When the innkeeper brought her to the room, only a dim rushlight shone within. Thinking it must be a headache, she dismissed the innkeeper in a whisper and entered, closing the door quietly. He must have been waiting in the dark, for barely had she closed the door when he was there, pressing her against the rough boards. Her preoccupied worry was gone in an instant, forgotten in the heat of him. It inflamed her, his greedy mouth and reckless hands that pulled up her gown even as she stood there against the door. He could not wait and she did not want to.

She clutched at his shoulders for balance as he buried his face in her neck and thrust into her, hard, again and again until she was gasping, desperate. Then, when she was mindless with want, mad with need, he stopped his movement and whispered to her: “Say my name.”

She gulped air. Her body strained toward his to pull him deeper, but his full length was already buried inside her, his fingers pressing hard into her hips and buttocks as he held himself still. Her head dropped back on the door as she took in air and tried to make sense of what he said.

She could just see his face in the dimness. His eyes met hers, holding her there with an intensity that broke through the haze of lust and commanded her attention. His fingers spread across her cheek, thumb caressing her lower lip. “Say it.”

With her eyes locked on his, she breathed his breath. By Christ, the way he looked at her – as though there was nothing outside of this suspended moment, nothing but her and what she would say.

Her lips began to form around the word Morency. But no. That was not what he wanted. He pressed himself harder against her, closed his eyes briefly. “Gwenllian.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “Please.” His eyes met hers again, with the same desperate plea she remembered from long ago, when he had asked her for mercy.

It was easy then. Ranulf, she said. Her mouth tasted his. Ranulf. He moved inside her. Ranulf, please. And, Don’t stop, Ranulf, please, more, more, more.

He did not stop. He gave her more and more, his name on her lips, until they both cried out.

They found the bed and fell into an exhausted sleep. She woke with his head lying on her breast, the first sunlight illuminating the angles of his achingly handsome face. Black lashes against white skin, the pulse in his throat just visible.

In the dawn of the fourth day, she watched him as he slept and felt her heart fill. It was a dangerous wonder, a terrible tender thing, to wake up in Ranulf of Morency’s arms.