He placed a kiss below her ear, his breath a delicate puff that sent shivers racing along her nerve endings. His fingers flitted down her stomach to her sex—oh, yes—and… He paused. His head, poised to possess a hardened nipple, pulled away. He frowned, scooted down her body, and stared.
What—? She pushed onto her elbows. Was there something wrong with her girly parts?
He leaned over her, picked up the candle from the bedpost, and held it over her.
Uh… Killing the mood here, buddy.
He skimmed his hand along her upper thigh to her small landing strip of pubes. “You are mostly clean shaven here. I have never seen the like, though I heard tell of some ladies at court adopting the customs brought back by the knights from the Holy Land.”
Oh. Whew. The bikini wax from several weeks ago. She plopped back onto the mattress.
“Is this a custom in your land?”
“Er, yes.” Let’s get back to the sexing.
“What a remarkably close shave…” His head tilted up, confusion clouding his eyes. “But I’ve seen you with no razor. How are you able to maintain its smoothness?” He fingered the sensitive, bared area, sending tingles of delight through her.
“Um, my culture has a way of pulling it out by the roots.”
He winced, his head jerking back. “That sounds painful.”
She smiled. “It is.” She grazed a finger along the scar bisecting his chest. “But I imagine not as painful as this.”
His eyes glinted with humor. “I don’t know…”
She squirmed. “Can we, um, get back to…?” She wanted her one more chance at giving into his erotic chaos. Before she had to leave. Leave him.
He broke out one of his rare smiles, and it pierced right through her. “Yes.” He leaned up, replaced the candle in its holder, and kissed her pubic bone. “Is this how you achieved your smooth legs as well?”
“Yes.”
“An interesting custom. I noticed the legs whilst you were ill, but later when we first joined, I must have been lust-addled and missed the rest.” Guilt slipped over his features. “Forgive me, I should have taken more care earlier to ensure you don’t become implanted with my babe. I’m usually more careful. I will not be so careless again, I promise.”
“You don’t have to worry. I…I’m taking herbs that prevent pregnancy.”
He frowned, trailed a finger down, and parted her already-wet folds.
The stone-chilled air caressed her inner skin, and she gasped. His warm lips touched her, and he flicked his tongue on her swelling sex. She nearly arched off the bed, would have too, if his strong arm hadn’t held her hips firmly in place.
He worked his tongue around her aching nub, sucking, stroking, teasing, adjusting to the subtle signs he must’ve read in her reaction. A finger, and then two, slid inside, languidly thrusting as his talented tongue and mouth went wild on her. Delicious heat coiled tighter and tighter. She couldn’t take much more. How many orgasms would this make? Was this an undocumented medieval torture tactic—Death by Orgasm?
Desire raced and fired along her nerves. She fisted his silky hair in her hands, and he chuckled, the vibration along her sex all that was needed to trigger another intense release.
Another orgasm, another blast through her rapidly crumbling defenses. She clamped her thighs against his face and rode out the pulsing waves as he milked her.
When her quivers subsided, he pried apart her legs, shot forward so his warrior’s body covered hers, and captured her mouth. She moaned at the taste of herself on his lips, and he drove into her in one smooth, hard thrust.
Oh God. She stilled, glorying at the feel of him inside her, his hot length stretching her. He remained motionless below, propped up on his elbows, taking some of his weight, and continued to plunder her mouth with hot, demanding kisses. She smoothed her hands up his muscled arms, across his back, and gripped his butt, pulling him deeper, and grinding him harder against her.
Oh, that was so delicious—move. His kisses grew more fevered, but stopped, his breath fanning against her cheek. He resumed his languid kisses, still not moving in her. She cinched her legs around his lean waist, locking her legs behind him, as his tongue swirled a slow rhythm.
On a sigh, she surrendered completely to his pace. Surrendered and dropped deeper into the moment, into each movement of his, of theirs, with his hot length inside her like an anchor around which all else moved. She trembled in his arms.
When their kisses became all she knew, he drew out, his velvety thick column sliding exquisitely against her feminine walls, and she gasped, the loss more acute and, because she was so attuned to every small move, more intense. He eased inside again, and she arched up at the same pace, shivering when her hips met his, and they were completely joined again. His handsome face set in determination, tawny eyes locked on hers, he maintained the slow rhythm, languidly kissing her jaw, her earlobe, her nose, her chin. She met his gentle thrusts each time, not rushing him. Oh, her serious knight had some serious moves.
The slow build gripped her, and she fought against the cresting desire, fought the urge to speed him up. But the need grew too acute, almost painful and, because held at bay for so long, more powerful in its urgency. She raked her nails up his straining back, and he arched his head back on the next thrust, mouth slightly open, his breath hitching, his eyes clasped shut. He opened them and locked his hooded gaze with hers. His thrusts became faster, his powerful body surging inside her over and over.
“Yes, oh, yes!” she breathed. He hit her in just the right spot on the next plunge, and she convulsed. Heat flushed her skin, and she cried out, slammed with an orgasm so intense, gripping her so tightly, she wondered if it would ever end.
“Christ and all the saints,” his breath was ragged as he rammed into her faster. Her mind and body pulsed and shuddered with wave after wave of searing pleasure. He shoved a hand under her hips, and drove into her once more. His face contorted, his body stiffened, and, on a rough shout, his hot seed bloomed inside her, flushing her again with an intense thrill.
He collapsed on top of her, still inside her, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him as tight as her languid, satisfied body could. Far from making her feel as if she were spinning out of control with the force of their passion, she felt as if they’d forged something new together, something unique to them, that grounded her in the moment.
He rolled onto his back, his arms around her, and she snuggled against him, already half asleep. But then she remembered the candle and reluctantly eased away and snuffed it out. His hands followed her and pulled her back to nestle against him, placing a gentle, sweet kiss on her forehead.
Oh God, how could she ever let him go?
Dawn sent a refracted glow through the small tower windows, and Robert lay there in the semidarkness, reluctance weighting his limbs. As eager as he was to reconnect with his commander, another undefinable emotion held him back. He contemplated Kaytee’s sleeping form, her short, dark locks a splash against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling her now familiar scent, and was seized by an unfamiliar pinch of protectiveness and longing. If he started their day, ’twould put in motion the events that would divide them.
Careful to not awaken her, he slipped a finger behind a lock of her hair and twined it around, reveling in the silky feel of her tresses against his rough skin. But he was not careful enough, for she stirred, and her head moved against him, her sleepy gaze seeking his.
“Morning,” he murmured.
She smiled. “Morning.” She kissed his chest, her warm lips lingering for a moment on his skin. Then she sighed and propped her chin upon him. “So, we leave today.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes, still on his, deepened with curiosity and a trace of hesitation. “Robert. What happened with your father? Why are you so driven to be honored by your king?”
He broke her gaze. Christ, was she ruthless in the morning. “Same as any landless knight, I suspect. For s
ecurity. A steady income. A holding to pass on to my descendants.”
Her fingers were on his chin, turning his head to face her again. “No. There’s something more. Something to do with your father, but you’ve never said.”
Of a sudden, her slight weight as she lay draped across him seemed to intensify, his chest tightening as if she’d pinned him there with her body, her stare, her questions. He pulled in a shaky breath and searched her lovely hazel eyes for…for…what? Would she think less of him if she knew? The thought chilled his blood. But so did the thought of their parting, and that was already a surety. What harm could it do? Mayhap it would make their farewell easier. For her, at least.
“My father committed treason when I was but a small lad.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
If thou hear an outcry, proceed towards it, especially if it be the outcry of a woman.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert drew in a sharp breath. Having the worst of it out of the way lent him freedom. He’d need only supply the details. “My father was a staunch Montfortian, killed at Evesham, his lands and honors forfeited to the crown. To redeem them, like most others, we needed only pay an exorbitant fee and swear fealty to King Henry, but I was too young to do so, and my mother was too Welsh. We lost our demesne.”
Then, he waited. For disgust to enter those lovely eyes. For her body to stiffen and pull away, gaze averted.
She frowned. His heart stuttered a beat. “I think I understood most of that, and I feel horrible for your pain and loss, but…what is a…a Montfortian?”
Not what he’d expected to hear, for certes. Ah, yes, French was a foreign tongue to her. “A follower of Simon de Montfort.” He braced himself again, muscles tightening.
“Who is Simon de Montfort?”
He leaned slightly away and looked at her in amazement. “You have not heard the name Simon de Montfort?”
She shook her head.
“Christ on the cross,” he breathed out. “I thought every blessed soul in Christendom was familiar with him. You truly know not?”
Inexplicably, her cheeks pinkened. “No,” she mumbled.
He let his head fall back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Could he discuss this? Never before had he needed to elaborate, everyone only too aware of the man, and the name. Depending on the person, Montfort was either a saint or the devil’s own.
A soft hand brushed his shoulder. “Will you tell me?” Her chin made a jouncing movement against his chest as she posed her question.
He nodded. “Montfort was the Earl of Leicester, and from the tales of those who knew him, he was intelligent, arrogant, charming, and lit by moral certitude. He surprised all by marrying King Henry’s sister, Eleanor, and enjoyed, for a while, the king’s favor. But after a time, he and many other barons grew frustrated with the king’s abuse of power and sought to limit him, to make him abide by the Runnymede Charter—”
“The Runnymede Charter?” She shifted higher on his chest.
“Your land must indeed be far. It was the document drawn up by the barons in King Henry’s father’s day, the devil’s own King John—”
She gasped and pulled back, hands on his chest. “You mean the Magna Carta?”
He cocked his head. “The Great Charter? I haven’t heard it called thusly, but an apt description for its supporters.”
Her lips rolled together, virtually disappearing.
“But back to hapless King Henry. Montfort and his supporters made him sign the Oxford Provisions, but Henry—”
“Wait. The Oxford Provisions?” She settled against his chest, hands linked, chin resting atop, not at all perturbed by her ignorance.
“An additional document designed to curtail the king’s power and holding him to the provisions in the…Magna Carta. However, once King Henry was able to ignore it, he did so. Montfort and the others had sworn to uphold the provisions, and when diplomacy and compromise failed, it led to a trial by combat.”
“What do you mean?”
Yes. Of a surety, she hailed from a faraway land. “Each side came together in a clash of arms at Lewes to see which side God supported, to see who was right. Montfort won. With Henry and his son Edward captured, he ruled England through Henry for the better part of a year. Shocked all by his notions that chivalry and justice extended to the lower classes. Called a council together not only of the earls and barons, but knights from every shire and even town burghers.”
“Parliament. You’re talking about parliament,” she whispered, eyes round.
“I’ve never heard that term, but I take your meaning. It fits.”
“But how does your father figure in?” She shifted so she leaned an elbow on the mattress and absently rubbed his chest. Ah, God, that felt divine.
“He supported the Oxford provisions and Montfort from the start. And though many other Marcher lords defected to the royalist side after Lewes, my father remained steadfast, loath to cast aside a sworn oath. Besides, my mother’s kin supported Prince Llywelyn, a staunch ally of Montfort.”
“What happened at Evesham?”
For the first time since Robert had begun his confession, he dared touch her. He smoothed his palm along her upper arm, to the curve of her shoulder, and back. “Montfort and many of his supporters were cornered there by Prince Edward and his army of loyalists. I’ve heard tell, it was more of a slaughter than a battle true, such was the vengeance the royalists sought with their swords. In total disregard of the chivalric code, knights were hacked, not held for ransom.”
Her arms tightened around him. “And your father was one of them.”
“Yes.” He swallowed down the long ago hurt, the long ago pain. “And denounced a traitor. Even today, twenty-seven years later, rancor still runs high, especially here on the Marches. And with none more so than the Earl of Gloucester, erstwhile ally of Montfort. Gloucester loathes him still.”
“So you lost not only your inheritance, but also your father. And it sounds like, your pride as well.”
He sucked in a breath. “Pride is a mortal sin.”
She looked startled at that for some reason. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, only in the sense of a healthy family pride. It must’ve been hard growing up.”
It had been. Of his father he remembered little, nor did he remember much about that time, only that they were living in Wales with his mother’s kin, ignorant of everything but that his beloved father was gone. It wasn’t until he’d fostered with Sir Hugh that he learned of his father’s treason. Once de Buche and the other pages and squires, Marcher lads all, learned of his father’s deeds and declared it treason, the taunts became his new reality, the crucible which forged his dream to regain his land and his family’s honor. “I managed. Sir Hugh was good to me.”
“If your father committed treason, why did Sir Hugh agree to foster you?”
“He was an old friend of my father and was himself a Montfortian. But unlike my father, he’d survived the conflict and was able to pay the forfeit for his land and position. Allegiances here switch. It’s not so unusual.”
She searched his face. “So how did you become a knight?”
“I served Sir Hugh faithfully as his page and squire.” He pulled her around to snuggle against him. “As his squire, I participated in Edward’s push against Llywelyn ap Gruffudd that led to the Treaty of Aberconwy. Several years after, he knighted me, gifting me with armor and horses as his hearth knight. He gave me leave to enroll in tournaments, and it was at Nefyn that I not only gained Perceval, but also the attention of my lord Chirkland, whom I’ve served since as one of his household knights.”
“So this is what drives you.” She shifted her head to rest her chin on his chest, her eyes searching his, digging deeper into his soul.
Lord, even he knew not what lay there. Would she see there was naught?
“Indeed.” He risked studying her for signs of a change but beheld only acceptance. Strange it was, to reveal an all-too-familiar history
to one who had no prior knowledge, no prejudice. Unlike the first time he’d naively entrusted his father’s story to another whilst still a page. The bitter sense of betrayal, the loss of newfound friendship when he’d been so achingly alone, had embedded a soreness on his soul, coloring everything thereafter.
He had no wish for her to see that stain on his soul with her probing gaze. “But enough of this, we must make ready for our journey.”
She lifted away slightly with a frown. “What of the Welsh?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if we run across another band of them?”
“Madog has issued me a document ensuring us safe conduct to Flint, affixed with his seal.”
“Will you see your mother before we leave?”
“Yes.” He gave her a light spank. “Arise, my fair lady, we must be off.” At her mock effrontery, he grinned.
“But first…” He stood and strode to his mostly depleted chest. “I took the liberty of acquiring a new set of squire clothing, but we will stop after we depart, when you can change. I believe it safer to continue your ruse once again.”
“I think so too, thank you.”
“Unfortunately, the mantle is white, hence why it came so cheaply. It had a flaw in its cut and was not worth dying. And take this.” He tossed a leather pouch at her, which she deftly nabbed.
“What is it?”
“I held back some silver from Madog. I wish you to have it. I know not what situation we shall find upon arrival. I will shield you as much as I can, but just the same, you might have need of coin.”
“I have my ring.” She gripped the pouch.
“You might not find the time or means to sell it. Please…” He pushed her outreached hand with the pouch back to her side. “It will put my mind at ease.” He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “As much as I wish it otherwise, I cannot keep you at my side.”
Was that hurt he saw flash through her eyes? Mayhap she’d been right before to refuse him her bed, for the thought of letting her go clawed at everything inside him.
Must Love Chainmail Page 21
