His lips quirked in a most engaging manner and well it seemed that she suddenly could not catch her breath.
“Are you warm enough, wife?” he whispered teasingly. Genevieve was mortified to feel herself flush. Wolfram watched the color suffuse her cheeks with apparent fascination. She watched as he carefully laid her lute aside, not daring to imagine his intent.
He raised his hand and carefully fitted his palm to the curve of her cheek. Genevieve shivered at his gentle touch. Wolfram gathered her closer and she was powerless to object. His gaze locked with hers and she noted that his head inclined towards hers. Her heart began to hammer, yet no protest came from her traitorous lips.
They but parted in welcome. Genevieve moaned softly as Wolfram’s mouth closed demandingly over hers. Her fingers entwined themselves in the thickness of his hair as her eyes drifted closed and she submitted to the passion of his kiss.
It could be naught else but the unexpected possibility of fulfilling her quest, she reasoned wildly as she arched against Wolfram’s strength. Had her strategy not been to disarm him with kisses afore taking her vengeance? ‘Twas surely no more than the delight that he unsuspectingly aided her plan that melted her bones and made her languid in his embrace.
Chapter Nine
Wolfram lifted his head, wondering if he would ever get enough of this woman’s intoxicating kisses. Light-headed he felt, and ‘twas not due to any pressure of this day. Genevieve smiled at up him, her teeth gleaming faintly in the darkness, her expression feeding his desire yet more.
He was warm, basking in the heat of her embrace. Wolfram felt the tension ease from him as he sat with this intoxicating woman nestled in his arms. He realized suddenly how exhausted he was, how little he had slept these past nights, and stifled a smile.
It was tormenting dreams of Genevieve that had kept him awake. Genevieve, who laid her cheek on his shoulder even now. Genevieve, who sent the blood thundering through his veins despite his languor.
Bound together were their paths from this point, and Wolfram could not have said that he was disappointed. He hauled her closer and let his lips close purposefully over hers, savoring her minute gasp when he lifted her into his lap and his hardness collided anew with her curves. Her fingers clenched in his hair, holding him close while her lips ravaged his, then she tore her mouth from his.
She rolled suddenly to her feet and trotted toward the lute he had laid aside. Wolfram could not help but watch the gentle sway of her buttocks as she moved. Indeed, he caught more than a passing glimpse of her ankles when she bent to lift the instrument, as well. He savored the grace of her hands as she carefully nestled the lute in the hay, and his pulse accelerated in anticipation.
No mistaking could there be of her response. Well enough could Wolfram recall Genevieve’s ardor of the night before and his certainty that she could have been his.
His. The first glimmer of moonlight shone through the latticed vent at one end of the loft, casting a pattern of faint silver squares on the hay beneath. Jammed with bales was the loft, as the man had said, though they had found a small space to nestle in this one corner.
The thought of her curled up here alone the night before, sleeping where he now sat, prompted a response within him that surprised Wolfram with its intensity. She turned to face him and hesitated just long enough to fire his blood. He was on his feet and before her before he could think to do otherwise.
Wolfram could see the stain of a flush in her cheeks, the green sparkle of her eyes as she glanced up at him. Aye, he would make her moan beneath him this night. He might have touched her, but she stepped nimbly around him and shed her cloak, giving him an enticing view of the slender curves outlined by her fitted kirtle. The padding of the hay was more luxurious than the thickest pallet, and when Genevieve spread her cloak across the hay, Wolfram was certain there could be no finer bed anywhere.
She turned and beckoned him closer with naught but a smile.
Wolfram took but two steps before Genevieve leapt forward and locked her hands around his neck. The imprint of her fingers against his skin fair drove him mad and he hungrily pulled her closer, only to have her tumble backward onto their makeshift bed. Wolfram let himself fall with her and they rolled across her cloak as she laughed.
Then she was beneath him, her eyes wide and glittering like emeralds, her breasts rising and falling with a quickness that fascinated him. Wolfram dared to let one hand cup the fullness of her breast, and Genevieve arched against his hand as she gasped. He felt the nipple strain toward him and closed his eyes at the answering swell of passion within him as he ran one fingertip across its peak cautiously.
Genevieve deterred his audacity naught. She moaned—it was a sound fit to loosen everything within Wolfram—and her eyes were dark with passion when she looked to him again. Wolfram could not have resisted her allure to save his soul. He bent his head and drank of her nectar like a man dying of thirst. Genevieve seemed possessed of a thirst as great as his own, for she drew him closer, her lips moving against his in a frenzy. She writhed beneath him, her breasts rubbing against him bewitchingly. Wolfram heard himself moan as the storm gathered within him.
Inexperienced though he was, he knew well enough what his body yearned for. When Genevieve twisted, her nails digging into his shoulder even through his tunic, he could think of naught but that she wanted that, too.
Well did Wolfram intend to satisfy both their desires this evening.
Mayhap over and over the whole night through.
Instinct guided him on and his hand, seemingly of its own volition, found the hem of her kirtle. Wolfram let the weight of his hand fall on Genevieve’s bare calf. He nearly swooned at the softness of its curve and could readily imagine its milky smoothness, but he watched Genevieve carefully for her response. Still he could not believe that she would not rebuff him. She caught her breath and broke their kiss, her gaze wide as she stared up at him.
Then she smiled that lusciously seductive smile and playfully traced the outline of his lips with her fingertip. The light caress launched a languid heat within him and made Wolfram close his eyes like a great cat basking in the sun.
He leaned down and nuzzled Genevieve’s neck, kissing her ear and flicking his tongue across the lobe until she gasped with pleasure. Well did he savor the soft sound of her breath against his neck, the way she stiffened in surprise, the way her legs moved restlessly beneath him. He kissed her ear fully, taking the lobe within his mouth, delighting in the moan that broke unwillingly from her lips.
His hand slid over the smoothness of her knee.
When his fingertips encountered the velvety softness of Genevieve’s thigh, Wolfram thought he would come undone. Never had he felt anything so soft in all his days. Never had his body responded with such enthusiasm. He could think of naught but the sweetness that waited yet further on for him.
Wolfram slipped to one side and lifted his knee so that its weight slipped between Genevieve’s legs. He slipped his other hand into the thick silkiness of her hair and waited, certain his advance would be rebuffed.
Genevieve merely shifted to accommodate him.
Then she arched against him, his hand slid instinctively to support her nape, and she parted her lips, inviting him to kiss her again. When Wolfram’s lips closed over hers, Genevieve spread her legs wide beneath her kirtle and his hand slipped right up her thigh.
Wolfram thought he might swoon at the dampness he discovered. Drowning he was in the smell and the taste of this woman, her writhing and arching beneath him fueling his desire beyond belief, the evidence of her own desire fit to send him over the edge. His kiss grew more possessive, he knew, but she seemed to welcome his passion with an equal passion of her own. Wolfram touched her dampness, and she cried out with pleasure, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
Then she rolled him summarily onto his back and Wolfram knew not what she did. But an instant had he to wonder before her fingers were on the lace of his chausses.
“Geneviev
e, nay!” he whispered, but she heeded him not. The touch of her frenzied fingers enflamed Wolfram yet further, the way she faltered with the lace enough to drive him mad with desire. He wildly endeavored to pull her hands away. Genevieve evaded him, though she gasped just as Wolfram’s already snug chausses tightened yet further. He gasped himself at the restriction.
“Curse the knot!” she muttered with a vehemence that might have been amusing at another time.
To Wolfram’s shock and dismay, she bent over and took her teeth to the uncooperative lace.
“Nay!” He choked out the one word, but too soon he could feel the gentle nibbling of her lips, even through the heavy wool of his chausses.
‘Twas too much to bear. Wolfram gasped at the wave of pleasure that coursed through him and fell back bonelessly against the hay, helpless to intervene. The dark tangle of Genevieve’s hair fell about them like an embracing shadow, and Wolfram found himself uncertain whether he wished her to make haste or prolong this sweet torment.
“Ha!” Genevieve triumphantly pulled the lace from his chausses with a suddenness that astonished Wolfram. Too late, he realized through his haze of pleasure what she did.
But then his chausses were open and her tiny fingers were upon his very flesh.
The shock of her gentle touch undid him. Never had anyone touched him there, and Genevieve’s unexpected caress sent a rush through him that abruptly culminated his passion.
Nay! Not so soon! Wolfram felt his seed spill across his stomach in a warm, tingling rush, even as he heard himself moan. Never had he experienced the like and her gentle touch sent him straining for the stars. It was exhilerating—and exhausting.
As he exhaled and closed his eyes in the wake of his release, Wolfram permitted himself to relax totally for the first time in weeks. Safe he was with Genevieve. Safe and at home in her arms. His lack of sleep tormented him and he wanted nothing other than to gather this woman to his side and sleep for a few blissful moments.
Then he would pleasure Genevieve. Wolfram endeavored to pull her close, to make some explanation, but his words fell in an incoherent mumble. He felt Genevieve draw away and imagined she turned away from him in disgust.
What had he done? What had she done? Had exhaustion not been slipping over him like a protective cloak, he might well have been embarrassed. Indeed, even in this dazed state, Wolfram knew he would be sorely troubled by this event when he awoke.
But now he could think of naught but sleep. Naught but sleep and the intoxicatingly sweet passion Genevieve offered him.
But a few moments he needed before sampling her charms more fully. Days might they have to secrete themselves here, and his mind readily enumerated ways of passing that time. Wolfram felt himself smile as he rolled over onto his stomach. Genevieve. He smelled her scent on the cloak beneath him, and it mingled with the heady sweetness of the freshly harvested hay to carry him blissfully off to the land of dreams.
* * *
Genevieve watched Wolfram with a pounding heart. His eyes drifted closed like a man drugged and his breathing slowed remarkably quickly. Before a dozen heartbeats had passed, he was snoring softly on his stomach. She folded her arms across her chest and regarded him with disgust.
This then was what lovemaking was about? Indeed, Genevieve was quite surprised. No fool was she, for livestock had her family always kept, but this was a revelation. Goaded by desire and some intuitive sense of purpose, she had desired only to touch the hardness secreted within Wolfram’s chausses. Never had she imagined her mere touch would affect him thus.
And this sleeping was something the goats had not seemed inclined to do. Genevieve’s lips twisted with dissatisfaction. What of the persistent tingle within her that demanded a release she knew not how to gain? Well it seemed that Wolfram had shown little heed for that. It helped little that he looked endearingly tousled or that his hand flexed on the straw as though he would beckon her closer. Genevieve sniffed indignantly. She would not be tempted to abandon her ire, regardless of how his appearance moved her.
Indeed, it seemed this lovemaking was vastly overrated by those who extolled its charms.
Genevieve glared at the man in question, who snored contentedly and undisturbed. She sniffed indignantly again, though none noted her disgust. She fancied that a dog yawned in the stables below, a snuffling canine snore rising to her ears moments later, and a frown worried her brow.
Curse the man! How dare he kiss her as he had? How dare he agitate her so, then fall asleep? She tapped her toe in frustration. What sorcery was it of his that had made her forget her objective? Indeed, she had intended only to disarm him, to waylay his suspicions that she might fulfill her objective. Instead, Wolfram’s kisses had emptied her mind of all but a burning need for his touch.
‘Twas illogical. ‘Twas unfair. Indeed, she might well have granted more to him than his due if he had not fallen asleep. Genevieve chewed her bottom lip for several moments and watched him doze as she considered the worrying possibility of that.
The very idea that she could so readily lose her grasp of her quest prompted the edginess within her to recede slightly and permitted her to think clearly. Almost had he stolen the gift of her virginity from her, as well. Genevieve forced herself to put aside the unexpected wedge of dissatisfaction lodged within her as she counted her blessings.
Had that not been good fortune, that he had fallen asleep? Genevieve ignored the persistent voice of dissent within her. Still a virgin was she, though truly Genevieve felt more warm and flustered than one might consider virginal.
No idea had she had that a man’s touch could enflame her so, let alone that this man’s touch might do so. Of naught had she been able to think but Wolfram’s hands upon her, and in truth the heat of his fingers on her bare flesh had near driven her to distraction.
She had wanted him to touch her privacy with a wantonness that shocked her only now.
She had wanted him to do more than touch her. ‘Twas his doing that she had become such a wanton, his fault that she forgot her objectives beneath his tender assault.
Genevieve gritted her teeth, disliking that that accusation did not ring as true as she might have hoped. ‘Twas no matter. A quest had she to see done and ‘twould put all of this behind her, where it belonged.
Aye. She had best see her task done and be on her way.
Genevieve drew Alzeu’s dagger from its scabbard and purposefully leaned over the sleeping Wolfram. One sharp downward stroke and ‘twould be done.
Her hand moved naught, and Genevieve scowled at her own weakness. Did he not owe her a debt? Was it not honorable to dispatch one who had stolen her brother and nearly ravished her? She eyed the man responsible for these injustices, and her hand moved naught.
Wolfram’s blond hair was tousled like that of a child, and his features were curiously relaxed in repose. Genevieve could smell the heat of his skin, and that sweet longing unfolded within her with a vengeance once more.
She wanted naught in this moment but to curl up next to his warmth. She wanted to awaken with the weight of his arms about her and his lips on hers. She wanted him to dispel this unfamiliar longing within her.
He had killed Alzeu, she reminded herself sternly.
Coldly and without provocation. What she felt was naught but base desire and was not worthy of consideration.
Wolfram’s hand curled against her cloak, a gentleness taking command of its strength in sleep. Genevieve recalled only too well those fingers curved around her breast. She shivered at the memory of his fingertip sliding tentatively across her nipple but moments past.
It mattered naught, she told herself crossly, and lifted the blade high. A vow had she taken, and in this moment, she could, she would, see it fulfilled.
He had helped her escape the king’s wrath. The acknowledgment shook her determination more than Genevieve would have liked. But for Wolfram, she might be trapped in a cold dungeon, fending off rats, or worse. Even if she had run, the dogs would have brought
her down had Wolfram not brought her to the Temple’s sanctuary.
And he had aided her again here, when the Master of the Temple might have seen her dead.
She owed this killer her life.
Twice over.
Genevieve’s grip on the dagger faltered. She remembered that fledgling warmth she had sensed budding deep within Wolfram. It had been that new greenery taken root within the cavernous darkness of his soul that had first prompted her to trust him. ‘Twas the recollection of that dawning that stayed her hand even now.
Genevieve knew she could not dispatch Wolfram as coldly as she sought to. He was not a man of stone, at least not any longer, and only too well did she know it.
‘Twas his fault she could not fulfill her pledge.
“Curse you!” Genevieve muttered savagely. She cast the dagger against the wall of the stable with all her strength.
It clattered as it fell and the moonlight glinted off the blade, yet Genevieve left it there. Tears flooded her vision and she shoved to her feet to stalk across the loft.
How dare Wolfram weaken her resolve? How dare he become a man with a name within her mind? How dare he show himself to be human? How dare he touch her and rouse her passion as it had never been roused before?
Genevieve kicked a bale of hay, in poor temper. How could she fail in this single task? To Alzeu did she owe but one simple deed, but that deed was one she could not fulfill.
A failure she was, a shame to the glory of her lineage, and ‘twas the fault of one man alone that she had fallen short. Genevieve spun on her heel and glared at the blissfully sleeping man.
“Curse you!” she said again, her tone low and angry. “How dare you steal this from me? How dare you undermine my resolve? How dare you?”
That Wolfram moved not provided absolutely no satisfaction. Indeed, his breathing continued at the same untroubled rate. ‘Twas not in the least reassuring for Genevieve to find her skin yet hungry for his touch. All atingle she was, and for naught at all. Genevieve stamped across the loft in sour humor and scooped up her dagger, jamming it deeply into its scabbard.
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