by Lara Adrian
The buoyant pressure of her breasts, nestled against his chest, rising with every shallow breath she took, proved a temptation too sweet to resist. Kenrick brought his hand around the front of her lithe body and filled his palm with the pert fullness of her bosom, molding his hand around the swell of one perfect breast, then the other. Her nipples beaded hard as pearls beneath the fabric of her bodice, exquisite little buds he longed to taste.
With trembling fingers, Kenrick felt his way down the fragile cage of her ribs and along the bewitching flare of her hips. He gathered the gentle folds of her skirts in his hands, subtly drawing them up, kissing her all the while. At last he found the hem of the generous fall of silk, and then the smooth warmth of the bare limbs beneath.
Haven sucked in her breath as he slowly drew his fingers up the length of her thigh.
"What are--oh, faith," she gasped brokenly, a twitch of muscle jumping as he teased the soft skin of her bare hip. "Kenrick...what are you doing?"
"Touching you," he murmured against the fluttering pulse at her throat. "Touching you, my beautiful lady, as I have wanted to for far too long."
She gave neither consent nor protest. Her head dropped back against the chamber door, a ragged sigh rushing past her lips as he let his senses marvel at the fiery vixen who responded so enticingly, so passionately, to his every stroke and caress.
Her skin felt like living, molten silk under his fingertips. He trailed a sensual path along the line of her body, astonished at how touching her so intimately could feel so indescribably good. He smoothed his hands over her warmth and felt as though somehow she were the one stroking him, coaxing pleasure from every fiber of his being.
"Sweet witch," he whispered, bending his head to suck at the soft curve of her neck, "what is this spell you weave over me?"
"You are the one weaving spells," she said, her voice husky, catching in her throat as he plumbed the hollow of her throat with his tongue.
Kenrick moved his hand to grasp the arc of her pelvis, pulling her to him. Their bodies pressed sensually together, her softness melding into his rigidity. He explored the exquisiteness of her bare skin, his fingers dancing ever closer to the thatch of heaven nestled between her thighs.
Haven writhed, arching her back ever so slightly as though to guide his questing fingers to the place that he so fervently wanted to be. The flossy curls brushed against his fingertips as she moved, her sweet, moist scent registering in some primal part of him that knew only lust and want and greed to be sated.
The call was fierce.
Potent.
He struggled against it, knowing that to submit to the hunger that urged him to obey her unschooled cue would surely do him in. She moaned as he drew his fingers away from the lure of her femininity, retreating to safer ground.
God's wounds, but she could not know how close he was to taking her already. His arousal strained hard between them, thick and pulsing and needy. It only worsened as Haven twined her arms tighter around his shoulders, meeting his kiss with a rising hunger of her own.
Weakly, he indulged in her unpracticed embrace, one hand holding the tender small of her back, the other fisted in her rucked up skirts, deliberately bound there as though leashed and unable to be trusted. In truth, he did not trust himself at all in that moment. His need was too strong, his will too close to snapping.
When Haven's warm, wet tongue pressed against his lips, sliding along their seam as his own had done to her a moment ago, he should have refused her. He should have set her away from him.
Should have indeed, but instead he let her in.
Worse and worse, he caught her firmly in his arms and pressed her spine to the solid barrier of the chamber door, pinning her there with the length of his body. He grabbed her hands, which were now flat against his chest, and hauled them up above her head, holding her fast.
He kissed her hard, hiding none of his need for it was too wild to be contained. Although he could never tire of her sweet mouth, he dragged his lips down her neck, and lower still, to the sensual rise of her breasts. With his free hand, he scooped one glorious mound out of its confining bodice and feasted on the rosy nipple and pale swell that surrounded it.
"I think I will die if I do not have you, Haven." The admission rasped between his teeth as he grazed the succulent bud. "God, how I need you now."
She gave a soft cry, her body taut and heated against him.
"Do you know what I want of you? Tell me you understand." He blew out a sharp breath. "God's love, lady--tell me you are not a maiden still, or worse, the wife of another man."
The answering whimper carried an unmistakable note of distress.
"Tell me," Kenrick said, pausing only momentarily, working to hear her reply over the heavy rhythm of his feverish pulse. "Haven..."
"I--"
She broke off, shaking her head, and a new sort of tension began to seep into the luscious curves that pressed so heavenly against him.
She could not tell him any such thing, he realized.
She could not say if she was virgin or bride because she could not remember.
"Ah, Criste." He brought his hands away from her at once, running his fingers through his hair as he pivoted away. He slammed his hands down on the edge of his desk. "Jesu Criste. What am I doing?"
As badly as he wanted her, he could not allow himself to go any further. She was not his to take--not by any means. And he did not have so little honor that he could willingly seduce a woman without the certainty that she had not already given her heart to another man. If she loved another, someone she did not yet recall, Kenrick did not wish to open himself to that brand of torment.
Better that he rein in now, before he became any more lost to the sweetness of Haven's body.
"Kenrick," she said softly behind him. "Please. 'Tis all right...I didn't...I don't want you to stop."
"No." His bark of laughter was self-mocking, edged with the harshness of his still frenzied lust. "I won't do this. Not to either of us."
He heard her tentative footsteps draw near. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Kenrick?"
He shrugged away from her touch, yet too enflamed to endure her tenderness.
"You need to go now, my lady." He permitted himself only the briefest glance at her over his shoulder, fleeting, yet long enough to see the confusion--the unbanked fire--in her eyes. "Please, Haven. Just...leave me. Now."
He swiveled his gaze away from her, his grip so tight on the desk he thought the oak would crush in his fists. Not two paces behind him, Haven let out a broken sigh. He thought she might have said something more, but then, mercifully, he heard the soft swish of skirts, followed by the click of the latch on his door. The panel creaked open, then closed softly at her heels.
* * *
A chill breeze drifted in through the open window of Haven's bedchamber. Like a wisp of cold breath, the night air skated across the disheveled surface of her bed and up the length of her bare leg. The ribbon of coolness streaked along her skin, but did little to assuage the heat that yet lingered from her impassioned encounter with Kenrick.
Although long past midnight, hours since she had been abed, sleep eluded her. She was anything but restful, having spent the time alternately tossing, turning, and pacing, since she had fled Kenrick's quarters for the sanctuary of her own. Now she lay atop rumpled furs and coverlets, nude despite the chill in the air, trying to will her body to calm.
Her head hummed, her limbs tingled, and her heart beat with the intensity of a brewing storm.
But that was not the worst of it.
At her very core, deep inside the part of her that was raw emotion and pure feminine feeling, she burned.
Kissing Kenrick, touching him--faith preserve her, wanting him so desperately--had left her awash in a pleasure so clear and bright it was wont to consume her.
Like glittering, beckoning fire, her passion for him had nearly overwhelmed her. She had not wanted to stop the madness he stirred within her, not this time
. Despite that she knew, somehow clearly knew, that what would pass between them was wrong--forbidden--she wanted him. Even now.
Kenrick had awakened in her something wild and elemental.
He had given her but a taste of passion, and then denied her. He had all but thrust her away from him physically, a thought that stung when she knew with full certainty she would have permitted him anything in those heady moments of bliss. She would have stayed with him there in his chamber, breathing him in, drowning in his touch...a willing thrall.
She would have lain with him, but he did not want her.
Wise to take that as a blessing, she thought sullenly.
Fighting the continued quickening of her body, the unabating drone of her senses, Haven threw aside one of the fluffy feather bolsters and sat up in the midst of her tangled coverlets and blankets.
The breeze outside had grown stronger. It riffled the edge of the curtains that had been drawn back from the bed. Haven welcomed the chill, filling her lungs with deep, cleansing drafts of fresh night air. More, she thought, glad to feel some of the tumult within her begin to subside.
Her chemise lay draped at the edge of the bed, glowing stark white in the lightless space of her chamber. She retrieved the undergarment and slipped it over her head, then pivoted to put her feet on the floor. Rushes crackled softly underfoot as she took the handful of steps to the deep-set window of the adjacent wall.
The barest sliver of moon peeked out from behind black clouds. Calmer already, Haven turned her thoughts to the cool skate of the wind, and to the endless quiet just beyond the stone embrasure. She closed her eyes, tilting her face to catch the rush of crisp air as it swept over her.
Tranquility descended like a veil, pushing away her earlier turmoil.
Yet something rippled beneath the surface of her intuition.
Something troubling and sharp.
Dangerous.
Haven snapped her eyes open on an indrawn breath.
Although she could see nothing to justify the sudden jangle of her senses, neither could she dismiss the feeling that took firm hold of her with so little warning. She stretched her thoughts outward, searching for the source of her alarm. She heard naught, saw naught, but then...something.
Like an icy hand coming to rest on the back of her neck, a streak of wariness shot through her. Whatever it was, it scented her. It hunted her, she was certain of it.
Haven instinctively recoiled.
Nay! she thought, inwardly admonishing herself for the cowardice that made her shrink away. If there was reason to be wary--if there was aught to fear within or without the castle stronghold--she had to know.
Mustering her resolve, Haven crept back toward the gaping blackness of the high tower window. She stood firm and ready, peering out at the night landscape and into the fringe of deep woods that ran the perimeter of Clairmont's western wall.
Nothing was there.
Her feeling of foreboding was passing, all but gone now.
Yet she was certain that somewhere in the dark below--nearer than she cared to think--malevolence loomed.
Chapter 17
Kenrick raised his sword and brought it down hard on his target.
The blade connected in a punishing clap of sound that echoed in the stillness of a pre-dawn mist that cloaked the castle's back bailey. It was a killing blow, striking deep into thick torso of his unmoving opponent. The training dummy spewed a shower of wood splinters from yet another savage impact; its helmeted head wobbled on the pike that held it in place.
Kenrick eyed the weakness with grim satisfaction, offering no quarter. With a growl of pent-up fury, he delivered the final strike, the force of contact sending the battered helmet in a rolling tumble into the dirt of the tilting yard.
The knight on watch at the postern door was the only nearby witness at this early hour. He nodded in greeting to Kenrick, then briefly left his post to assist. As the knight jogged over to retrieve the errant helmet from the ground, Kenrick drew back his mail coif and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.
He wore light armor for this morning's impromptu exercise, the drape of chain links giving his arms a degree of added resistance as he worked. The burn of his straining muscles was a comfort to him. In fact it felt good, for the ache was a welcome distraction from an ache of another kind that he had been nursing since his aborted seduction of Haven in his chamber last night.
"I wager this fellow's seen better days," said the postern guard as he replaced the training dummy's head back onto the pike. "You've an admirable skill with the blade, my lord."
"Thank you," Kenrick replied, reluctant to accept the praise when he knew each of the men in his service was sworn to give their lives in protection of his. "You are Sir Thomas, are you not?"
The knight paused, offering him a nod of deference. "Aye, my lord. I am he."
"You have a young daughter--Gwen, is it?" Kenrick asked, recalling what Haven had told him a few days ago.
"Aye, my lord. She is my firstborn." Sir Thomas's expression muted into one of concern and not a little worry. As though the hammer of a mad lord's rage were about to drop on him and his family. "If the girl has been a bother to you in some way..."
"No. Not at all," Kenrick said, dismissing the notion with a shake of his head. "Nothing like that. I understand there had been an incident recently--that she'd been hurt. I merely wanted to inquire after her health."
"Oh." Relief poured into Sir Thomas's tired eyes. "Aye, that. My thanks for your concern, my lord. Little Gwennie is just fine now."
"Good," Kenrick replied. "I am glad to hear it. Let me know if there is anything you or your family requires, Thomas. You've long been a loyal knight--to my father, to my sister, and to me--and I am grateful for your service."
The knight beamed as if he had just been dubbed anew, and by a royal hand at that. "Aye, my lord," he said proudly, then took his leave to resume his post.
Kenrick continued his practice for a while longer, until the pink hues of dawn became the clear light of a risen day.
Servants hurried past him to assemble the great hall for breakfast, bringing baskets of fresh bread and cold meats into the keep from the kitchen outbuilding nearby. Kenrick watched with a sense of satisfied curiosity as Sir Thomas attempted pleasant conversation with the blushing maid, Enid, on her multiple trips in and out of the postern door.
On one of those trips out, a brawny arm held the door open for her from inside, the palm of the large hand identifiable at once by the silvered tracery of scars that covered the warrior's callused skin.
Braedon exited on Enid's heels, hailing Kenrick with a wry grin.
"I've been dispatched on high orders this morning. My lady wife wishes to know if Clairmont's lord means take his breakfast in battle gear at the table or in the tilt yard."
"Neither. I lost track of the hour. Do not delay the meal on my account."
"Ariana will be disappointed. So will a certain other lady, I wager."
Kenrick glanced sardonically at Braedon and sheathed his weapon. "Haven waits for me in the hall as well?"
"As lovely as I've ever seen her, even if her eyes seem a bit troubled. It doesn't appear she slept well last night...nor do you, now that I am looking at you."
"Sleep is rare enough for me. Last night was no exception."
His inability to relax was no secret about the keep, but he saw no need to divulge the details of the indiscretion he shared with Haven in his chambers. Not even to Braedon, who was the closest thing he had to a friend.
Haven was the primary cause of his current state of restlessness, but his new thoughts on the Dragon Chalice were a very close second.
"I believe I may have found a further clue," he told Braedon in a confidential tone of voice. "There is an entry in one of my oldest journals about a holy site where unexplained healings have occurred. This place, Glastonbury Tor, lies along the same set of lines that connects both Saint Michael's Mount and Mont St. Michel. My calculations had been off o
nly slightly, but I'm confident I'm on the right path now. I'm certain I'll find a key to another of the Chalice stones at Glastonbury. I mean to leave soon."
Braedon was listening in thoughtful silence. "This place--Glastonbury Tor? I have heard of it. 'Tis located not far from Cornwall, is it not?"
"It is."
The dark knight needed not to speak the words for Kenrick to know what he was thinking. Cornwall, the place where Haven had spent the last year--where her past might yet wait for her return--might hold answers for Kenrick of another sort.
"She is affecting me deeply," he admitted. "Her memory of the attack on Greycliff is only partially restored; the rest of her past remains elusive. I will find no true peace with her until I know her heart can be mine in full. If I will lose her to her past at any time, I prefer to do it now."
Before she comes to mean even more to me, he thought, refusing to voice the weakness aloud.
Braedon nodded slowly. "If there are answers to be had in Cornwall, or at Glastonbury Tor, then I pray you find them."
He placed a brotherly hand on Kenrick's shoulder, the look in his gray eyes grim with understanding.
Beyond them, at the postern door of the keep, a commotion was rising from within the castle. The clipped thud of sentry boots reverberated off the stone walls of the keep's entry corridor a moment before the door swung open.
"Where will I find Lord Clairmont?" inquired a guard's voice of Sir Thomas on his watch.
Concern edged the inquiry, immediately setting Kenrick's instincts on alert.
"I am here," he answered, already walking over to meet the knight who he now saw was accompanied by one of the villagers.
"My lord."
The knight inclined his head in greeting, as did the cottar, who swiped the cap off his graying pate in a deferential, if unnecessary, show of respect.
"What is it?" Kenrick asked, impatient with formalities of rank when it was clear that something was amiss this morning. He did not like the feel of it one bit.
