Flight of the Raven

by Judith Sterling

  His eyes narrowed. “Surely you don’t intend to keep them on.”

  “The idea had occurred to me.”

  “Ridiculous. You look as uncomfortable as a wet cat.”

  “Comfort is highly overrated.”

  “Emma,” he said in the tone of command he used with his men. “Your clothes are coming off. If not by your hand, by mine.”

  She hugged her torso and stepped backward. “How can you ask this of me? After all I’ve told you?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is it wrong to prevent my wife from freezing to death?”

  Her teeth chattered. “N-no, but I know where things can lead.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Your teeth sound like a jester’s rattle. Do as I say.”

  He’s right, she thought. If she didn’t doff her wet garments soon, she’d be too sick to heal anyone else.

  “You win,” she said.

  His teeth gleamed. “Do you need any help?”

  She gave him a pointed look. “I can manage alone.”

  She removed her headdress, then lowered her gaze to her overtunic. The cloth was a darker shade of pink when wet, and heavier, too. Grumbling, she pulled it over her head and struggled out of it. When she emerged, she glanced at William. He hadn’t budged.

  “Well?” she said. “Are you just going to stand there leering at me?”

  “The thought does appeal.”

  “Not to me.”

  “’Tis my right to watch.”

  “And mine to undress in peace. Now, go on. You’ve wet clothes of your own to remove.”

  She turned her back and shuffled to the far wall, into which a row of wooden pegs was set. She hung her overtunic to dry, and a few squirms later, she placed her inner tunic beside it. Then she kicked aside her boots and peeled off her stockings.

  All that remained was her white linen smock. ’Twas ankle length with a round neck and long, tightly-fitted sleeves. She ran her hands over the smooth cloth, then sighed with relief. The smock was mostly dry, and it covered enough of her body to offer a measure of protection. Safety was an illusion, but any fantasy helped.

  She turned around, and her stomach dropped. William stood in the middle of the chamber wearing nothing but his braies. The loose linen covered him from hips to calves, but barely concealed the sculpted thighs within.

  His gaze raked her from head to toe, and he smiled. “Just imagine,” he said, “all that rain, and my breeches are dry.”

  Her gaze strayed to his muscular torso. “So is my smock,” she said in a voice not quite her own.

  He tugged on the string at his waist. “Still, I think I’ll take them off.”

  “No! I mean, don’t trouble yourself.”

  “’Tis no trouble, but in deference to your request, I’ll leave them on.”

  She let out a long breath. “Thank you.”

  He bowed to her, and his wet hair shone like black damask. “My lady.”

  She tore her gaze away and pulled her long, thick braid over her shoulder. With extreme focus, she unraveled the plait, hoping to erase the image of William’s godlike physique from her mind.

  A telltale crackle of rushes warned of his approach. He stole past her and grabbed something from the nearby table. She looked up as he returned with a stool in one hand and her comb in the other.

  He set down the stool and motioned to it. “Allow me,” he said.

  She hesitated. Then she shrugged and sat down. The cold from the wooden stool traveled easily through her thin smock to her backside, and she shuddered. The next instant, William stood close behind her. Heat, both welcome and disturbing, emanated from his body. He loosened the rest of her braid. Then he began to comb her hair with soothing, rhythmic strokes.

  Slowly, she began to relax. The comb’s movements were soft as a caress, and she hummed with pleasure before she could stop herself.

  “This pleases you,” he remarked. His voice was deep and rich, in perfect harmony with the lilting comb.

  “Aye,” she said. “If I were a cat, I’d purr.”

  “If you were a cat, your raven friends wouldn’t come near you.”

  “True.”

  “But I would.”

  “As cat or man?”

  The comb’s strokes ceased. “Which answer will earn me another kiss?”

  He knelt at her feet. He gazed up at her with a raven’s dark, unfathomable eyes. His hands cupped her knees, infusing her with warmth through the thin linen barrier. Languidly, he slid his palms up her thighs.

  She stiffened, and he stopped. His hands were so large they stretched across the top half of her thighs. He bent lower and laid his head in her lap.

  “Your chemise is soft,” he murmured, “but I’ll warrant your skin is softer.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You think so?”

  He dropped his hands to her feet. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said. His fingers blazed a path from her ankles to her calves, where he squeezed the tender flesh. “I was right.”

  “William, I don’t—”

  “Just think of me as that tiny spaniel in the kennel,” he cooed. Through the linen, he nuzzled her tightly clamped thighs.

  “Tiny you are not.”

  “How would you know?” His hands now covered her bare knees.

  She summoned her strength and pushed his hands aside. Hastily, she stood and backed away until her buttocks collided with the edge of the bed. “You know you cannot bed me.”

  In three strides, he crossed the distance between them. Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “There are other things we can do,” he said.

  Her mouth fell open. “What do you mean?”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Lovemaking has endless variations.” He turned her palm upward and planted a kiss at its center.

  She shivered. Perhaps there was a way to enjoy his attentions, yet keep her maidenhead intact. “Which variation do you have in mind?”

  His arms encircled her. “I’d better show you,” he whispered, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

  His tongue traced her lower lip, then slipped inside her mouth. Her tongue caressed his. She raised her hands to his smooth, wet hair and slid her fingers through it. Instinctively, she pressed her hips against him…and felt a rock-hard bulge at her belly. With a gasp, she wriggled away.

  He chuckled. “It won’t bite. I promise.”

  “’Twas just…a surprise.”

  “There are more where that came from.”

  He cupped her buttocks and pulled her against him. Again, his arousal warmed her belly. His mouth reclaimed hers in a deep, passionate kiss. She was falling, deliciously dizzy, sucked into a maelstrom. She gave herself to the sensation and moaned with pleasure.

  His moan echoed hers. He raised a hand to her left breast. Through the linen veil, his finger circled the nipple in the same rhythm as his tongue in her mouth.

  Her pap hardened. Gently, he teased it, and his touch grew increasingly softer. With a groan, she bit his lower lip. Then she flattened his hand on her breast.

  “My wild raven,” he murmured.

  He left a trail of kisses down her neck and chest as his lips moved lower and finally closed around the taut nipple. He sucked it, and his tongue lashed the tender flesh through her smock.

  Her legs felt weak. She swayed and grabbed his shoulders.

  “Aye,” he said. “Hold tight.”

  He sucked her other teat and simultaneously reached beneath her smock. With a stealthy, light touch, his hand crept up her legs to the soft mound between them. He petted the hidden hair with the same smooth rhythm he’d created with the comb.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She felt hypersensitive, expectant. All she could do was close her eyes and surrender to his feather-light strokes.

  He knelt and kissed her belly through the smock. Beneath the garment, his caress slowed. He parted her damp curls and ran a single finger along the tiny, hot crevice, from its apex to the wider, wet opening.

&nb
sp; “Emma,” he breathed. “A man would kill to be inside you.”

  All at once, his finger slipped an inch into her.

  She gasped and pushed his hands away. Her mind spinning, she scuttled to one of the chests lining the wall. She lifted the lid, reached inside, and pulled out fresh clothing.

  “I’m sorry.” She glanced back at him.

  He stood beside the bed, his arms folded and his excitement still evident. “You misunderstood.”

  “No. I miscalculated.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied from beneath a swirl of periwinkle fabric. “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “’Tis cold in here.”

  His voice drew nearer. “It seemed warm a moment ago.”

  Biting her lip, she donned dry stockings and concocted an excuse. “I’ll find Tilda and tell her we desire food and a fire.” She peeked up at him.

  His gaze fell to the boots into which she shoved her feet. “You need only slippers for that.”

  “She may be in the bailey,” she said, fetching a dry veil.

  He nodded, but suspicion prowled his features. “My appetite bends in a different direction. But if you’re hungry, I wouldn’t object to a trencher of food.”

  Hungry? she thought. Not possible. Her stomach was in knots.

  “How about some wine?” she said, securing her headdress. She hurried to the door. “Or a hot bath? Would that please you?”

  Grinning like a devil, he glided toward her and put a hand over the door’s bolt. “Will you bathe me?”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Is that necessary?”

  “Very,” he said. He ran a finger across her closed lips.

  On impulse, she caught his finger between her teeth and gently bit it.

  His eyes widened. They seemed darker, more intense. He pulled the finger from between her teeth, then ran it down her chin and throat, stopping at the cleft between her breasts.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. ’Twas the truth. She was not herself.

  Again, he grinned. Then he unbolted the door and opened it for her. “Don’t be long.” Her response was a half-hearted smile as she slipped past him into the stairwell. She watched the door close, then stared at the steps which twisted into the darkness below. Just days ago, she’d worried that he’d think her a witch. But perhaps he had a little witchery of his own.

  ****

  Half an hour later, William was still alone in the bedchamber. He had dressed, expecting Tilda’s arrival at any moment, but the handmaiden had never come. Neither had his wife.

  He paced the floor, kicking at several unruly, protruding rushes. The speed and consistency with which Emma shrank from his attentions was extraordinary. Calling upon the patience he’d acquired in Hattin’s blackest dungeon, he’d accepted her need for a reprieve. He let her leave the chamber, even though the errand was a blatant excuse to get away from him. But the longer he waited, the more her absence smacked of treachery.

  He could wait no longer. He threw open the door and descended the stairs, his suspicion increasing with each step. Through narrowed eyes, he searched the great hall and the solar. Only servants occupied the first room; the other was empty.

  Intent on scouring all shelters within the curtain wall, he strode to the forebuilding. The patch of sky framed by the stone archway was dingy but dry. The rain had gone into hiding, and that would aid his search.

  As he reached the stairs, his jaw tightened. Tilda climbed toward him from the bailey below. Her eyes were so trained to the steps that she didn’t notice him until she neared the top. Looking up, she froze.

  “Tilda,” he said.

  “My lord,” she managed.

  He folded his arms. “Have you seen my wife?”

  Tilda assumed the mien of a frightened hare. “Aye,” she said.

  “Did she speak to you?”

  “Briefly.”

  “And?”

  “We thought you were still in the bedchamber.”

  He tapped his foot. “What did Lady Ravenwood say?”

  “She told me to see to your comfort. I was just on my way to order your bath. Then I’ll see to the food and fire.”

  He nodded. At least Emma had seen the errand through. “Where is she now?”

  Tilda’s eyes resembled two large chestnuts. “I was to tell you she’s busy…that she’ll be so for a while.”

  “Busy?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Where? Doing what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His tolerance was slipping away. “Don’t you?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her and shook her head. “No, I swear it.”

  “When and where did you see her last?”

  “A few minutes ago, by the stable.”

  “Near the gatehouse,” he muttered. “But she wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave the protection of the keep. Not so soon after the attack.”

  Tilda cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but her ladyship is capable of anything.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” he said. Then he stepped past her. “Carry on, Tilda.”

  The handmaiden’s response was lost on a sudden, howling gust of wind. He hustled to the bailey floor and headed toward the gatehouse. Halfway there, a flowing length of periwinkle cloth caught his eye. He stopped and stared.

  Flanked on either side by Robert and Guy, Emma approached him. She avoided his eyes. Her cheeks were pink, from either chagrin or the blustery air. He couldn’t tell which.

  The trio halted in front of him. She met his gaze, and her eyes were bright with defiance. She wasn’t sorry at all.

  “I’ve acquired an escort,” she said through her teeth.

  “So I see,” he replied.

  Robert’s gray eyes mirrored the hue of the sky but held a glint of humor. “Guy and I were in the stable when Lady Ravenwood happened along. We convinced her that a ride through the countryside would be unwise.”

  “Wiser than traveling on foot,” Emma said. “And I would’ve brought someone with me.”

  William looked from Robert to Guy. “My thanks to you both.”

  Robert grinned. “Are you dismissing us?”

  William gave him a meaningful look. “My wife and I have matters to discuss…alone.”

  Robert and Guy exchanged glances. Then they departed without another word.

  Emma lifted her chin. “So you found me out.”

  “I got tired of waiting,” William said in a low voice. “What do you mean by slinking off like that?”

  “I gave Tilda her orders, just as I said I would.”

  “It took you long enough.”

  “She was hard to find.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “But once you found her, you should’ve returned to our chamber.”

  “Where is that law written?” she asked, hands on hips.

  “We had an understanding.”

  “You had one. I needed to breathe.”

  “I know. That’s why I let you go.”

  Her expression softened, and her arms dropped to her sides. “Oh,” she said.

  “You needn’t fear me, Emma.”

  “No?”

  His gaze locked to hers, he closed the gap between them. “And you mustn’t fear yourself. You’ve a passionate nature, and you cannot run from it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “You know it as well as I.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I know only that your conceit is boundless.”

  “My patience is not. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “I’ll mark it down.”

  “This too: you could’ve been hurt if you’d gone riding without a proper escort.”

  “What would you consider proper? Fifty men?”

  “You shouldn’t let emotion cloud your judgment.”
<
br />   She cocked her head to the side. “Have you mastered your emotions?”

  He straightened his shoulders. “As well as any man.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment,” she said, and her voice dripped sarcasm. “Perhaps your pride is justified.”

  “If not my pride, then my actions,” he said, seizing her hand. “This one, in particular.” Pulling her alongside him, he started toward the keep.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It should be obvious. I’m taking you back to our chamber.”

  She halted abruptly. “Our chamber?”

  He kept a firm grip on her hand. “I honor my promises. Now you will honor yours.”

  Her eyes shifted. “Which promise?”

  “To bathe me.”

  She visibly relaxed. “Phew.”

  “Your enthusiasm is touching.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember making that promise.”

  “You have a convenient memory.”

  “So have you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Of course, if you’d rather fulfill another promise…”

  “No,” she said quickly. “A bath is agreeable.”

  His imagination took flight. He could see her undressing before the fire…could almost feel her straddling him in the warm, soapy water of his bath.

  Down, boy, he thought. Then he regarded her. “Would you care to join me?”

  She glared at him. “I’ll bathe you. Nothing more.”

  He grinned. We’ll see about that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bedchamber walls closed in on Emma as she stared at the platter of food. Apples from the orchard, cold duck, cheese, and fresh bread. To wash it down, there was ale. The supper might appeal…if her stomach stopped churning for two seconds together.

  She could feel William’s gaze on her. Perhaps he was right, and she was running away. She’d never thought of herself as a sexual being. The curse saw to that. So she’d channeled her passion into helping others, unaware that same passion could lead to physical need.

  Until William arrived, brandishing raw sensuality which dared her to explore her own.

  Frowning, she turned toward the hearth, where eager flames licked firewood and kindling with equal ferocity. In front of the blaze sat a round, wooden tub lined with cloth. Twin brothers—blond, blue-eyed teens who were their mother’s pride and joy—filled the tub with hot water, while Tilda placed soap, washrag, and drying cloths on the ground beside it. The handmaiden sent her a sympathetic look over the rim of the tub, then returned to her work.