After a space, Gwenn concluded softly, ‘So Alan le Bret is not a Breton after all.’
‘No.’ He gave a strained laugh. ‘Christ knows what I am. A mongrel by all accounts.’
‘It only matters if you let it. You kept the sergeant’s name, so you must love and respect him as your true father.’
Alan gave her a sharp look, and silently went on with his combing. Now that the sun had gone, he could no longer see very well and he was finding the tangles by touch. Somehow she had managed to rinse her hair with rosemary. He wondered if her skin was scented too.
‘Does your father – your stepfather – live at Richmond?’ She tilted her head to look at him, and her hair rippled out over his hands. As his fingers fumbled with the comb, he rested then for a moment on the nape of her neck.
‘Will I...’ Gwenn went very still for the touch of Alan’s fingers disturbed her in a way that Ned’s had never done. She swallowed. ‘Will I meet him?’
‘Gwenn,’ Alan muttered, in a suffocated voice, and she half-turned towards him. Slowly, he lifted a heavy swathe of hair aside and pressed his lips to her neck. ‘Gwenn.’ He kissed her again, and when he realised that her breathing was as ragged as his, his hands were on her shoulders, impatiently turning her towards him. The comb fell into the grass. ‘Gwenn.’
And then they were kneeling breast to breast, while the stream chuckled over the stones. His arms went round her, and he was holding her as close as he could, and though he pressed his head into her neck and she pressed hers into his, it seemed they could not get close enough. He heard a groan, his own, and gave a shaky laugh. ‘I think that I had better finish your hair later, don’t you?’
She answered with a nod. He drew her to her feet and somehow they reached the tent and stumbled inside.
He released her hand while he wrenched off his belt and shrugged himself out of his tunic. Gwenn sat on her cloak, biting her lips. He dropped down beside her. ‘You’re not afraid, my Blanche?’ Forcing the wild passion inside him to subside, Alan cupped her face with his hands, and placed a brotherly kiss on her brow. She was wearing her green bliaud, the one with laces at the sides, and while he wanted to tear it from her and push her onto her mantle, he told himself to go gently. She would be used to gentleness having had Ned as her husband.
‘Afraid? Why should I be afraid? Are you so terrible a lover, Alan le Bret, that I should quake before you?’ She answered with bold words, but her eyes gave a different reply. She was afraid.
He smiled, attempting lightness. ‘Aye, you should tremble indeed. Look,’ he displayed his own shaking hands, ‘look what you do to me. Are you so terrible a lover, sweet Blanche?’
‘I...I do that to you?’ Her hands embraced his, holding them firmly between them so the trembling stopped. It was a tender, innocent gesture that managed to fuel the fire in his loins.
Her eyes were dark as sloes. They were inviting. He let her keep his hands, and cautiously dipped his head so his mouth found hers. It was the first time they had kissed as lovers, and it was very sweet. Her lips were warm. They trembled beneath his, and while she did not fling herself at him, she did not draw back either. Her eyes were huge, watching him, and something in them made his insides melt. And then because the sight of her was threatening to make him lose control, Alan shut his eyes, fought down the desire to snatch her into his arms, and made his mouth explore hers slowly.
Her fingers tightened on his. She leaned towards him.
Alan’s tongue traced the contours of her lips. She released his hands and he tensed, half expecting this to be the moment when she would pull away and announce that she had changed her mind. But her fingers slid up his face and into his hair, and her other arm curled round his waist.
He groaned, and opened his eyes. She lay relaxed against his chest, dark lashes fanned out across glowing cheeks. She gave an inarticulate murmur and pressed closer. She was kissing him, raining hot, blind kisses against his throat. His breathing was uneven. So was hers. She pulled at the opening of his chainse and pressed more wild kisses to his neck, which burned at the contact. Her dark head was moving feverishly across his chest. Alan rested his hand on her rosemary-scented hair. Astonishingly, his palm tingled. Everywhere her lips went, he tingled. When she kissed him through the stuff of his shirt, he tingled. Helpless, he marvelled at the depths of emotion she stirred in him.
This was not the seduction he had planned. He had thought to lead her gently. He should be in control, but he was beginning to realise that he was in her hands as much as she was in his, and he was not sure he liked it. He wanted to be able to crush her to him, he wanted to stay in command of his senses, he wanted...
Gwenn’s lips found his, and clung.
I must remain detached, Alan told himself, I must... But she opened her mouth to give entry to his tongue, and then he was drowning in need. Her hands were lifting the hem of his shirt, sliding up his chest, disturbing his pulses. Clumsy with lust, he tried to caress her breasts, but her bliaud was between them.
‘Oh, the devil with this gown,’ he gasped, tearing his mouth from hers. He was scarcely able to draw breath. ‘Gwenn?’ He pushed her onto her back.
‘Mmm?’
Her sloe-dark eyes looked drugged. Her hair was spread over their cloaks like a fan of black silk. She was adorable, she twisted his heart. He kissed her freckled nose, and tugged at the complicated lacings. ‘This has to come off.’ He kissed her shoulder. ‘Gwenn, help me. Show me how this blasted ribbon unfastens.’ He was not so far gone that he did not notice that his request seemed to have startled her, for her eyes opened wide, and the wanton woman that a moment ago had heated his blood seemed suddenly to have reverted into an innocent, blushing child.
‘You...you want my dress off?’
‘Damn right I do.’
She looked away, cheekbones bright with colour, but she gave a curt little nod, and Alan decided that he must have been mistaken about her confusion, for her fingers went to the bows, and she unfastened her bliaud. She sat up and pulled it over her head, leaving her clad in a light undergown. Alan stripped off his shirt. She averted her eyes from his naked chest. He frowned. ‘Gwenn?’
She swallowed, and forced her eyes to meet his. Half naked, Alan looked frighteningly...male. She was no virgin, but Ned had never lain naked with her, and the thought that Alan might want her naked had only just occurred to her. She found it disturbing. A covert glance informed her that a light sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest, and arrowed into his breeches. Her mouth was dry, and suddenly fearful of what she might have unleashed in her companion, she tried not to moisten her lips, sensing he would take it as an invitation.
‘Don’t look at me as though you fear I’ll eat you.’ Alan’s sinful mouth curved.
‘W...won’t you?’
‘Not unless you want me to.’ His hand reached across to feel the texture of a long tress. ‘Black silk,’ he murmured.
Gwenn’s scalp warmed. Alan’s thumb found an earlobe. He caressed it. That warmed too. She leaned towards him, wanting him to hold her tightly, but too shy too look at him, too shy to tell him with words. Her hand crept to his chest and ran over the dark hairs. She reached for his neck and pulled his head towards her.
‘Do you insist in keeping this on?’ he muttered, plucking the neck of her undergown.
She managed to look at him. ‘N...not if you don’t you want me to.’
Alan smiled with his eyes and cleared his throat to make his voice soft. ‘No, I don’t. But never mind.’ He brought his lips closer. ‘Come here, my Blanche.’
She wound slight arms round his rib-cage. Their lips joined, and their tongues tangled. He heard her moan of pleasure, and slid a hand over the thin linen of her undergown to capture one of her breasts. Her body’s instant response fired his senses, and sliding his hand to her other breast, he repeated the movement. The response was equally delightful, and he heard her catch her breath. Feeling as though his loins were on fire, he shifted his hand fro
m one breast to the other, and buried his head in her neck. The scent of rosemary enveloped him. His mouth searched for the small patch of skin he could reach through the neck of her shift. She groaned, and shifted against him.
‘Hold me, Alan.’ Her voice, broken and husky as he had never heard it, disordered his senses further. ‘Hold me tight.’
He moved his lips down the bodice of her undergown to her breasts, and experimentally, tenderly, bit the soft flesh through the fabric. She gasped. Lifting his head, he saw she was regarding him through dazed brown eyes.
He stroked the length of her body and admitted, somewhat wryly, ‘I would far rather eat you than your shift, Gwenn.’
She bit her lip.
He lowered his head and, keeping his gaze on her, nuzzled a breast through the linen. Her nipple tightened. Her eyes were cloudy. With desire? ‘Take this off, my Blanche. Let me love you properly.’ And without breaking eye contact, he caught the hem of her undergown. He pulled it up and with cheeks as bright as the poppies in the fields, she lifted her hips to assist.
Her skin gleamed pearly pink in the glow from the fire opposite the tent flap. Naked, and with as yet no outward sign of her pregnancy other than an attractive darkening of her nipples, she was more slender and delicate than he had imagined, and more beautiful by far. Defensively, she crossed her arms in front of her. ‘Oh, no, sweet love,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’ Relentlessly, he peeled her hands away and pressed a kiss between her breasts. Her heart was racing and her breathing ragged. He heard himself say, ‘You’re lovely.’
‘Alan.’ There was a catch in her voice, and definite need.
He stretched out beside her and drew her into his arms, and the feel of her breasts sliding warm against his chest wrenched a groan from him. It would have to be soon...
‘Gwenn.’ His lips travelled down, found a taut nipple, and he circled it with his tongue in a leisurely manner, giving her time to grow used to him, while he tried to dampen his ardour for her. But it was difficult, the way she twisted and turned, and clung to him.
Hands twining possessively in Alan’s thick hair, Gwenn found she was losing herself in a mass of sensations that she had never known existed. The breast that he was devoting himself to was aching, wanting more of these incredible caresses. What was he doing? It was so intimate, this kissing that was like, and not like, a baby’s suckling. She had a tightness in her belly that while it was a pleasure, felt almost like pain. Whatever it was, she welcomed it, for it made her forget other, deeper pains. Her neglected breast was aching for similar treatment from Alan’s clever lips. Mindlessly, she guided his head towards it.
As Alan’s mouth closed obediently over her other breast, he smiled. His Blanche was ready for him.
His hand traced the slight curve of her hips and, tentatively, he let his fingers drift across her pubic bone. She tugged his hair, pulled his head towards her mouth. Alan kissed her, fingers drifting lower. Gwenn squirmed like a siren against him, and he pressed himself against her, letting her feel how much he desired her. She groaned, and bit his bottom lip. Her nails were cutting into his flesh, as though she was afraid to let go of him in case he should vanish. She was moist inside, ready for him. Alan wondered why she was so shy about caressing him, surely no married woman could be as innocent of a man’s needs as Gwenn seemed to be? But the hot blood was beating in his brain, and the last rational thought that he had was that if there was any doubt about Gwenn’s sexual experience, there was no question about her response. He desired her, and she wanted him, and if all she wanted to do to him was to hold him, then that was enough.
He slid his breeches over his hips and eased her legs apart, moving the hardness of his thighs between her softer ones. Her eyes were shut. He wanted them open. He levered himself onto his elbows. ‘Gwenn.’ He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Gwenn.’ Brown, loving eyes opened and turned his limbs to water. ‘Now?’
‘Now,’ she agreed. ‘Only, please, hold me...’ And putting her hands to his hips, she pulled him towards her.
His body joined hers as though they had been made for one another, and he smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. She fitted him like a glove. He kissed her with rough passion, and when her hands slid up his back, they loosed a shudder of delight that shook his whole frame. Alan began to move inside her, and heard his voice, hoarse, call her name.
‘Love me, Alan.’ Dimly he made out her words. Each thrust brought him nearer the edge. ‘Love me...as hard...as you can. Oh, Alan... Alan. Hold me tight.’
This last was unnecessary, for he was already holding her more tightly than he had held any woman. He wanted to be closer, to merge with her. ‘Gwenn.’ He gasped his delight in her ear. She was kissing his neck in glorious abandon, licking him, biting his skin. Her hips arched to his, she twined her feet round his calves, and pushed and pushed and pushed towards his every thrust.
‘Alan. Oh, Alan.’
Her soft, delirious cries filled the tent, the most potent aphrodisiac on earth. He wanted it to last forever. What a transformation, he thought in wonder, from the shy creature he had held in his arms a moment ago. He felt his climax approaching. ‘No...no. Not yet.’ He almost screamed in frustration. ‘Tell me you hate it.’
He was astonished to hear a throaty giggle. ‘I hate it.’
Startled, and put off his stride, he lifted his head and looked into brown eyes that were as soft and welcoming as a man could wish. He was deep in passion’s thrall, but despite this, an answering smile tugged his lips. He moved inside her.
She let out a gratifying groan of purely shameless pleasure. ‘I hate it, Alan,’ she gasped, pushing at his hips when he stopped moving. Insides dissolving, Alan managed another thrust. ‘I hate it.’ He rewarded her with another. ‘I hate it.’ One more. ‘I hate it. I... Oh!’
He was witness to the wonder which flared in her eyes, and for one glorious moment she looked at him as though he were a god. Then, shuddering and pulsing all over, she closed her eyes and hid her face in his chest. Her delight was too much for him, and a couple of thrusts later, it was over for him too.
***
Berthe, the middle-aged alewife at the Sun Inn, stood by her cooking fire with her arms akimbo and regarded the blond foreigner who had drunk her out of mead.
The last of her customers to leave, he was a large lad – a Norseman most likely – and currently he looked harmless enough with his helmet at his feet and his corn-coloured head slumped over her trestle. The discarded remnants of a meal sat at his elbow. But Berthe had seen it all before, and she knew appearances could be deceptive. She reached for a broom, and thus armed, approached him. Prodding him roughly on the shoulder, she did not wait for him to stir, but asked, ‘You sleeping here, laddie, or will you be leaving?’
She didn’t see him move, not so much as a flutter of the heavy eyelids, but suddenly, one ham of a hand whipped out, caught hold of the broom handle, and before Berthe had time to drop it, she was hauled towards two red-rimmed blue eyes and an untidy beard.
The eyes blinked. ‘I don’t like your tone, mistress,’ the stranger said.
Berthe didn’t like his, but prudently decided not to tell him. ‘Sir?’ She was not alarmed, all she had to do was give a shriek, and her Alfred would charge in from the storeroom. It gave a woman confidence to have a husband like her Alfred. Simple, but strong, and completely devoted to her. What woman wanted more from a man?
The Viking released the broom and Berthe took couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘What did you want, woman?’ He scowled into his empty cup.
‘I’m locking up,’ she told him, bluntly. ‘And if you want to stop here, there’ll be the price of the bed to pay for. In advance.’ Berthe had learned the hard way. People with infinitely more charm than this fellow had slept in her beds and blithely skipped off before sunrise without settling their debts. She was wise to that trick and was not about to let this one try it on her. The Norseman’s bloodshot eyes were sharp and
cunning, and cold as a wolf’s. So cold they made Berthe want to shiver. He smiled, and Berthe did not like his smile any more than his eyes. He slapped a coin on the table and her heart sank. She did not want this one to stop here. Like as not he’d slit their throats in the night and skip off with the takings.
‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, and relief flooded through her. ‘I want information. I’m looking for a young woman, name of Gwenn Her...Fletcher. She’s Breton; small, very dark, and travelling with an armed soldier. They were last seen riding north along this road. Have you seen them?’
Berthe remembered the couple who had eaten at the alehouse earlier and gone on. A nice-looking couple, obviously recently wed and very much in love. She recalled the man calling the girl Gwenn. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.
The stranger gave Berthe another spine-chilling smile. ‘Oh, aye. We go way back.’
The alewife didn’t like the foreigner, and neither did she believe him. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she said, firmly.
The dead eyes narrowed to slits. ‘They were riding this way.’
His gaze was boring holes in her, but Berthe was determined not to flinch. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she repeated, and scooping up his coin, tossed it back to him. ‘Here, take this and be on your way.’
‘They were seen this morning.’
‘They may well have been on this road, sir.’ Berthe made her voice as casual and convincing as she could, for though she had Alfred dozing in the back, this man had succeeding in frightening her. ‘But they could have turned off, or they might have ridden past without stopping. Whatever, I’ve not seen them.’
Pouching his coin, the Norseman stood up and his stool toppled to the floor with a crack. Berthe winced. He was a tower of a man, no question of that. He caught her wrist and leaned towards her. ‘If I find you’ve lied to me, woman, I’ll come back and flay you alive.’
‘I’m not lying,’ Berthe said, steadily.
Walking to the door, the stranger paused and threw her a final, terrible smile. ‘I hope for your sake you’re not.’
The Stone Rose Page 53
