My Beloved by Karen Ranney

even Saladin.”
    â€œI’ve no knowledge of most of those names. Will you tell me about them? All and everything?” She looked down at the floor again. “If we did talk together, that is.”
    Why was she so timid? What had changed the daring child into the shy woman? A question he should not have asked himself, because it softened his intent, banished his reserve, made him curious in a way that was unwise.
    â€œI will consider it, Juliana,” he said, the words pried from him by conscience. In truth, it would be wiser if he did not. He left the room, wondering if her gaze followed him.

Chapter 7
    H e dreamed of her that night.
    The vision and the truth were so tangled in his mind that he could not easily discern what was real and what was only his secret wish. But she visited him in the moments before dawn, a woman of intent and gentleness. He did not, even in his sleep, think to send her away.
    She sat on the edge of his bed, her hand cool against his brow. Such a delicate hand, her fingers long and tipped with softly rounded nails. There were ink stains upon her fingers, and she looked away when he commented upon it, smiling. He reached up and allowed his hand to cup her cheek, turn her head back so that her gaze met his. Even in the darkness, he could see the soft flush that enveloped her cheeks, the faint smile tipping her lips.
    â€œDo not be embarrassed. Will you begrudge me my scars?”
    She shook her head, then reached over to place her hand upon his chest as if she claimed him as a prize. A possessive gesture, one that he acceded to when he placed his own hand upon hers, pressing down on his skin as if to emblazon her touch, her mark, on him.
    In the way of dreams, he could wish and it was made true. Her kiss was that of a woman who yearned to learn her mate, yet had the touch of an innocent still. Her tongue traced the line of his lips, her mouth opened to invite his gentle assault. Her soft murmur enchanted him, led him into the darkness of her kiss. A heady potion, her joy and innocence. An even more addictive brew, her skill and gentle teasing.
    The night made her a delicate sketch of charcoal on white, snow and shadow, only faintly graced with a pale rose of cheek and nipples and lips. Even her eyes were dark, shining with emotion.
    She knelt beside him, and pushed the sheet off his body. Her fingers traced his battle scars in gentle remonstrance and tender anointing.
    The light that surrounded her seemed crafted of a moonbeam. A gentle hue, it seemed designed for Juliana. His night sprite. She bent and kissed his chest, and he shuddered, his flesh never before so sweetly caressed.
    She drew her hand down his legs, lingered upon his knees. Then, suddenly she was kneeling between his outstretched legs, her hands running from knee to thigh in a teasing, delicious taunt. For nearly two years he’d felt such hunger to be touched, as if his very skin starved for it. She seemed to know it, pressing her palms up in long strokes, trailing the backs of her hands down as if to acquaint herself with every ridge, every indentation, every muscle of his body. Both of her hands pressed down upon his stomach, then fingers played as they danced lower. He arched upward, yearning for the tender stroke of her fingers in a way he could never articulate.
    â€œSebastian.” Her mouth uttered his name. He wished she would say it over and over, she mouthedit so beautifully. She made of his name something heroic, a pledge of honor. His dream request was granted and she bent closer to him, the ebony waterfall of her hair brushing over his face in a touch as soft as a spider’s web, his name on her lips invoking passion.
    He was adrift in the cloud of her, sweetly pained and nearly sobbing with gladness. She inhaled his breath and gave him back hers in exchange. Her own sigh echoed his, yet she was him and he was her in that way of dreams.
    She was white moon and dark shadow, a creature of the