Today I have as my guest Oberon Wonch and an excerpt from A Knight of her Own. I was so excited about this excerpt, I had to purchase this book right away. Hope you will enjoy it too. Happy reading!
Did this chaste, monkish knight seek a woman’s esteem, after all? Would he like to hear such sentiments from her?
But flattery was mindless drivel. The dishonesty of it diminished the woman who stooped to its use.
LaForce upended the barrel over that discussion. “We aren’t here to speak of what I wish. De Belleterre is our quarry, not I.”
His fingertips, buried in her hair, resumed caressing the side of her head. His thumb traced the rim of her ear, sparking little pinpoints of flame all over her body.
“For the duration of our lessons, I am de Belleterre,” he said. “You are the Blue Lady, the sensuous woman he desires in his bed.”
Slowly, LaForce wrapped a strand of her hair behind her ear. She’d begun to feel strangely languid and soft inside.
All at once, she realized she was staring at his lips, at their manly shape, their intriguing duskiness. The desires he’d spoken of with those hypnotic lips had sounded so exotic.
“Good,” he muttered. “He will like you doing that.”
She looked back into his eyes. “Doing what?”
“Ah, and now you play the innocent. He will like that, as well.”
She shook her head. What was he talking about?
LaForce’s hand still held hers by his thigh. He moved to interlock his fingers with hers—as she imagined a lover might. His fingers were almost too big for hers to fit comfortably between. They were rough in places, and very strong.
“What do you know of kissing a man?” he asked.
This shocking query would have normally brought her to rigid attention. But uncertainty—and embarrassment over her lack of experience in that realm—made her defensive.
“I know enough.”
His other hand at the side of her neck had such a drugging effect on her she wanted to crumple to the floor, not to argue with him.
“Nay. A lady would reply—”
A flash of annoyance brought her to her senses. “In a sweet and kind way?”
He shook his head. “The sort of lady de Belleterre wants would feign ignorance, even if she knew precisely whereof he spoke. Thus, you would answer, ‘Why, my liege, I cannot divine your meaning.’”
“Why ever would a woman pretend not to know these things? A woman should always show her knowledge and her strength.” That’s what she’d learned years ago, to defend herself and her siblings from want and aggression.
His fingers squeezed hers gently. “Nay. She should wish to give him the opportunity to show her what he means.”
Isabel swallowed, her pulse speeding. “Show her…about kissing?”
Oh Lord. She moistened her suddenly dry lips, her breath quickening. “H-How would he show her?” The question slipped out of its own accord. She instantly wanted to take the words back.
But he answered gruffly, “Like this.”
And suddenly she was surrounded by him, encircled by his great, powerful arms. He was all muscle and heat and soft, thick wool…and that exotic fragrance she recognized but couldn’t remember from where.
Her heart thumped madly.
He placed a knuckle beneath her chin, raising her face. And lowered his head.
His lips touched hers, and she stiffened instinctively in panic.
And much too intimate!
But almost before it began, it was over. He bussed her lightly and drew back, as if testing the waters. As if LaForce needed to see for himself how kissing her would feel. And not in his role as her tutor.
But that thought was preposterous. This was just a lesson to him, and she the ignorant pupil. Nothing more.
Through the darkness, his eyes glinted down at her like stars in a black velvet sky. What was he thinking? His big body cocooned her, blocking the light from the torches and braziers in the hall, and she couldn’t make out his expression.
For a long moment she remained clamped along the length of his oaken thighs and solid torso, feeling the strong beat of his heart and the prod of the large belt buckle at his navel.
Then it happened—like the pull of a lodestone. An unexpected sense of surrender that washed over her and stole her willpower, in the same way the rushing burn had swept Phoebe from her.
Except this driving tide felt searing hot rather than ice cold. She leaned into the hard wall of him, her palms flat against his chest, as he lowered his head once more. Their mouths joined, each unerringly seeking the other.
Then he was ravaging her, dragging her closer, drinking from her as if he were a parched man gulping from an unexpected spring in the desert. The rich flavors of dark wine greeted her. His whiskers chafed. His lips devoured.
She was kissing him, and he was kissing her back. No man save her father had ever so much as touched her in a tender way, and yet this man, whose folk relentlessly persecuted her own, was kissing her as if his life depended on it. As if he wanted her kiss.
As if he wanted her.
And that was a feeling that nearly drugged her like the finest wine.
But nay. This was all wrong.
With a small sound of regret, she broke her mouth from his. He held her fast in his arms, his large hands spread low on her back, his lips trailing over her cheekbone, over her eyelids, and into the hair above her ear. His breath scalded her, made her knees weaken anew.
“Nay,” she whispered into his neck. “Please.”
He stilled, laid his rough cheek alongside her temple. His breath rasped in her ear and his heart pounded within his chest against her own.
A Knight of Her Own, Book 2 in the Rogues of Rouen series…
Is he her enemy or her hero?
Sir Drogo LaForce has spent a lifetime chasing the family honor and wealth denied him by his bastard birth. A clever scheme to uncloak a traitor against the Crown finally promises to win him everything he desires…
Lady Isabel has been in hiding ever since an evil Norman lord killed her father and usurped her English lands. But her plot to avenge her father and free her people is threatened when a mysterious Norman knight abducts her with plans to use her for espionage.
Drogo’s fascinating captive is nothing like he anticipated. Outspoken but innocent, Isabel reluctantly submits to Drogo’s tutoring in the spymaster’s craft, as well as the art of making love. But their potent attraction nearly leads to disaster. In the end they must decide between their dueling appetites for riches and revenge…or love.
Oberon Wonch has escaped into books for as long as she can remember. Penning her own stories from an early age, she later earned a degree in World Literature while studying several languages—all in order to learn what makes a tale endure the ages, but really just to read more books. Her very favorite stories—both to read and write—are those that celebrate the happily-ever-after. An avid gardener and armchair archaeologist, she grew up in northeast Ohio but now lives in Indiana with her college sweetheart husband and two very joyful little dogs.