This Is All I Ask

by Lynn Kurland

  He heard her coming toward him, then felt polished wood be laid in his hands.

  His lute.

  He frowned. “What’s this?”

  “You need an afternoon of leisure, my lord. I thought this would please you.”

  “I see,” he said, feeling unreasonably disappointed. “I thought you had something else in mind.”

  Her delighted laugh made him color. He scowled at her, but only received a fleeting kiss in return.

  “You don’t think I mean to hold you in your chamber all afternoon merely to sing for me, do you?”

  “How should I know?” he grumbled.

  She only laughed again. Christopher heard her settle into the chair opposite him. He could think of several things he would have rather been doing than tuning a bloody lute, but once his fingers touched the strings, he found he couldn’t help himself.

  And once the tuning of it suited his ears, there was no sense in not dredging up a ballad or two to sing.

  And so he sang. And he listened to his wife laugh and weep and clap for him. By the time his fingers were too used to continue, he realized what a wonderful gift his lady had given him.

  “I haven’t played in years,” he said, as she took the lute from his hands.

  “I know, my lord,” she said softly.

  Christopher turned his face to the fire. “I suppose it was tolerable enough to listen to.”

  His hands were soon full of wife. She settled herself comfortably onto his lap and then put her arms around him.

  “I could listen for days,” she said, kissing him softly. “’Twas a very great gift you gave me this afternoon.”

  If she only knew! He wanted to tell her how much it had pleased him, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. So he gathered her close and held her tightly, and said nothing.

  “Your fingers must be sore,” she remarked.

  “A bit.”

  “I’ll see that you don’t abuse them further today,” she said.

  A jolt went through him as he realized what she was about. And he couldn’t help but smile.

  “The idea pleases you?” she asked.

  “Well enough.”

  “Then put your arms around me, Chris,” she murmured.

  He did as she bid, undone more by her use of his shortened name than her request. When he would have kissed her, she pulled away and shook her head. He had no choice but to allow her full control. Her invasion of his mouth was shy at first, then more bold, likely because she felt him begin to tremble.

  The longer she kissed him, the warmer he became until he knew he would die if he didn’t take some of his clothes off. He was sweating when Gillian rose from his lap suddenly and pulled him to his feet. He opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, then felt her hands fumbling with his belt. He suppressed a groan.

  Her hands stilled.

  “My lord?”

  “Aye,” he rasped.

  “You’re frowning.”

  “Nay, Gill, this is a look of desperation.”

  “Then I haven’t displeased you.” It was more of a statement. Christopher lifted his hand and touched her lips. He found the beginnings of a smile there.

  “Nay, love. But you could likely tell that for yourself.”

  Her hand traveled down, then stopped. Her fingers investigated a bit more and Christopher shivered.

  “I see,” she said.

  He could only smile miserably in response. Then his belt fell to the floor and Gillian pulled his tunic over his head. He snatched it away and mopped his brow before he let her have it.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “A bit. I could be even cooler, though.” He smiled hopefully.

  She laughed. “Aye, no doubt. Sit, and I’ll take off your boots.”

  “Nay,” he said, stopping her. He pulled his boots off himself, then froze when his wife began to remove his hose. He tensed as she slid them down his legs, then put his hand on her shoulder for balance as he stepped from them. “Now you,” he said reaching for her.

  She pushed his hand away. “In my own good time, my lord. Now that you are cooler, sit you down again. Perhaps a bit of wine will refresh you.”

  What would have refreshed him was carrying his lady to the bed and losing himself in her. But, ’twas her day to have him at her mercy so it seemed. He sat down obediently and resigned himself to being slave to Gillian’s whims.

  It was a very cheerful resignation indeed.

  He accepted his wine and his wife’s slender form on his lap with a smile. The wine was cold this time and he appreciated the gesture. He drank, then offered her a sip. While she was drinking, he thought to sneak a touch or two and immediately found himself thwarted.

  “Drink your wine, Christopher. Your hands are most disobedient and I’ll not stand for it.”

  Christopher drank meekly, then handed her the cup when he was finished. He clasped the arms of the chair and smiled weakly.

  “I’m at your mercy.”

  “Aye, you are. There was never any doubt about it.”

  He grinned at her arrogance, then caught his breath when her cool hands slid up his chest, past his neck and into his hair. Then he groaned when Gillian kissed him. She kissed him until he was certain that, had he been able to see, he would have been seeing two or three of her. And sitting in a chair was certainly frustrating when what he wanted was to feel her pressed against the length of him.

  As if she’d read his mind, she rose. He followed her up so closely, he bumped his nose against her shoulder. Her only response was a soft laugh. Christopher felt himself redden, but devil take her, what did she expect? He was eager, as eager as he’d ever been as a randy young squire, and his lady was completely to blame for it. He allowed her to lead him to the bed, then found himself sitting down. Gillian stood between his thighs and brushed her hand over his shoulder.

  “I must remove my gown, I think,” she said, as if she truly puzzled over her next move. “Sit here quietly, Christopher, while I see to it. It may take me a bit of time.”

  Not if he had anything to do with it. It took him only a few heartbeats to rid her of her clothes, haul her back with him on the bed and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

  “Christopher . . .”

  He tugged on her long hair. “I am at your mercy. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Aye, it was,” she admitted.

  “Then take me,” he said, putting his hand behind her head and pulling her head down to his. “Take me and love me however you wish. Slow, fast, it matters not to me. I’m yours to do with what you will.”

  The idea obviously pleased her. Christopher tried not to groan as she discovered just exactly what pleased him.

  “Chris?” she said, a few minutes later.

  “Aye, my love,” he rasped.

  “You’re at my mercy, you know.”

  “Don’t I know it—” he gasped.

  He suddenly and quite completely lost track of what he’d been meaning to say. All he could do was hang on and pray he wouldn’t die before both of them found release. He clamped down on his own passions with an iron control until Gillian caught her breath. He instantly obeyed her hoarse plea for him to hold her.

  And once she could breathe again, she propped her chin on her fists and yawned.

  “I’m finished and ready for a nap. What of you, my lord?”

  “Gillian!”

  She laughed and leaned down to kiss him. “And here I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep already. Forgive me.”

  “You are a heart . . . heartless—” he gasped and couldn’t finish.

  Having her love him wasn’t what made him groan deep in his throat. It was what she was whispering in his ear.

  Never had a woman told him what pleasure she gained from pleasing him. Servants had never been much for lavishing praise and noblewomen were too concerned with his purse, not his person, to tell him aught. Not even Lina had spared him much thought.

  But Gillian, me
rciful saints, Gillian! The feel of him lying beneath her, naught but iron-thewed muscle pleased her. His harsh breath against her neck pleased her. His callused hands made her tremble. But that wasn’t what pleased her the most. It was feeling the quickening of his body, when he lost control that pleased her the most. When he lost control . . .

  When he came to himself, she was stroking his cheek with her fingers. Christopher blushed to think he’d been so undone. Hopefully he hadn’t done anything to embarrass himself.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “You cannot see me,” he bluffed.

  “The bedcurtains are open. And now you’re blushing harder.” She laughed softly. “’Tis very sweet, my lord.”

  Christopher forced her head down to his shoulder and wrapped his arm around her, keeping her immobile.

  “I’ll not be mocked this way,” he said, mortified.

  He felt her smile against his neck and released her reluctantly when she pushed up. Her lips were soft against his.

  “Tell me I pleased you,” she whispered.

  “If words are required after that,” he said dryly, “then I’ll give them to you. You pleased me well enough.”

  “Well enough?”

  “All right, you bloody well killed me. Does that satisfy you?”

  She only laughed and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. “Christopher,” she chided.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Gill . . .” he paused helplessly. “I’ve never felt the like before. And ’twas not only my body you pleased.” He traced her lips with his fingers. “’Twas my soul.”

  “I love you. Do you know that now?”

  “Had I any doubts from before, I would have them no longer.” He snuggled her close and closed his eyes. “Gillian?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Nay, ’twas mine.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’ve a beautiful, passionate, courageous wife who loves me and I couldn’t be happier.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “Gillian of Blackmour, I—I love you.” He felt a suspicious moisture gather in his eyes. “Aye,” he repeated softly, to himself. “I love you deeply.” He ran his hands over her back. “Are you uncomfortable? Do you wish to move?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  He could have sworn he felt hot tears against his neck. They matched his own.

  “Will you stay with me?” he murmured.

  “Forever, my lord.”

  He pulled a blanket up to cover them both, then laid his head back and closed his eyes. Gillian wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat. Christopher had the feeling she had no intentions of letting him go any time soon.

  Nothing could have made him happier.

  twenty-four

  GILLIAN SPRINKLED THE VERY LAST OF THE BEAUTY AND courage into her goblet of wine. She swirled the rich liquid about for a moment and said her accustomed words of blessing over it.

  “I am beautiful,” she murmured. “I am courageous. My husband loves me.” Her heart caught in her throat at that. She knew Christopher loved her. He told her he did. And now she had the beauty and courage to hold him.

  Or so she prayed.

  It was only in the back of her mind that she worried. She was her father’s daughter. Would his blood rise to the fore? Destroy the faint hints of comeliness she’d managed to acquire? Turn her into a cowering, pitiful waif of a girl again?

  She lifted the goblet and drank. She drank fully, ignoring her need for air, ignoring everything except draining the cup of beauty and bravery. Then she set the goblet down and held it with both hands.

  “I’m beautiful,” she whispered. “And I will hold him. I will not lose him to Magdalina’s ghost or my sire.”

  That said, she felt a smile creep over her features. After all, she had bested Cook. Not even Christopher dared cross the man. Aye, she had bested both the Dragon and his cook and that was a feat worthy of any minstrel’s song.

  She walked over to the alcove and threw open the shutters. Glass didn’t enclose the windows here for it would have been futile. The first good storm would have destroyed the panes instantly. Gillian fingered the warped, sea-worn wood of the shutters and smiled. Only rock survived long here at Blackmour. Wood was far too puny and cowardly a substance to endure the elements. Gillian wanted to believe she was made of the sterner substance. Christopher certainly was.

  She stared down the cliff that made up Blackmour’s foundations and watched the sea beat against the shore. The sight never ceased to fascinate her. She loved the white spray, the churning waves, the tang of the salt air and the mist against her face. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw just a hint of rocky shoreline. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to walk along that shore. Was the ocean cold or warm? What did the water taste like? Christopher told her it was salty and not fit to drink, but she couldn’t imagine that. Water was water.

  “Gillian? Where are you?”

  She turned and smiled. “Here, my lord. By the window.”

  She watched Christopher walk toward her and marveled anew that this man was hers. How powerful he was, tall and strong. Aye, and lordly too. His arrogance showed in every line of his body, in his walk, in the way he held his head high. She very much suspected there was none to equal him.

  He walked into her arms and gathered her to him.

  “What are you doing holed up in our bedchamber?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

  “Watching the sea,” she said, with a contented sigh.

  “Don’t lean out the window. You’re liable to fall and then where would I be?”

  “I’m not sure. Where would you be, my lord?”

  “Bereft,” he whispered, tightening his arms around her. He rested his cheek against her hair and fell silent.

  “Christopher?”

  “Aye, love.”

  “Is the sea warm or cold?”

  He stiffened, then pulled back. “You’ve never felt it?” There was disbelief in his voice. “Merciful saints, Gill, but you’ve led a sheltered life.” He smiled down at her and tucked an unruly curl behind her ear. “Would you care to feel it for yourself?”

  She took Christopher’s hands and put them to her face so he could tell for himself just how much the idea pleased her. He laughed softly then slipped his finger under her chin and gently closed her mouth.

  “Answer enough, sweet one. Find a warm gown and I’ll help you change. Even though ’tis summer, the shore will be chilly. And wear your sturdy boots that you don’t hurt your feet on the rocks. I daresay you’ll want to crawl down from my mount and play, won’t you?”

  “Oh, aye,” she threw over her shoulder as she ran for her trunk.

  She pulled forth a heavy woolen gown and impatiently tried to pull the one she was wearing over her head. Strong hands aided her in her task, then stilled when they brushed over her bare shoulders. Gillian pushed Christopher’s lingering hands away and shoved her gown at him.

  “Help me.”

  “Ah, but I planned to.”

  “Have you but one thing on your mind?” she asked, exasperated, trying to avoid his hands.

  Christopher only laughed. “And this from the woman who would not let me from my bed this morn until well after sunrise?”

  “I couldn’t stop myself,” she said, blushing hotly.

  “Stop yourself from ravishing me?” Christopher grinned. “Perhaps it would be wise to forgo the journey to the shore and retire to bed. You look exhausted.”

  “I look nothing of the sort,” she said, snatching her gown away. She donned it herself, finding that all she could do was laugh at Christopher’s attempts to thwart her.

  “A nap when we return,” he insisted.

  “If it pleases you.”

  He started to respond, but she quickly put her hand over his mouth.

  “Cease,” she said with a half laugh. “I know what you were about to say, you l
echerous old dragon.”

  He caught her hand and pressed a soft kiss in the middle of her palm.

  “Vow you’ll remember every word and promise to act on them all or I won’t take you.”

  “I promise.”

  Christopher kept her hand in his as he led her toward the door. “I’ll collect later. The sea air always does improve my appetite. For many things,” he added solemnly.

  “Christopher!”

  He only grinned.

  A short time later Gillian found herself sitting behind her husband, astride his huge black warhorse, surrounded by half the castle guard. Christopher grumbled his displeasure at what he deemed a very serious invasion of his privacy, but he sent none of the men back. Gillian started to say something to soothe him, then heard him mutter under his breath.

  “It isn’t as if I could bloody well protect her myself.”

  She pretended not to hear. It had been at least a month since Christopher had last said anything like that. She wondered what had changed; then it occurred to her that it had been a month since they’d first lain together. She couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that it was the physical expression of her love for him that had wrought the change. More than likely, she thought dryly, it was that he never allowed her from his bedchamber and therefore never worried about her.

  Christopher’s horse needed little guidance to descend the path to the shore but even the knowledge of his surefootedness didn’t ease Gillian’s unease. She wrapped her arms around Christopher’s waist and clung to him, praying they would reach the shore safely. She buried her face against his back and closed her eyes.

  “We won’t fall,” Christopher growled softly.

  “It isn’t you I doubt,” Gillian mumbled against his cloak. “’Tis this treacherous path!”

  “If you think this to be treacherous then the very sight of the climb to the Lord’s Hall will reduce you to tears.”

  “The Lord’s Hall?”

  “My father’s refuge from my mother.”

  She would have asked more, but Christopher’s stallion stumbled. Christopher immediately jerked on the reins.

  “Steady,” he commanded.

  The beast obeyed and resumed his calm pace. Several moments later Christopher sighed in relief and the tension eased from him. Gillian lifted her head and caught her breath. They were on the shore, so close to the water that she jumped the first time a wave crashed against the rocks. She watched in fascination as the water slithered back into the deep.