“I…I…” She could think of nothing to say. Her head was still full of the amazing fact that Gawain was smiling at her, truly smiling.
“How do you know so much about unicorns?” he asked a second time. “You never told me.”
Astounded by the question and by the fact he remembered, Matilde answered, “My brother Robert has access to great libraries and learning. He has always sent me word.”
“Because you have an interest in creatures.”
“Yes.” How strange that Gawain remembered my interest. I thought he never listened. Maybe he is changing? He is young and may change. Hard on the heels of those pleasing thoughts burst old resentments. “Yes, Robert is clever and as a man, he is allowed to go out into the wider world and rise. I am a girl, so remain a diary maid.”
Gawain shrugged, his brown curls scudding across his forehead in a wave. What was his hair like to touch?
“Woman lack true purpose.”
His careless words pierced through her daydream and the tips of her ears burned with rage. “Is that true?” she hissed and ripped her hand from his. Turning her back on him, she hurried into the wood.
“I know where there are buttercups,” she called over her shoulder. “I shall gather and plait those. They will draw the unicorn.”
Gawain was calling something, but she ignored it. He was a knight, greedy and ambitious, the same as all the rest. His pretty ways and rare pretty speeches meant nothing.
* * * *
He wanted to go after her. He wanted to forbid her to go alone. Astonishingly, humiliatingly, he even wanted to admit that women did have purpose—had Matilde not shown that, herself? Instead, Gawain clumped to the pool and began to build a den where he could lie in wait for the unicorn. Then, abruptly, he left that and set traps so they would have more meat for supper. Since I ate most of the stores. When he had finished those, he did not return to the den but began on a bower seat for Matilde, so she would be comfortable in her waiting.
What is amiss with me? He was unused to talking to women, that was the trouble. As a squire and then a knight, his world was one of men. Matilde will have chatted more to peasant lads than I have to members of her sex. The thought soured him and a hot pit of jealousy opened in his stomach, where the old worm gripe used to be. She cures me of one ill and causes another. It was not her fault, but he wished it was, so they could clash again. He did not like to fight with her, but their reconciliations, they were sweet. He thought of her wide-eyed look when he had suggested he might rest his head in her lap and chuckled, even as he wished it would happen. I will ask for a kiss of peace next time we clash and make it sweeter.
Somewhere in his mind, the idea was growing that perhaps he could talk to Matilde and treat with her without fighting. She is not a squire or lad to roughhouse with. And I must not gag her, ever again. Gawain was not exactly ashamed of his earlier actions, but he was not proud of them. “I swear I will not do that again,” he said aloud. “It is unjust.” Matilde was not a vanquished warrior to be conquered and subdued. She was a woman, with another, different way of looking at the world. Her ideas even have merit and interest. Meanwhile, he built her seat.
* * * *
Matilde sneezed from the pollen of the buttercups, flung the chain onto the forest floor, and stamped on them.
“I see you are making progress,” drawled Gawain behind her. Glad to have someone to fight, she snapped her fingers at the finished ropes of flowers she had draped across a tree stump.
“That last was not needed. I have gathered greens, too, for our supper.”
Gawain folded his arms across his chest, his blue eyes twinkling. “I have set snares for rabbits. Lord John gave me leave to do so.”
Of course he did, you are a knight like him. A peasant might be fined for trying to feed his family, but not a knight. Conscious of her mouth watering at the prospect of eating roast meat again, Matilde plucked her basket from the grass and stormed past Gawain. “Your horse?” she snapped, attacking afresh once she was out of range of his arms. “We do not want to spend the day tracking him because he has run off.”
“My horses are secured so they never run off. This one is cropping hawthorn and quite content.” Gawain seemed oblivious to her ill humor. He strolled to the tree stump and nodded at the flower garlands. “Do you wear those now?”
“I do not. They are to be hung above me.”
“A good idea.” With a delicacy she would not have thought possible from him, Gawain gently lifted the buttercup chains from the stump and laid them into her wicker basket, removing the basket from her before she could complain about carrying it. “Shall we?” He offered her his free arm, exactly as if she was a lady.
Arm in arm, they strolled to the pool. Matilde wished the breeze did not ruffle Gawain’s curls so playfully or that the pool itself shimmered so beautifully with dragonflies. The trail they followed seemed too easy and too fragrant with violets and vetches, too drowsy with bees. When Gawain pointed to a strangely shaped knot in a tree, she found herself interested, in spite of trying to be aloof. But we are not a lord and lady, wandering as we please. This daydream, though seductive, is not real.
“Where is your den?” she asked, determined to pierce this mood of enchantment.
He smiled and nodded to a patch of brambles and blackthorn. A false patch it was, Matilde realized, when Gawain drew aside a “door” of twisted elder branches and blossom to reveal a space where a man could hide. It was surprisingly well made.
“I like to carve things,” he said, in reply to her unspoken question. “There is your spot.”
Matilde followed his pointing finger and gasped. He had made a seat of turf in the shade of a spreading oak tree, and lined the seat with cushions of grass and flowers. It looked marvelously comfortable and safe. Taking a step closer, she guessed that when she sat up there she would see the pool and the darting dragonflies rippling below her like a queen sees her kingdom. He has done this for me.
Amazed, a little ashamed of her own ill humor, she swallowed and found her voice. “You have taken pains.”
He shrugged, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “For the unicorn.”
“Yes.” Of course, to tempt the unicorn. Telling herself not to be disappointed, Matilde looked about for a distraction. Growing above and about the turf seat, she saw the low-hanging branches of the oak and knew what she could do. Reaching around Gawain’s powerful body, she plucked two buttercup garlands from her basket. “I will hang these above.”
“No, I shall.”
He barred her way with a limb as thick as a stone pillar, but Matilde merely ducked beneath his closing arm and scrambled for the oak. She climbed nimbly, hung the garlands on two different branches, and leaned down to her knight.
His face was a storm cloud. “Come down, by God above, before you hurt yourself.”
To tease him she rocked the branch she was holding, laughing when his face darkened more. “I am safe—”
She spoke too soon. Slipping on lichen, she fell, tumbling, seeing her turf seat roaring up to meet her, knowing she could not save herself. She flailed with her hands, clawing desperately.
“Easy! I have you.”
The sickening, dark swirl and acceleration had stopped. Gawain had caught her, his arms bound around her like vines, his shoulder shielding her head. Leaning against him, Matilde waited until her world had stopped spinning.
“Are you all right?” Gawain asked softly.
“Yes. Thank you.” She opened her eyes.
A hard stare, fierce as a falcon’s, blue as the summer sky above them, fixed on her. “You.” Gawain shook her, his face now all harsh, set lines after his gentle question. “You could have killed yourself! Stupid!”
Nettled, she cried, “I am not stupid!”
But Gawain was not listening.
* * * *
Relief that he had caught her and that she was unharmed had rapidly given way to rage. How had she dared to defy him and go shinning up that tree
when he had told her no? He had not wanted her to put herself in danger.
“You could have snapped your neck!” He growled, depositing her onto the ground and then instantly grabbing her, dragging her to the turf seat. Well, why should I not use it?
“What are you doing?” she cried, resisting him every step.
He did not answer her in words, merely settled on the seat and tipped her over his knee.
If this is the only way she heeds me, so be it. He was more than ready.
* * * *
You goaded and goaded, Matilde’s conscience scolded her. Are you happy with what you now have? “I did not fall on purpose!” she cried aloud.
“You could have died.” Gawain ran a hand up and down her legs and her back, as if to convince himself she was unhurt. “Why do such a foolish thing?”
Matilde shook her head. She knew when it was wisest to say nothing.
* * * *
She was draped across his lap again, but this time she lay with her head down and her bottom raised without struggling. He patted her rump and she sighed, settling, resting her head more comfortably on a crown of daises growing from the turf seat. Her face was still, her eyes closed. Her blonde eyelashes shivered, like tiny veils.
Watching her, feeling her acceptance, his anger vanished as swiftly as it had erupted from him. She wants me to touch her.
“And I touch you.” She breathed, her eyes still closed, and he realized he had spoken aloud.
“So be it.” He drew up her skirts, the rustle of cloth very loud in his ears. As if from a long way off, he heard the birds of the woodland singing, the buzz of bees, the lone thud of an axe as a woodsman worked in another part of the forest. But here, beside the pool, everything was quiet.
Including Matilde, who fought me earlier because it seems she does not know how to deal with a man any more gracefully than I know how to handle her. No, she is far from stupid, but being clever is not the same as having sense, or experience. The revelation brightened him, made him feel less of a fool. We can learn together.
He feathered the last scrap of green skirt away from her loins. Round and pert, with two adorable dimples at the base of her spine, her bottom was as flawless and unmarked as fresh milk, in spite of the smacking he had given her yesterday. She was a delight to fondle, cool and welcoming under his hand.
“Gawain.”
Her gruff little voice trembled. Had a wench from the stews spoken to him in so familiar a way, he would have known it to be an invitation to spank her, but Matilde said it because it was his name. Or is she teasing, too? It did not matter. The war within him between tenderness and the greedy joy of possession merged into simple happiness. He had no words for such a state, but he could touch and feel. And this way we share.
Fingertip by fingertip, he circled her curves and explored her thighs, taking his time. She remained quiet, scarcely breathing, her mouth and face reddening slightly with his every slow, sure caress. Tormenting himself, he did not touch anywhere close to the junction of her legs. Instead, unlacing the top of her simple tunic, he dipped his fingers into her bodice. Gently exposing her breasts, he relished more sweet, round curves to fondle. He thumbed her pink nipples, feeling them harden.
I know what that feels like. I am already in that state myself. He wanted to do more, much more, but he wanted to kiss her before anything else. He rolled her over, lifted her to sit on his lap, and stroked the tendrils of hair away from her flushed face. She was so warm and soft, a compliment to his lean harshness. Her lips were as red as field poppies and he knew they would taste sweeter than raspberries.
Like a flower seeking the sun, she tilted her head to him, a silent, unconscious kiss me. He smiled and slowly embraced her cheek and chin, wallowing in the perfection of her silken skin and clean scent. She sighed again and opened her eyes, her gaze as gentle as the softest down.
“Our quest?” she murmured.
“We have done enough for today.” In truth, they had scarcely accomplished anything, but at this moment, he did not care. “Kiss me.”
Her eyes widened. “Should we not stop?”
Prudence and self-interest dictated that they should, but romance won over ambition. “Kiss me first.”
To his delight, she instantly leaned in and feathered a kiss onto his mouth, light and shy and sweet, a true maiden’s kiss. No, she does not know anything of lovemaking. The iron in his loins hardened into steel, but he mastered himself. No rushing. Let this be a wonder and a gift, her first true kiss. Intent on pleasing Matilde, he did not think how far he had already changed. From considering her no more than a nameless serf, a tool for his purpose, he had made her into his slender, blushing virgin queen.
He smoothed down her skirts, so she was comfortable and modest again. In this, too, he had changed. He still wanted her as keenly as ever, but somewhere through their wrangling and reconciliations, their growing to know each other, their increasing awareness of one another as individuals, he realized that he wanted her to enjoy, to be happy, to trust him. It was becoming increasingly important that she trust him.
“You taste of a golden summer,” he said, speaking no more than the truth as he saw it. “Let me have that summer again.”
He lowered his head and captured her mouth with his.
Chapter 4
She had never been kissed like this before. Angels must kiss like this. She opened her eyes to see Gawain smiling at her with his bright blue eyes while his lips coaxed a hazy warmth and stinging sweetness into hers. She felt to have been dipped in honey.
“Let me taste you again,” Gawain said softly, taking her head between his large hands, his thumbs tracing her jaw and cheekbones. Tickling and springy, a lock of his brown hair bounced against her forehead.
She giggled and he chuckled. “I never thought to hear such frivolous delight from you, my girl.”
“Matilde,” she reproved softly against his mouth.
“Matilde,” he repeated, kissing her again, drawing her close into the crook of his arm. “I could kiss you all day.”
She basked like a lizard on a sun-drenched rock, but then good sense chilled her a little. “Should we not stir, Gawain?”
He shook his head. “I should not approve, but I rather like it when you say my name. And you interrupt me, too, and talk without leave, naughty lass.”
He sounded as amiable as a Christmas feast but a bolt of cold, like hard winter rain, seared along her spine. I would be a fool to ignore such a warning. We can never be equals. “Why did you accept this quest?” she asked. “Really?”
He leaned in and she quickly shifted her head so that instead of embracing her mouth, he kissed her nose. “You are an annoying wench.” He still sounded lazily indulgent.
“Gawain?” She said his name to provoke him, so he might think a little instead of kissing, but he only smiled.
“Why did I accept this quest?” he said finally. “For treasure, of course, for booty.” He stretched his arms above his head and ruffled her hair. “And my lord demanded it.”
He fell silent and she wondered if she should ask more, but then he frowned. “He called me arrogant after I shared a tourney prize with a fellow knight, Baldwin, who had once helped me. And I did not give Lord John’s eldest son Sir Henry anything.” He shrugged. “I had given our lord a share, so thought I had given enough. Henry is a poor fighter.”
Matilde felt her usual burn of injustice. She sat up straighter, breathing in sharply, ready to defend him, and found herself being thoroughly kissed.
“Your eyes sparkle when you are indignant. Is all that lusty anger for me?” Gawain half turned her and cupped her rump. “So small you are, yet so caring.”
Even caressing her though her skirts, his fingers made her aware of every part of her body, especially her breasts and loins.
“It grows hot, does it not?” Before she could answer, Gawain tipped her slightly from perching on one of his thighs to the other as he wormed out of his tunic. Tugging the garment over h
is head and tossing it aside, he caught her to him again. “Come here, wench.”
* * * *
“Why did you agree to the quest?” Gawain asked.
Matilde swallowed. Her annoying knight was stripped down to his braies, naked to the waist. Never had she seen such muscles on a man. Even during the times of harvest when the men she knew stripped down to gather the wheat, even they did not look like this, so tanned and hairy, and yet every sinew so clearly defined. Without being aware she would do it, she reached out and brushed her hand across his chest, gliding her fingers down his powerful flanks.
“Matilde? You have missed my navel.”
Heat rushed into her face at his knowing challenge, but she was not defeated yet. “I have missed something.” She dared not touch the flat planes of his belly lest her fingers were tempted to stray lower, but she could do this.
“You!” he exclaimed, as she tongued his dark nipples, growing dizzy with the heat and feel of him, a living wall scented with musk and salt and maleness.
“You shouted ‘You’ at me when we first met,” she whispered, nipping his chest hairs gently with her teeth.
His eyes went stormy. “Aye, I did. I am right sorry for it, Matilde.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her eyelids. “I was wrong.”
His apology touched her so much she prayed she would not weep. With her heart pounding within her breast, she screwed up her eyes, trying to stop any moisture escaping. She heard Gawain curse in Norman French, then felt his mouth claim hers yet again.
This time their kiss was deeper. His tongue slowly explored her mouth, skimming in a deft, leisurely way across her inner lips and teeth, tender, tingling touches that drew a sweet, deep response within her breasts and loins. Pressing a hand against the hard wall of his chest, she returned his embrace fiercely, wanting to show him she appreciated his words.
The Virgin, the Knight, and the Unicorn (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 4
