize his brother for prying secrets from anyone again.
“No one knows about it but him and Catherine,” Stephen said. “And Robert.”
Of course.
“The tunnel comes up in a storeroom near the kitchen,” Stephen said. “We’re close to the opening now.”
William felt along the wall. Behind a sprawling bush, he found the break low on the wall.
“Follow me,” he called. “Silence in the tunnel and have your swords ready. Stephen, I want you last.”
The tunnel was dank and pitch-black. The entrance was no more than two feet high, but once he crawled through it, the tunnel was large enough for him to walk upright. Animals scurried away as he felt his way along in the dark. After several yards, he came to the end of the tunnel and felt above his head. Wood, not stone. The trapdoor. He put his dagger between his teeth and pushed it up.
There was a crack of light coming from under the door to the room. He could see pots and sacks of grain. He climbed out and helped the next man, then went to listen at the door. When half a dozen of his men were crowded in the small room, he eased the door open. The thrush lamp in the sconce was lit, but no one was in sight.
He moved quickly down the corridor, sword in hand. As he passed the kitchen, he heard muffled sounds. Somehow he knew Edmund would not lock Catherine in the kitchen with the servants.
“Get the door open,” he whispered to the man behind him. “But tell them to stay put and keep quiet until we come back for them.”
He heard men’s voices in the hall above as he took the stairs two at a time. He hit the room at a run, his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. The drunken fools were falling over each other trying to get to their weapons. His men would make short work of these. He had no time to stop and help.
Catherine was not here. And neither was Edmund.
He ran for the stairs. He sliced through one man who tried to stop him and tossed another over his shoulder without breaking his stride.
Once, when they were children, Harry showed her where to slide a blade into a man to reach his heart. She hesitated, trying to remember. Perhaps it was enough to injure him.
Suddenly, Edmund was pulling feverishly at her tunic. She could wait no longer. Swinging her arm down with all her strength, she sank the sharp blade deep into his shoulder. Somehow she managed to wrench it free before he flung his arms out and arched back, howling in pain.
Seeing the murderous rage distorting his face, she knew she had made a grave mistake. She should have killed him.
He rose up on his knees and reached his arm across his chest to feel the stab wound in his shoulder. When he brought his hand back, it was covered with blood. He stared at his bloody hand and then at her with bulging eyes. Then he drew his arm back and slapped her so hard she saw stars.