Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page B

madness. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “It has been far too many years since I had a chance to practice.”
    “A pity. Margaret, Mary, and I had discussed having dancing tomorrow after supper. If my lord approves.”
    “I’m sure he can manage a dance or two,” said the earl, still unaware of what was really going on, thank the gods. “We will discuss it on the morrow. Just now, it is time for the women to retire.”
    “But it is early yet,” Eleanor began. Her father glowered at her, and she quickly clamped her lips together. “Yes, my lord.”
    Gunnar stood and offered his hand to help her rise, relishing the excuse to touch her at last, to get a good look at her, to discover whether those eyes of hers held innocence or . . . no, mischief. Definitely mischief. Had her color been that high all evening? He held back a grin and gave her a bow. “My thanks for your aid tonight, my lady. God’s rest.”
    “You were a most excellent student, monsire .” Eleanor did her courtesy to Gunnar, to the other guests, and finally, to her father. “God’s rest to you all, my lords.”
    Westmorland waved her off impatiently. He sat back until she and the other women left, then leaned forward, his expression avid. “Go on, Lumley, it is your play, and I wager you tuppence you cannot complete that suit.”
     
    THE WIND WAS rising.
    Eleanor lay in bed beside Lucy, listening to the rattle of the shutters against the window frame alternate with her cousin’s snores. Noisy as they were, wind and snores had little to do with the wakefulness that had dogged her all night; that she blamed on the remembered pressure of Gunnar’s muscled arm against her breasts.
    It wasn’t his fault, by any measure. To his credit, he’d said or done nothing her father could take badly, remained so stolid, so impassive, in fact, that for a time she hadn’t been certain he even noticed what she was doing. But then she’d watched him wiping his palms on his thighs to dry them, caught a sideways glance that he couldn’t quite control, and known she was winning.
    He wanted her.
    And why not? She was young and fair—some even said comely—and she knew what she was doing, thanks to too many years spent watching ladies and knights play the games of love while she waited for Richard. She’d set out to make Gunnar desire her, and she had succeeded.
    “Gunnar.” She pronounced his name soundlessly into the night, testing its strangeness on her tongue for the thousandth time.
    Sir Gunnar wanted her.
    And she wanted him. She hadn’t allowed for that, that in seducing him, she would seduce herself. Brushing against him had had far more effect on her than she would have guessed, the pleasure spreading like fire from breast to belly, growing hotter until she could think of little else.
    She wanted Gunnar.
    She wanted him with an urgency that kept her whole body trembling, making it impossible to sleep. If she could get up and do something—sew, read, anything—she might be able to distract herself, but what could she do in the middle of the night? Perhaps if she could just see him, she could . . .
    No, that was foolish. But the notion wouldn’t leave her be. It sat in her belly like common hunger, demanding satisfaction. A taste. A moment. She lay there wrestling the craving as long as she could bear it, then carefully crawled out of bed. Lucy mumbled and rolled over, and Eleanor froze, one foot on the floor, and waited until her cousin’s soft snores started up again before she continued. Moving as silently as an owl, she found her slippers and a robe to pull around her shoulders, then took a stub of candle from the basket, lit it from the night lamp, and eased out the barely opened door.
    Her tiny flame lit only the circle around her, leaving the far end of passageway in blackness. She hesitated, certain that what she was doing was not right, but hoping that if she saw him just for a moment, she’d be able to sleep. Careful that she