When she began to move faster, he accommodated her, thrusting harder and faster, deeper and deeper until Alyx began to claw his back, bite at his neck, her whole body beginning to twist and turn, seeming to fight him and at the same time beg something of him.
With one twist, Raine slammed her on her back and lowered his magnificent, delicious, glorious weight on top of her, pressing her into the cot so hard she threatened to fall through and she clutched at him with her legs, locking her ankles, pushing her hips up to him as he came down for two penetrating, blindingly hard thrusts—and Alyx died.
White hot, intoxicating music exploded throughout her, blasted apart her skin, separating all the pieces of her as her body trembled and quaked, shivered until her strength turned to jelly.
Sticky, horribly weak, unsure of what her body had just done and she had done to it, she clung to Raine, let
ting herself feel all of his hot skin, his breath, uneven, in her ear. Moving one arm, and feeling as if she’d just rolled down a steep hill covered with stones, Alyx touched the damp hair along his neck. In a quick, fierce movement, Raine grabbed her hand as he rolled to his side, pulling her with him and clutched her hand in his, so tight he threatened to break her fingers.
“Mine,” he whispered, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing two fingers before sleep overtook him.
For several minutes Alyx dozed, half in sleep, half out. Her body was exhausted, yet somehow she was more alive than she’d ever been. She felt no shame for mating with a man who was not her husband, and perhaps she should, but at this moment there was nothing in life she needed other than this dear man’s leg across her, this wet stickiness holding more than their bodies together.
“I love you,” she whispered to the man sleeping in her arms. “I know you can never be mine, but for this moment you are. I love you,” she said again as she kissed one damp curl and fell asleep again, more happy than she’d ever been in her life.
Chapter Eight
ALYX AWOKE TO a tent bright with early morning light, and Raine’s skin touching hers was hotter than the night before. Asleep, he moved restlessly, rolling about, ignoring Alyx’s presence as he rolled across her, threatening to break her bones. Pushing with all her might, she managed to get him off her and quickly began to don her clothes, which were wet in places, dry in others since they’d lain crumpled in a heap all night. She dearly wished she could put on a dress and give up the pretense of being a boy. Men’s clothes and men’s ways gave one a great deal of freedom, but if she were a boy she’d have missed a night such as she had had last night.
She had barely fastened her doublet when the tent flap opened and Jocelin, Rosamund behind him, entered.
“How is he?” Joss asked, watching Alyx intently.
Before she could answer, Rosamund interrupted them. “He has a fever and we must bring it down. Fetch some cold water while I get my herbs.”
Immediately, Alyx grabbed the buckets and went to the river.
The next three days were torture for Alyx. She and Rosamund worked continuously to bring Raine’s fever down. His big body was plastered with poultices and the women had to force noxious concoctions down his throat. This forcing was always accompanied by terrible commands from Alyx in which she called Raine everything from a worthless beggar to an overgrown strutting peacock, making Rosamund giggle and, at times, blush. Alyx sang to him constantly, played the lute often, anything to soothe him, to keep him from thrashing about so.
And while Raine was raging with fever, Jocelin tried to keep command of the outlaw camp, enforcing the daily training Raine had begun, trying to keep the cutthroats from murdering each other.
“I don’t believe they’re worth it,” Joss said, sitting on the floor at the foot of Raine’s cot. “Why does he,” motioning to the sleeping man to his left, “feel he has to take on their problems?” He accepted a bowl of stew from Rosamund.
“Raine adopts everyone,” Rosamund said quietly, her head lowered, as it always was. “He truly believes we are worth saving.”
“We?” Alyx questioned as she looked up from Raine. She never left his side, slept sitting on a stool, her head propped on the edge of his cot. “I do not consider myself the same as a murderer.”
“And you, Rose?” Jocelin asked. “What crime have you committed?”
Rosamund did not answer, but when Joss turned his head she looked up at him in such a way that Alyx gasped aloud, quickly covering the sound with a little cough. Rosamund was in love with Jocelin. As Alyx looked from one to the other, each with their extraordinary beauty, she saw how suited they were for each other. She knew why Rosamund was in this horrid camp, because people believed she was marked with the devil, but why was Joss here?
Early the next morning, Raine’s fever broke. Alyx was sleeping, her head next to his bare arm when she sensed he was different. Looking up at him, she saw his eyes were open, looking about the tent and finally resting on her face.
Immediately, Alyx’s heart began to pound and her betraying skin began to blush. How would he react to their having made love?
After a moment he turned away from her, his eyes telling her nothing. “How long have I been ill?”
“Three days,” she answered, her voice catching in her throat.
“And you have held order in the camp? Or have they murdered each other?”
“They . . . they are well. Jocelin has held a sword over their heads and has kept the peace.” When he didn’t reply, she drew in her breath. Now he would speak of them, their passion.
Instead, he struggled to sit up, and when Alyx started to help him, he pushed her away as if she were of no consequence. Tossing the wool blanket aside, he tore the bandages off his thigh and impersonally inspected the wound on his leg, pushed at it.
“It’s healing,” she ventured. “Rosamund said the wound was not bad, only the fever. We feared for your life.”
Turning to her, he gave her a cold, hard look, and she could almost swear there was anger in his eyes. “Fetch me some food and a lot of it. I need to regain my strength.”