She closed the door behind them and started toward the light. “Come. The sooner we get out of here, the happier you’ll be.”
“Who says I’m unhappy?”
Tiny rustles and squeaks brought the passage to life, and she shuddered. “Well, if you’re not, I am. Make haste.”
When they finally emerged into the thicket, she took a deep breath and turned to him. “Better?”
“Better,” he acknowledged with a grin.
“This way,” she said.
She led him quickly through the dense shrubbery, then slowed as they reached the orchard. Long rows of apple, pear, plum, and walnut trees dominated the landscape. In the distance, a group of servants picked apples, so she headed in the opposite direction. Quiet and seemingly relaxed, William strolled beside her.
After a short while, she lifted a hand to the lowest branches and kept walking. The leaves tickled her fingers, and she sighed.
William chuckled. “Enjoying yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she replied. Her smile broadened as a trio of ravens flew overhead.
“Hremmas,” said William.
She looked at him sharply. “Aye. Ravens. You remembered.”
“I told you. I like languages. Besides, I could hardly forget a word so similar to your name.”
“But I only said it once.”
“The day we met.”
“Your pronunciation is remarkable. You’ve quite an ear for the Saxon tongue.”
He shrugged. “Teach me more.”
“What would you like to learn?”
“Anything. How about the word for ‘tree’?”
She grinned. “Treow.”
“Sheep?”
“Sceap.”
“Battle.”
“Orlege.”
“Stallion.”
“Steda or stodhors.”
“Breeches.”
“Waedbrec.”
“Desire.”
“Lust.”
“Paradise.”
“Neorxenawang.”
He halted, and she stopped alongside him.
“You’re joking,” he said.
“Not in the least. And I see right through your choice of words.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She made a face. “Try this word, if you will. Ricceter.”
“What does that mean?”
“Arrogance.”
He laughed. “’Tis a good word.”
She loved the sound of his laughter. She loved his voice, period.
“Tell me,” she said, “why are you so interested in languages?”
He thought for a moment. “Do you remember what you said about fruit? That you love texture as well as taste?”
“Aye.”
“Languages are similar. The cultures behind them are like a variety of fascinating flavors, but the words themselves feel good on my tongue. Particularly the more foreign sounds.”
“Do you have a favorite language?”
“The Saxon tongue intrigues me at present.”
“What of your travels to the Holy Land? Did you like Turkish?”
“I liked Arabic better. The characters are completely different from ours. They’re even written in the opposite direction.”
“From right to left? That does sound interesting. Could you teach me to write Arabic? My name, perhaps?”
He smiled. “I could,” he said. Then his grin turned sly. With predatory grace, he inched toward her. “On one condition.”
Her heart tripped. “Which is?”
“You give me another taste of your sweetmeat.”
****
Color flooded her cheeks. “Your condition is even more shocking than your language skills.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “It shouldn’t be. I use my tongue for both.”
She gaped at him, and the sight of her ripe, open mouth was his undoing. He pulled her to him and thrust his tongue into her warm sweetness. She returned the kiss at once and pressed her hips against him.
His senses reeled. With a low moan, he tore his lips from hers.
“Unless you want to fulfill my request here and now, I suggest we go inside,” he rasped.
Her eyes sparkled. “Through the bolt-hole?”
“Aye.”
He grabbed her hand and led her back through the orchard to the twisting thicket. They exchanged the brilliant sun for the cool, black tunnel and tramped blindly onward. To William, the dank passage seemed a mile long.
At last, Emma paused and squeezed his hand. “We’re here,” she announced, opening the small door.
The next instant, they were both inside, enclosed between the portal and the tapestry. Faint torchlight stole behind the hanging and illuminated Emma’s alluring figure.
“Make sure you bolt it,” she said, her back to him.
As he lowered the bolt, his patience snapped. He seized her hips and pulled her back against his erection. Lifting her veil, he kissed her nape.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he said against her skin.
“You’d get more if we had enough room to move,” she replied.
He laughed and squeezed the ample flesh on her hips. “Then hurry. I’m starved for you.”
He clung to her as they slid along the wall. Once they emerged into the relative brightness of the storeroom, she started toward the stairs.
“I hope our bedchamber is empty,” she said.
From behind, he locked his arms around her waist. “Why?” he said, nuzzling her neck. “We need no bed.”
Her body went rigid. “What then?”
“For most meals, a table will suffice.”
She glanced at the table in the corner of the room. “You’re not serious.”
He turned her to face him. “Never more so.”
She backed away from him, but he didn’t object. With each step, she drew closer to the table.
“What if someone comes?” she asked.
He advanced toward her. “The trapdoor squeaks. I’d hear it, and I’d stop.”
Her backside connected with the table’s edge. “You’d have to be quick about it.”
“Emma, what do the people call me?”
She blinked. “The Storm.”
Grasping her waist, he hoisted her onto the table. “I didn’t earn the title by dawdling.”
He slid his hands under her tunic. Beneath the stockings, her calves were warm and supple. “Lie back,” he ordered.
She frowned. “Will—”
He interrupted her with a tender kiss. “Relax,” he murmured. He pulled back and eyed her mouth. Her lips were full and flush. Slowly, he met her gaze.
Her eyes claimed him. There was strength and surrender in their violet depths.
“As you wish,” she said softly. Then she lay back on the table.
He groaned and shoved aside the layers of linen that separated him from his objective. His heart raced at the sight of her bare, white thighs and the dark triangle between them. Hot blood flowed into his already engorged manhood. In one quick motion, he spread her legs and buried his tongue in her sweetness.
Her gasp was musical, seductive. Her scent was like perfume; her taste, sublime. He explored her moist, silken folds, and they became his world. He couldn’t get enough, couldn’t give enough. His tongue found the bud of her desire and caressed it over and over. Slowly, he pushed his index finger an inch into her hot, wet channel. Her moan was his reward.
He was gentle, yet persistent, quickening the motion of his tongue and finger until she writhed on the table. She clutched at the stone wall behind her. Then she grabbed his hair and thrust her hips upward. Suddenly, she cried out. Her tiny passage grew tighter, clenching his fingertip again and again as spasms rocked her core.
He grinned. Then he continued the dual caress of his tongue and finger.
She tried to sit up. “What are you doing?” she panted. “I already felt the release.”
“Trust me,” h
e murmured.
With his free hand, he urged her onto her back again. Soon she squirmed anew. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps.
“No,” she moaned. “’Tis too much.”
Persistence personified, he continued.
“William,” she whimpered. “I shall die!”
He kept her pinned to the table as he intensified the pleasurable assault. With a sudden buck of her hips, she cried out in a pitch higher than before. He paused only to smile, then went back to work.
“What?” she said. “You jest.”
“One more,” he growled, determined.
Her head tossed on the table. Her hips thrashed. Her fingers tugged on his hair. Again, she climaxed, but this time she shouted his name.
His pride swelled. So did his manhood. With reluctance, he lifted his mouth from her damp, raven curls.
She started to move, then seemed to give up. He stared in awe. With her flushed cheeks and glistening skin, she was beautiful beyond belief. A glowing nymph, awakening to her inherent nature.
He clasped her arms and helped her sit up. She gave him a shy smile. Then she pouted her lower lip and blew cool air at a ribbon of hair that clung to her forehead.
“I had no idea,” she said.
He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “About what, my raven?”
“That it could happen three times.”
“It could’ve happened more.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
He nodded. “With someone as passionate as you, aye.”
“Your skill must have something to do with it.”
“It does, but you open the door.”
Her grin was almost wicked. “Had I known, I might’ve opened it sooner.”
He chuckled and gave her a brief kiss.
“I can smell myself on your lips,” she said.
He ran his fingers along the satiny skin of her jaw. “Does that bother you?”
“No. ’Tis unusual, though.”
“You are unusual. And exotic.”
She smiled. “I am?”
He gazed into her violet eyes. ’Twould be so easy to lose himself within them. “You should never doubt it.”
“Still, I feel guilty.”
“For experiencing pleasure?”
“For not sharing it.”
His body ached for her touch. “Do you want to pleasure me?”
She ran her hand along the bulge straining beneath his tunic and breeches. “I do.”
Her clothing was still twisted up and around her bare hips. He imagined spreading her legs and thrusting his swollen flesh into her. But he squeezed his eyes shut and fought for control.
“William?” she said uncertainly.
He opened his eyes. “Here,” he said. He lifted his tunic with one hand and untied his breeches with the other.
Her fingers closed around him, and he gasped. She was so warm, so willing.
“Shall I stroke you as I did last night?” she asked.
His head fell back. “I’ll die if you don’t.”
Slowly, she began her caress. “Your skin is on fire.”
He didn’t doubt it, but he could barely think, let alone reply.
“You’re so hard and smooth,” she continued. “And long.”
Excitement raged in his blood. She stroked him harder, faster.
All around stood chests and barrels filled with the symbols of wealth, yet his entire being focused on Emma. The scent of her passion lingered in the air. Her taste still teased his tongue. Her touch, her presence, blazed brighter than the torch on the wall.
Only once before had he come so close to losing control. In a faraway land where a part of him wandered still.
A surge of sensation rocked his body, and he shut his eyes against the torrent of emotion that lashed his soul. Inexorably and in every sense of the word, Emma unleashed a storm.
Chapter Eighteen
Emma stared down at the parchment on the table and admired the line of squiggles and dots which spelled her name in Arabic. A zealous fire warmed the bedchamber, but ’twas hardly necessary. William’s body was an abundant source of heat, and he stood so close she’d begun to perspire.
Setting her quill on the table, she looked up at him. “How’s that?”
“Very good,” he said, nodding. “I’m impressed.”
His approval warmed her even more. With a bright smile, she turned to Tilda, who was whispering to the towheaded manservant at the other side of the chamber. The two looked quite intimate, exchanging grins as they cleared away the remains of supper.
“Tilda,” said Emma, “what’s so amusing?”
The handmaiden looked up from the platter in her hands, and her brown eyes twinkled. “Nothing, my lady.”
Emma couldn’t help but return Tilda’s smile, though she speculated about its cause.
“I’ve turned down the bed,” Tilda said.
“Thank you,” Emma replied.
Tilda glanced at William, then back at Emma. “The pitcher of wine is half-full,” she said. “Shall I leave it here?”
“Aye,” said Emma.
Tilda nodded. “Do you require anything else?”
Emma turned to William. His eyes held warmth and admiration.
“Do we?” she asked him.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned to the handmaiden. “That will be all.”
Tilda lowered her eyes and followed the manservant from the room. The sound of their footsteps on the stairs diminished as William strode to the door. He lowered the bolt in place, then grabbed the pitcher of spiced wine from the table.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
“No,” said Emma.
He poured himself a cup. His large, strong hand dwarfed the vessel.
For what seemed the hundredth time that night, her heart fluttered. Conversation was the only remedy.
“I think the servants are beginning to talk,” she said.
He started toward her. “About?”
“We’re developing a habit of taking supper in our bedchamber.”
“We are indeed. Does that bother you?”
“The habit or the talk?”
“Either.”
“Neither one bothers me. You?”
He sipped his wine. “Let them talk. As for the other, what better way to sup than in the solace of this chamber, with you all to myself.”
Heat filled her cheeks. She turned swiftly to the parchment. “This writing is fascinating.”
Back at her side, William set his cup on the small table. “So are the people who devised it,” he said. “Most of my men saw them as infidels, but a handful of us appreciated their culture. Their apothecaries offer cures for most any illness, and their knowledge of the stars is incredible. The craftsmen are masters of enamel work, and the food…ah! The food contains spices the like of which you’ve never tasted.”
As he spoke, she studied him. His eyes were alight, and his enthusiasm bordered on childlike. When he talked of languages and cultures, he seemed a different man, one who might overcome the world’s blackest horrors.
A glimmer of faith stirred within her. She began to hope, as she’d never done before, that he might be capable of love.
“Delectable breads,” he continued. “Sauces that bite the tongue.”
She beamed at him. “You’re making my mouth water.”
“No,” he said, his gaze suddenly intense. “That’s what you’re doing to me.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. “Oh?”
He sighed. “The parchment has grown tiresome. I need to write on something else. Doff your clothes.”
Speechless, she stared at him.
“Go on,” he said. “Take them off.”
She stepped backward and found her voice. “You would write on my clothing?”
“Guess again.”
“Not my skin!”
“Why not?”
“With ink?”
He shook his head. �
�Something better.”
She looked askance at him. “If I must undress, so must you.”
His grin was unnerving. “Now that’s a demand worth hearing.”
She began to undress. “Well, if you like it so much, get on with it. Strip.”
He bowed theatrically. “Your wish is my command.”
From beneath a flurry of blue linen, she heard his empty boots hit the floor. By the time she freed herself of her tunics and smock, he was stepping out of his braies.
Her breath caught in her throat. Framed by the glowing hearth, he was a miracle of masculinity, a masterpiece of finely honed muscles, angry scars, and jet black hair. Impressive as his swollen manhood was, ’twas nothing compared to his eyes. She would never tire of them, never wake again without wanting them to revere her body as they did now.
He walked toward her. “You take my breath away,” he whispered.
And you may have taken my heart, she thought.
“Come,” he said, seizing her hand. “Stand by the fire.”
He positioned her between the table and hearth so the blaze warmed her back and buttocks. Grinning, he dipped his index finger into the cup of wine. Then with starts, stops, and squiggles, he moved the wet finger from her shoulder to the base of her neck, right to left, inscribing something on her collarbone.
“What are you writing?” she asked.
“My name, in Arabic,” he said.
He bent over the script and, as though writing with his tongue, he licked the wine from her skin. His tongue was hot and extremely dexterous.
She cleared her throat. “You’re quite the scribe.”
He raised his head. “One must always blot ink so it won’t run.”
“True, but you’re not blotting the wine. You’re tracing it. I believe your tongue could paint a picture, if you so choose.”
“Why should I paint a pretty picture when I can taste one?”
Again, he dipped his finger into the wine, but this time he knelt before her. With leisurely strokes, he wrote on her abdomen. Then he licked the second word away.
“Those strokes felt similar to the first,” she remarked.
“Observant, aren’t you?” he said. “I wrote my name again.”
“Why just your name?”
He smiled up at her. “I’m marking my territory.”
“Is there a need?”
He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and inhaled her unique scent. “There is always a need,” he breathed.
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