Forbidden Night With The Prince. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
moved to cover his, as if she wanted to pull away. And yet, she didn’t. The touch of her fingers upon his was spellbinding, and he locked his gaze with hers.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He let his hand drift downward to her shoulder before he held her waist in both hands. For a moment, he kept her captive, simply watching. For a woman who did not want to marry, she made no effort to escape him. Instead, she waited for him to answer her question.
‘Even if there were no curse, we could not wed. We are not suited.’ He knew it down to his bones. Joan de Laurent was a good woman, the sort who deserved a decent man. Not one who had caused a tragedy for his family.
‘I agree that we are very different,’ she said quietly. ‘You are an Irish prince, and I am the daughter of a Norman earl. We have nothing at all in common.’
His hands moved up her spine, and he felt like a bastard, wanting to push back the boundaries between them. But she was a forbidden craving he wanted to taste.
‘It’s more than that, Joan. Trust me when I say you would never want a man like me.’ He drew his hands down again in a soft caress, resting them upon her hips.
She closed her eyes as if his touch had burned through her. From the colour in her cheeks, he knew the effect he was having on her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.
‘W-why would you say such a thing?’ she stammered. ‘Have you done something terrible?’
He had. Something so terrible, he dared tell no one at all. And if he didn’t gather his self-control, he was about to trespass upon this innocent woman’s virtue.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Since we will never wed.’ He released her from his grasp, expecting her to pull away from him. But she kept her hands upon his chest, above his beating heart. He wore no armour, but the simple heat of her palms burned through the leather tunic, arousing him deeply. He remembered how it had felt when her slick hands had soaped his wet skin, and desire had taken hold of his senses.
‘I don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are,’ she murmured.
It was almost a challenge, and one he was prepared to face. He reached back to her waist and pulled her closer.
‘You’re right, a stór. I’m far worse.’
And with that, he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed a kiss.
* * *
The heat of his mouth was scalding, a demand—not a request. Joan tasted his longing, and when he held her closer, her hips pressed to his. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal, and to her shock, she responded to him, growing weak with need. Never in her life had she been kissed like this, though her first two betrothed husbands had kissed her. Her breasts tightened, and she could not catch a single breath as Ronan claimed her.
His tongue slid within her mouth in a silent temptation, and she could do nothing except surrender. What startled her the most was her own racing heart. She wanted this man, yearned for his touch. He attracted her in all the wrong ways until she hardly cared at all. His hands threaded through her hair, tangling the strands as he kissed her hard. She opened to him, yielding to the onslaught until she could scarcely catch her breath.
You cannot have him, her mind warned. He was forbidden to her, and she should not give in to these longings. Else he would die.
But she was kissing him back, meeting him with the answer of her own veiled desires. For so many years, she had been promised to strangers with her father’s seal upon the betrothal—just before those men had lost their lives. The sweet stolen kisses had stopped when she’d lost each one. And she’d never realised how much she needed a man’s touch until now. It was as if someone had ripped apart her inhibitions, exposing her deepest desires. She faltered at the thought of Ronan claiming her body, giving her a child.
But the thought of seeing his sightless eyes staring back at her brought a tremor of heartache.
No, she could not take the risk of his death. Not even for one forbidden night.
Joan pulled back from him with reluctance, knowing that she could not surrender to her desires. At least, not unless the curse could be broken—if that was even possible.
‘I won’t apologise,’ he said gruffly. ‘I wanted to kiss you.’
‘I don’t need an apology,’ she murmured. Her heart was racing, her skin tightening with unspoken need. Between her legs, she ached, and it was a struggle to calm herself. ‘But we both know it was a mistake.’ They would never marry, and she could not risk falling into temptation.
His eyes locked upon hers as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You kissed me back.’ There was a pointed question in his statement, but she had no idea how to answer it.
Instead, she blurted out, ‘It would have been bad manners not to.’
At that, he threw back his head and laughed. His green eyes warmed with humour, and he rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘So it would.’ And though she knew it had been unwise, she did not regret kissing him.
Ronan guided her back towards the castle, and for a time, she held her silence. She knew better than to imagine that this man wanted her for anything other than her brothers’ soldiers. He wanted to take back his fortress, nothing more.
The prince slowed his pace and studied her. ‘You surprised me, Lady Joan. And it makes me consider another possibility. Would you consider a betrothal with me, even if we did not marry? Your brothers would grant me the men I need, and I would grant you whatever you desire.’
‘I—I don’t know.’ She had never considered the possibility, but the very thought of wedding a man like Ronan made her blush. One kiss had turned her knees to water, and her heartbeat was still racing.
‘Surely there is a way we could help each other.’
She steeled herself and stopped walking. Did she dare to tell him the truth of what she wanted most? Likely not, for she hardly knew this man. It shamed her to admit that she wanted a child so badly, she was willing to consider bearing one out of wedlock.
He had suggested a betrothal without an actual marriage. It made her wonder if that was a way around the curse. Ronan seemed to be a kind man, and there was no doubt she felt an attraction to him.
Would it be so wrong to surrender her virtue to this prince and take him into her bed? Or was the risk too great? In the eyes of the church, a formal betrothal was nearly the same as a marriage. She would not be the first woman to lie with her intended husband before the vows were spoken.
Her brothers might kill him, even if the curse did not. But she could not deny that Ronan had awakened sensual longings within her.
Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she decided to tell him the truth. ‘You asked me what I wanted.’
‘Yes. Name it, and if it is in my power to give, this I will do.’ He turned to regard her. His green eyes gazed upon her with interest, and she felt her blush rising again.
‘The truth is, I want a child of my own.’
For a long moment, he stared at her in disbelief. She could not read the emotions on his face, but it seemed as if she had struck a nerve. It made her wish she hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all, despite the kiss they had shared. Perhaps he found her lacking, a woman to be pitied. Her stomach twisted with humiliation, but at last he spoke.
‘A child is something I cannot give you. Not ever.’
The finality in his voice startled her, for although she had expected a refusal, she had not anticipated the cold anger in his voice. She didn’t ask him why, for it was clear that he did not want to speak of it.
So be it. There would be no betrothal between them, and they would go their separate ways. It should have been a relief—and yet, she felt a sense of regret. Ronan Ó Callaghan was the first man