Duncan closed his eyes against the flood of sensations that threatened to usurp his control. Never had a woman driven him so mad. She moaned for more, and he gave it willingly, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders. He clasped her tenderly about the neck, his large hand easily encompassing the slim column, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. He slipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown and fondled the peach-soft flesh of her bosom.
He knew he should cease. It wasn’t his practice to take advantage of innocents too drunk to think clearly. He knew it. And yet, when she began answering his caresses, writhing intuitively against him, clinging to him as if for dear life, all his good intentions fled.
“God forgive me,” he murmured against her hair.
He slid his hand up the length of her silky thigh and kissed his way down her body to nip at the peaks of her breasts through the cloth of her gown.
Linet whimpered in answer. Suddenly, she wanted out of the kirtle. No matter that it might have taken someone weeks to weave—she’d tear it from her body if she had to. She wanted to feel all that warm male skin against hers again. She fumbled frantically with the laces of the gown, straining against the stubborn cloth.
Duncan wasted no time. He tugged the dress up to her waist, revealing curving hips and a golden nest of curls. He helped her to sit up, and then pulled the gown off over her head. The sudden tightening in his groin moved him to free himself of the constraints of clothing as well. Fiercely, he tore the tunic from his back. His breathing felt ragged and desperate in his chest, and he tried to slow it, afraid he would frighten Linet.
Linet wasn’t in the least afraid. She floated in euphoria, studying the play of each muscle he flexed, sighing as he relinquished the last of his garments, yearning, reaching, flirting with emotions she’d never experienced till now.
At last, he came to her. Flesh met flesh in a tender forging. His limbs entangled with hers as both of their mouths sought bare skin. The flicker of the fire urged them on, licking their bodies with frenzied gold light.
Duncan gasped in astonishment. His body moved with a will of its own, nuzzling and kneading and enveloping the perfect creature beneath him, as if seeking not only a joining of bodies, but a consummation of souls.
Linet had long since turned a deaf ear to her conscience. Desire ran as rampant in her veins as the wine. She wanted this man with the crystal eyes, needed him to fill her empty arms, to complete her empty spirit. She moaned with her hunger, pressed eagerly against his hips, incredibly aware of his arousal. Her moans became wordless sobs, demanding relief. She wanted him. Now.
Duncan cursed weakly, forcing himself to slow his pace. With enormous constraint, he pulled away, ignoring his angel’s protests, and bunched the fur coverlets beneath her, elevating her hips. He moved one hand down over her stomach, past the tawny thatch below her navel, seeking and finding the soft lips that guarded her womanhood. Tenderly, he stroked her, teasing the petals apart. Then he touched the core of her passion with a single fingertip.
She sucked in a shocked breath and tried to squirm away, but Duncan showed her no mercy. He left his hand where it was. Slowly, patiently, he began his onslaught, circling gently at first, until she grew accustomed to the intimate touch of his hand. Then he pressed his fingers more purposefully, sometimes with aching leisure, sometimes like an elusive butterfly, over the nubbin that focused her desire.
He used his hands to prepare the way, stretching her yielding flesh, moistening her with her own juices. She tossed her head from side to side, mumbling incoherently as he stroked between her legs.
Then her breath came sharply, her body grew rigid, and her fists clenched atop his shoulders. He rubbed his throbbing member against her swollen flesh and watched her eyes closely for the signs that she was crossing the threshold of desire.
At last, a recognizable expression of bittersweet wonder came over her face. Duncan lifted her knees high and wide, delving into her at the precise moment of her climax. His own came upon him with astonishing haste, hurtling him beyond reason and thought into a realm of sheer sensation as pure and powerful as the sun.
Linet gasped. The sharp, brief pain that accompanied her release was no worse than the prick of a needle, mercifully softened by the waves of ecstasy that washed over her. She squeezed her eyes tight. Yards and yards of the most beautiful fabrics exploded across her vision—bold, bright colors and patterns the like she’d never seen, angels’ garments whirling and flashing by her as they soared to heaven. She reached out for them, but they spun out of her grasp.
Gradually, as her breathing calmed, the colors grew muted, softer, more distant, swirling slowly in her mind’s eye. Their hue became a memory and their movement a soothing balm, sending her gently to sleep.
Duncan felt his gaze soften with tenderness. He stroked the halo of hair about his angel’s face while she drowsed. Never had he felt such a joining—of body, of mind, of spirit. Never had he felt so powerless and powerful at the same time, surrendering his very soul to her and yet tenderly receiving hers in that most intimate of bonds. Even now, he trembled with awe.
This was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life. This was his truth, his strength, his destiny—this wool merchant’s daughter lying beneath him. This was the woman he must marry.
It was absurd. It went against all rational thought. Yet he knew with the certainty of a prophet that their joining this night had sealed them together forever. This woman had accepted him into her body, into her heart, without knowing of his riches or his power. She’d given him the greatest gift of all, a gift he’d never before received—the gift of unconditional love.
Now he owed her the truth.
He’d tell her who he was. And he’d tell her he was hers.
Unfortunately, he discovered, he’d have to tell her another time. His little angel had fallen deeply asleep, exhausted no doubt from travel and wine and lovemaking. He supposed the good news would have to wait.
Instead, he slipped his de Ware crest ring carefully onto Linet’s middle finger, the one leading to her heart. He smiled as he nestled beside her under the coverlet, curving his thighs beneath her bottom. He buried his face in her hair, relishing the fragrance that would scent his dreams from now on.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes and let contentment lull him to sleep. His life was in order, the wind was at his back, and nothing could disrupt the smooth sailing of fate.
CHAPTER 14
When Linet opened her eyes in the dark, she feared she was on board ship again. The room listed dangerously. She clutched the edge of the pallet and experimentally slipped one foot out from under the coverlet. Once she was able to anchor that to the floor, the motion ceased. Her head throbbed as she squinted into the shadows, trying to figure out where she was.
By the glowing embers of the fading fire, she saw she lay on a feather bed in a simply appointed room. Then memory rushed down over her senses like a crushing waterfall. Sweet Saints, she’d slept with the beggar! She’d given herself to him. Completely. Willingly.
It almost seemed like a dream. And yet the smoky, leather essence of him lingered on her skin. She licked her lips. The musky flavor of his kiss remained, the memory of a joining that had been sheer ecstasy. And she felt…different. He’d changed her somehow, like an alchemist turning lead to gold. Her body, her soul, had come to life in his arms. He’d guided her past care, transported her to celestial realms she’d never even imagined. She ran trembling hands over her breasts, past her stomach, there, between her legs, where she was yet damp from their joining.
A log shifted on the fire, sending forth a shower of gold sparks, startling her and briefly illuminating the beggar’s silhouette on the bed beside her. He slept peacefully, his face turned toward the ceiling, his brilliant eyes cloaked now with dark-fringed lids, his generous mouth relaxed in slumber, as innocent as a cherub. But he was far from innocent. And now, so was she.
The truth wormed its cruel way into her though
ts. No matter what heaven he’d brought her, no matter how right she’d felt in his arms, she’d committed a horrible sin. She, Linet de Montfort, a lady by blood, a prominent merchant, a respected member of the Guild, had let herself be seduced by a beggar. A beggar—that was all—a nameless, homeless vagabond living by his wits and the will of the wind. A beggar with no family, no title, no trade, and worst of all, no loyalty.
Her eyes brimmed with scalding tears. Dear God, what had she done? All of her life she’d listened to her father, obeyed him without question, heeded his advice. All of her life she’d been a good daughter. How then had she come to this? Faith, she’d broken his strictest commandment. She’d given herself to a commoner—a man who would desert her just as her mother had deserted her father.
Her mother’s blood ran rich in her veins after all, she despaired, that pauper’s blood that boiled at the sight of any man. She was no lady. She never had been. She’d only been deluding herself. One could no more make oneself a lady than calling linen silk could make it so. She’d fallen prey to the very devil her father had warned her against. She’d betrayed Lord Aucassin—betrayed his title and betrayed his love. With one careless act, she’d wiped away years of his selfless devotion to her.
She raised a shaky hand to brush a tear from her cheek. Then she noticed the ring upon her finger. She held her hand up into the dim firelight to examine it.
It was made of silver, rich and heavy. The beggar must have stolen it and placed it upon her finger. The wolf’s head worked cleverly into the band looked worn, as if it were ancient. But the design was hauntingly familiar.
Her heart tripped as she realized what the ring signified. For a peasant, that simple gesture was akin to the rite of marriage. He was pledging himself to her.
As if it were still hot from the forge, she jerked the ring from her finger and cast it to the floor. It glimmered up at her with its taunting leer. Muffling a sob of panic with the back of her hand, she rose and stumbled blindly about for her clothing.
She was doing the right thing, she kept telling herself. She was doing what she had to do. She had to think rationally. It was the only way to get past the pain.
The de Montfort castle could not be far now. And though there was no reason to believe her father’s family would recognize her, much less take her in, it was her only hope. If she left now, in the middle of the night, when El Gallo’s men least expected it, there was a good chance she’d make it safely to de Montfort by the following afternoon.
She’d need suitable clothing, of course. She couldn’t arrive at the de Montfort’s door dressed like…a common woman. Her lip quavered, and she bit it to still its mutiny.
She was strong. She could do this.
She’d need coin. Somewhere the beggar had to have money. She began to dig through his bag. Surely it was no crime to steal from a thief, she reasoned. But there was no coin there. Twice she checked the pockets of his jerkin. She combed every inch of the pallet for some trace of silver.
But none was to be found. Either he’d secreted it away so cleverly that even a tax collector couldn’t uncover it, or he’d told her the truth—he had none.
Just as she was about to give up hope, her eye caught again the dull gleam of metal staring up at her from the floor. The ring. It was made of silver, solid and finely wrought. She could purchase a surcoat fit for a lady selling that piece, she was sure.
She wavered on the edge of morality for an instant that seemed an eternity. The beggar had given her the ring as proof of his devotion. To sell it indiscriminately…
Quickly, before her conscience could make a coward of her, she scooped up the ring and slipped it into her pouch. Then she looked her last upon the beggar. Her flurry about the room had coaxed a final flame from the dying hearth, flame that lit one side of his upturned face with a warm glow. The other side lay bathed in the moonlight pouring in through the narrow window.
It was a beautiful face. The fine structure of his bones, his lean jaw line, and the clean symmetry of his brow all seemed to belie his peasant stock. And the sweetness of sleep that lay upon his head made her reluctant to betray him.
But she was a de Montfort. She had her family honor to consider, her father’s name to protect.
As for the beggar—he would recover. He belonged to a different world, a world of sour ale and hard cheese, a world of patched wool and haystack trysts and handfast brides. No doubt he’d be wedded to some milkmaid within the year, she told herself, with a son well on the way. It was foolish to feel pity—either for him or for herself. She wiped at a wayward tear, and then turned to depart.
Creeping to the door, she suddenly realized that the beggar would misconstrue her leaving. He’d awaken to find her gone and worry that the reivers had taken her. Knowing the beggar, he’d stop at nothing, but track her with dogged persistence until he found her.
She couldn’t let him do that. She couldn’t face him, not after betraying him. If he found her, she’d have to tell him she felt nothing for him. And he’d recognize the lie at once in her eyes. Nay, she’d have to make sure he wouldn’t follow.
If only he could read, she’d leave him a missive explaining that she was safe, that he needn’t worry about her, that he should continue along with his life and…and what? Forget her? He hadn’t crossed the sea and half of Flanders to be sent merrily on his way.
She’d have to take drastic measures. She’d have to make certain he couldn’t follow her.
Rummaging through the supply bag, she found what she needed. She pulled forth the thick leather binding cord from the crofter’s bundle. Drawing it tediously across the edge of the beggar’s dagger, she cut it into four pieces. Quaking with fear and stealth, she wrapped cord gently around each of his wrists and both ankles. While he dozed on, she secured the remaining ends to the bedposts, finishing each with a weaver’s knot.
Now she had to make certain he couldn’t call for help. Eventually, a servant would discover him and free him from his bonds. But by then she’d be long gone.
She gazed at him, lying there as guilelessly as a child. Shite—she hated what she was about to do, but there was no other way. Using his dagger again, she sliced two strips out of her linen undergarment and wadded one of them into a ball. Before he could rouse and fully comprehend what was happening, she pulled down his jaw and swiftly shoved the thick ball of cloth into his mouth.
The beggar gagged on the dry material. He involuntarily raised his head, giving her room to tie the gag in place. His eyes widened in alarm. He yanked on the cords once, twice, bidding for freedom.
Her heart missed a beat. Had she made the bonds strong enough? He fixed her with a glare of incredulous hostility. It seemed he might tear the very bedposts from the bed to get to her. That look charged the air. It would be imprinted on her memory for a long time. It was a look of sheer rage and utter bewilderment.
She sobbed once, partly in fear, partly with raw guilt, partly from heartbreak. Then she turned away, unwilling to witness the shame she’d brought upon him, unwilling to face the accusation in his eyes. She threw open the bolt and scurried out of the chamber before remorse could drag her, kicking and screaming, back to his side.
Duncan thrashed in panic. The leather cord cut into his wrists as he struggled to be free of it. What the devil had the wench done to him, and why? The last thing he could remember was utter joy as Linet lay slumbering against him and the certainty that he’d at last found the woman with whom he belonged for all eternity.
Evidently he’d been wrong. Very wrong. And he had the punitive bonds of a vengeful woman to prove it.
What was it he’d seen in her eyes? Fear? Guilt? Sorrow? Regret? He’d taken enough willing virgins to know that their emotions were as unpredictable as the weather. Some wailed and carried on. Some lashed out in anger. Some were convinced they’d burn in hell. But with Duncan’s forbearance and understanding, all of them eventually came to have no regrets.
Until now.
Damn Linet, h
e’d been gentle with her. He’d been patient, delaying his own needs to fulfill hers, causing as little pain as possible. And she’d wanted him. He’d felt it in her. Why then had she done this? He curled his fists upward against his bonds, staring at them as if the answer lay there.
A draft blew in through the open door and across the hearth, rattling the cinders to life. And all at once he knew.
Linet de Montfort had used him. The thought left an acrid lump in his throat. The wench had used him, made him believe she desired him so he’d play into her hands. She intended to leave him behind. The little fool was going on alone. She figured she no longer needed him—a peasant who’d become so much excess weight. He’d seen her safely this far, and now that they were near to the de Montfort castle, he’d apparently outgrown his usefulness. She’d discarded him as callously as an old gown. She’d intended to get rid of him, he thought bitterly, all along.
Her passion had been fake, her cries of ecstasy a sham. The way she’d clung to him, called to him, joined him on that soul’s flight to heaven, all a pretense. His heart twisted with pain. He wrenched in vain the bonds that seemed to knot tighter with each movement. Sweat popped out from his forehead, and the veins in his neck bulged with the effort. Again and again he strained, becoming angrier and more desperate by the minute.
As he paused momentarily, panting, gathering his strength for the next onslaught, he remembered something that turned his blood to ice. He’d given her his ring, the de Ware crest ring. And the wench had taken it with her.
The wad of linen muffled his cry of frustration, and his thrashing scarcely made a whisper upon the feather-filled bed. Still, he froze as someone, alerted by the noise, slowly pushed the door to his chamber open, widening the crack with a faint creak.
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 22
