The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)

by Claudia Dain

  What woman would not welcome Hugh of Jerusalem into her bed, welcoming his lusts, base or lofty?

  Here, in this bed, she was the woman. She did not want him, nor did she want him to want her.

  "Will you not say it?" he said, cupping her breast with a single hand. His other hand supported his head, the muscle of his arm bulging in the dim light.

  She really ought to close her eyes again, but she could not seem to turn from him. Both eyes were opened now, mere slits, but open. It was most difficult to tumble into darkness when such a golden presence was so near.

  "Say what?"

  "Say that you are my pleasure, fashioned by God's own hand for me. For by my troth, Elsbeth, you are everyman's dream of a woman."

  "I am not."

  "I will not argue it, but I will defend. You are my dream of woman. The Lord must have read every dream of my boyish heart to have fashioned you so perfectly."

  "I am not perfect."

  "You are for me," he said, rubbing his hand over her nipple.

  The sensation was intense, painfully erotic, an inducement to continue, to seek more at his hands, to hear more sweet words from his lips. Yet she could do none of those. Her path was set, and it was only folly to continue on this course. How to stop him? He was her husband. He had the right to lay his hands on her. And what he would speak was his own affair. She could not stop him. She had not the right even to try. All that was left to her was to quietly resist. To let his words and his touch wash over her, a light wash of rain against her skin. She could not let him linger long enough to penetrate her heart. And she must never, ever respond.

  "You are kind to say so. We both know I am far from perfect," she said, closing her eyes with difficulty.

  He laughed and pulled her into an embrace. The scent of him was of woodsmoke and wine, his skin as hot as embers. She could feel his manhood pressing against the soft mound of her belly, and her joints softened in response.

  Response? She must not respond.

  "I am not kind," he said. "A night in this bed will prove it, little wife. I mean to torment, you see. A night of perfect torment we will share."

  She pulled back and looked up at his face. His jaw and throat rose above her, large and covered in a light brown stubble that caught the light of the fire and was lit to shimmering gold. He spoke of torment, he who had promised not to hurt her?

  "Do not fear," he said, looking down at her from beneath his lashes. "It is the way of a man to say such. It is nothing to fear. I only have made myself a promise, little wife, to make you scream and moan for release."

  She could well believe that. She was not far from screaming now. Her skin was hot and prickly, her breasts heavy and tender, his hands the cause of all discomfort within her. She had always found her skin most comfortable, before Hugh and his soft caresses and his careless laughter. If he would only release her and go to another bed, all would be well.

  "The release of desire, the need for satisfaction," he said. "That is the torment of which I speak. You drive me to torment even now. Should not the wife of Hugh of Jerusalem share his fate?"

  Nay, she should not. She would not. Her vow had been made before God, and He would not want her released from it. Some things were bigger than a man's desire; indeed, all things should be.

  "I do not wish you in torment," she said, crossing her arms over her aching breasts.

  "Of course you do not. You are not a cruel woman," he said, uncrossing her arms and holding them over her head.

  Her chemise was stretched tight against her breasts, her nipples dark and erect beneath the fine linen. It would have been a fine night to wear wool—nice, thick, scratchy wool.

  "What are you about?" she said. Her voice came out a squeak that would have rivaled a mouse caught in the talons of a hawk. An apt comparison.

  "Only the torment of my wife. Fear not, little one, I will not harm you," he said. His eyes said otherwise. They were hooded and sleepy, green and sharp. "Close your eyes, if you wish. It will not help," he whispered.

  He spoke true. It did not help.

  She felt his breath on her skin first and then the soft weight of his lips. He kissed her cheek and then the corner of her mouth and then the underside of her jaw and then, and then her mouth. It was a gentle kiss, gentle and warm, and yet her arms were over her head, her wrists trapped in his hand, and the feeling of powerlessness she felt made the kiss not gentle at all. Nay, it was a kiss of power, and all the power was his.

  She shifted against him, trying to politely pull her hands free.

  "Nay, wife, you are just where I want you," he said, his mouth trailing down her throat. "Keep still and let me torment you at my whim. I vow that you will not be harmed, at least not permanently."

  "What say you?"

  "Oh, a bruise here, perhaps," and he bit her softly on the side of the neck, sucking gently. She tried to jerk away from his mouth, freeing her hands, but he only gripped her tighter, throwing his leg over hers for good measure. "Or mayhap here," he said, taking his mouth from her neck and lifting her breast to lay his mouth over her nipple through the linen.

  "Nay! Do not!"

  "Nay? Do not?" he said, lifting his head and looking into her eyes. His eyes were the green of spring, sharp and bright. "These words from a submissive wife to the husband only seeks to worship her with his body? Nay, my little wife would not deny her husband what is rightfully his. Is your body not mine now, as mine is yours? Take of me, Elsbeth, I will not say nay to you. Or let me lead by example, if I must."

  "If you must," she repeated on a snort of irritation. Aye, in that he would most willingly lead by example. What man would not?

  "Would you torment me, little Elsbeth? Would you lie beneath my hand and lift your body to my kiss and open for me? Would you have eyes like a moonless night and skin like alabaster and breasts like fruit, ripe and swollen and heavy? Ah, but you already torment me. Do no more, else I shall never rise from this bed nor from your arms, all thoughts of knightly valor flown to the distant moon. Fight me, Elsbeth, else I shall tumble into you with no though of escape."

  Fight him? She could not fight him. He could not want her to. In one breath he wanted her to submit, and in the next he demanded that she fight. In truth, she could do neither. By all the laws of matrimony, her body was in his keeping; she could not deny him the joys of the flesh without being damned by God and priest. But she could not submit, not to this... invasion.

  Still, her blood protected her from his ultimate siege into her. She was safe from that. Let him kiss her, touch her, fondle her, she would have to endure it, knowing she was saved from penetration. It was the mercy God had granted, and she was going to rest in that, submissive to her husband yet proving that she was not the stuff of which wives were made.

  He would let her go. He had to.

  Besides, how much would Hugh want to toy with her without the release of consummation?

  She did not know Hugh of Jerusalem.

  He lay atop her, fitting himself between her legs. She thanked God again for her padding, for it blunted the feel of him. It was a blessing most generous. To feel the weight and height of Hugh on her was battle enough.

  "You taste like bread and wine," he said, "Like the sacraments."

  "Do not blaspheme!"

  "I do not. You are the food on which I will dine every day of my life. Is that not a sacrament? Your body will sustain me, Elsbeth. There will be no one else, first wife. Only wife."

  He kissed her then while the words rang in her heart. Only wife. Nay, he could not make such a vow. She wanted no such vow.

  His kiss filled her. Almost she forgot that she could not move. Almost she forgot that she was to lie quiet and loose-limbed under his assault. Almost she forgot that this wanting was her enemy, and because he brought the wanting with his hands and his mouth, he was the enemy, too.

  She could not forget that. He was the enemy. This was battle.

  She sank beneath his kiss, his tongue finding hers, hi
s breath invading her, his scent filling her.

  He untied her chemise, lace by lace, and uncovered her breasts. His hands were gentle, as gentle as a warrior's battle-roughened hands could be against a part of her that no man had ever before touched. She sucked in a hard breath when his palm skimmed over the peak of her breasts, teasing her by touch. Tormenting her.

  A man of his word, was Hugh of Jerusalem.

  "I will be your first," he said, his mouth on the skin of her breast. "I will be the man you remember, even in the cold cloister, where even memory is banished. I will live on. You shall not forget me, Elsbeth. You shall never forget this."

  He pressed against her, his hips to hers, and she lifted to him in spite of all vow made to God and to Ardeth and to herself. She lifted to his weight, feeling the man weight of him and wanting more. His mouth suckled her breasts, tugging a nipple past his teeth, and she cried out at the surge of sensation that thrust down into her womb, sharp and sweet, a pulse that was ignited and burned in the glow of him. Because of him.

  "Do you say then," she gasped, turning her head upon the mattress, snarling her hair, gasping for reason and remembered vows. "Do you say that you will release me?"

  He looked up from her breast, her nipple between his teeth, his eyes hooded and sharp as the falcon's. She met his look and felt her inward parts convulse. Had ever a man looked so? Nay, never upon her.

  He bit her nipple softly and she jerked in response, her eyes trapped in his gaze.

  "Release you? Nay, do not think of release, little wife. Think only of now, this bed, this oneness we are commanded to achieve. That is your duty now. That is your divine calling. Be one with me," he whispered. "Be one with me and you will make God smile."

  "I am in flux," she said, pulling against his hands. Her breasts heaved toward him, and he smiled as he licked her. "I cannot."

  "Nay, you cannot," he said, moving his mouth up to her throat, kissing her, a trail of kisses that would leave marks any hunter could follow. "There is only torment here tonight between us. We will be one in our torment. That is the oneness we will share. I share even that with you gladly, Elsbeth. You are a maid to make a man lose his reason. Am I not wary, I will lose myself in you."

  Nay, it was not so. He was not wary. He was wild, and he was calling to some secret wild desire in her that had no place in her life. She was calm and reasonable. She was composed and holy in her aspect. She was not in torment, no matter what he tried. Only God could torment a soul.

  Yet Hugh could torment her body. And so he did.

  The pain of frustrated longing built in her. It was a fire that, once ignited, burned hot and bright. She had no way to dampen it. He held her arms above her head, kept her hips imprisoned by his leg. With his mouth and a single hand upon her body, she writhed in an agony she did not know the earth possessed.

  Her breasts were heavy, throbbing, her nipples swollen and aching, tender to his touch yet craving it. 'Twas madness. Her eyes she kept closed and she turned her head from him, trying to deny what he unleashed with every lick and bite and nibble. This could not be. It must not be. She thanked God that He had given her the gift of her blood, for now she understood that it had been a gift to save her from herself and not from Hugh. She could not have turned from this branding, this call of heat and fire and smoke. She was turning toward him even now, craving him; only her blood protected her in this darkness of desire.

  It was as Ardeth had said. It was all as she had said.

  "Are you praying, little wife?" Hugh said, taking her earlobe into her mouth. "Are you praying for release from me, or from the torment you suffer at my hands?"

  He kissed her then, his tongue a living flame that consumed her. Her breath was his. Her will was his. Her very heart beat at the sound of his voice. She was lost. Only her blood kept her safe.

  "Or are you praying," he said, his mouth hovering above her, his lips brushing against her lips, "simply for release?"

  "Release me," she said, pulling again against his restraining hand.

  "Nay, that is not the release I was speaking of. This fire in you has but one release. When your blood stops, you shall find it. I will give it unto you."

  "Give it to me now," she said. "Let me go. In all ways, let me go. Please." She had to escape him; before her blood passed, he must be gone from her life. Her vow to Ardeth could not be sold for a kiss from a golden man of a golden city.

  "Open your eyes, Elsbeth. See me," he said softy, his hand against her cheek.

  She did. The room was dark and yet too bright, the fire too hot, the air too still. Her skin was tender, and she shivered at the look in her husband's eyes.

  "You are in torment," he said. "Say it."

  "Release me," she whispered. Her throat was parched as if she had not drunk in a week.

  "Say it," he said, "or you will find no rest this night, as I will not, to have such a woman at my side and be unable to have her. I want you, Elsbeth. This wanting is a fire, bright and hot, and I am burned. I only wish to share this torment. Do not let me burn alone."

  He looked embattled by desire, his pulse jumping in his throat, his forehead damp with sweat, his eyes fever-bright. He looked a man tormented.

  Something shifted in her, like a wave upon rocks, something violent and elemental. In a single instant God and her vow were cast aside, for just an instant. For just a moment in time, she gave him what he asked for. She could not deny him in that moment, and that was a torment of a different sort, a torment of the soul.

  "You torment me," she said, her voice throaty with suppressed desire. "I am tormented. My skin burns. I ache. I want."

  He looked deep into her eyes and then he released her slowly, his hand trailing down her arms, soothing them, igniting her.

  "I also want," he said, kissing her brow. "I want you. I will find no rest until I have you."

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, closing him out. He smiled and pulled her arms from her self-embrace and laid his head upon her breast, wrapping his arms around her, holding her to him. His breath was on her breasts, and she stirred in carnal discomfort. She could feel him smile against her skin.

  "Find what rest you can, little wife, as I find mine. We have found our oneness for tonight. Sweet torment, Elsbeth."

  Sweet torment. He said it well.

  The night would be long indeed.

  Chapter 7

  "Away! I must... Away with you!" she said, pushing him from her.

  Hugh leapt from the bed, his hands fisted and ready to attack, his eyes blinking. He looked at her. He looked behind him. He looked at her again.

  "What is it? Where is the danger?"

  "Can you not get you gone? The danger is here," she said, pointing to the juncture of her legs.

  "Ah," he said, nodding, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Can I help?"

  "Yea, by leaving you help much," she said, sliding out of bed with her hands pressed between her legs.

  After he had backed out of the room, she approached the bucket. It was almost full. She was almost out of wadding. She was thirsty. She was cold. All to the blame of Hugh. Had she slept alone, all would have been well. He had made it so that she could not well attend to her own needs. He had done it apurpose. He had nearly said so. All because he had wanted to torment her. Well, he had succeeded and succeeded well. Perhaps she should have encouraged him to stay and watch while she dealt with her blood flow; that would have been fair recompense. A torment of her own devising.

  * * *

  "A rare sort of torment, to have a man like him in your bed and yet not have him at all," Jovetta said in the quiet of the kitchen.

  "I do not think Elsbeth thinks herself in torment," Marie said. "I have heard it said that she has no liking for men."

  "What sort of woman was no liking for men?"

  "A woman with the lord of Warkham for a father?" Marie countered.

  They stood in a bolt of light cast upon the worn wooden floor. Dust and flour and stems and cores and bone
s were littered about them. The kitchens of Warkham were not well run. The cook of Warkham, John, had a particular loathing for the lord of Warkham and used his ladle as a weapon of resentment. It was his misfortune that the lord of Warkham had an inferior and unrefined palate; he noticed nothing beyond whether his food was hot or cold.

  "Do you think she will decry?" Jovetta asked, wiping a rag over the worktable.

  Marie shrugged and went to fetch a broom. John might have little care for his kitchen, but she disliked endless hours of idleness.

  "It would be a rebellion of sorts. I do not think it in Elsbeth to rebel," Jovetta said.

  "I think anyone may be pushed to anything," Marie said.

  "You do not know her," Jovetta said. "We are of an age, and she was ever well set in her tasks—Ardeth and Gautier both made certain of that. A most dutiful daughter they managed between them. I do not think it in Elsbeth to defy her father."

  "Ever since Eve it has been in every woman to defy any lord. Given the right cause," Marie said.

  "Hugh of Jerusalem is hardly the right cause," Jovetta said with an audible sigh.

  Marie laughed and kept sweeping. “Throw yourself in his way and see if he will not catch you," she offered. "He certainly must be hungry for a woman, since his own is forbidden to him."

  "You think I have not?" Jovetta said with a grin. She had a lovely figure, and knew it well. There were few men in Warkham who had the means to marry, and the one who did was paying court to Marie. Jovetta found her amusements where she could, with whom she could. "He pays more attention to his horse and squire."

  "In that order?" Marie asked, laughing.

  "Aye, in that order," Jovetta said. "But his squire is a man to make a maid look again and yet again. I wonder if the men of Outremer are all so fair as these two. Mayhap it is the holiness of the very air that makes them so beautiful."

  "He is a comely man," Marie agreed.

  "Comely? If you did not have Walter of the mill at your heels, ready to offer marriage at the crook of your finger, you would not say merely comely."