Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  Robert’s warm hand covered hers, then rose and tipped up her face, rubbing back and forth under her chin. His touch sizzled across her skin, and she worked on keeping her breaths even. Her heart’s lurch she couldn’t help. His gaze held hers, stirring with a cautious emotion.

  “Of course, cariad.” He gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “All will be well tomorrow. A setback only.”

  His eyes seemed to question, and her mind raced for a change of subject. If she didn’t, she’d make a pathetic spectacle of herself. “The man earlier today, I saw him at Castell y Bere…”

  “Yes, Sir Ralph de Buche.” The bitterness was clear in his voice. “I didn’t endear myself by disabling him in such a manner.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be a very nice man.”

  He cocked his head and searched her eyes. Then, he stared at the wall. “Who is?” he muttered.

  “What will he do now?”

  “No doubt he will continue his aborted activities of teaching the locals a lesson.”

  She opened her mouth, thinking he was being too flippant, but noticed the death grip he had on the trestle table and the hard set of his jaw.

  “Robert. You aren’t the cold-hearted warrior you pretend to be. This bothers you.”

  His eyes bored into hers, seething with rage and pain and…disillusionment. But he said nothing and returned to glaring the poor wall to death. His pain squeezed at her heart. He kept everyone at a distance with that attitude, preventing him from opening up. It was as if he didn’t expect love, so he preempted it from happening with his behavior.

  She placed her hand on his. “It does. And I don’t know why you’re afraid to admit it. You’re a loyal and caring man, but you hide behind this…this cynicism as a shield to deal with the world—to prove to others you don’t really care.”

  “Enough, woman.” He threw off her hand and stood, causing the bench beneath them to rock back and forth.

  His harsh reaction didn’t bother her—she’d hit too close to the truth. Something lay at the root of his cynicism, or someone, and perhaps she could get at it from that angle. “Do you know this Ralph well?”

  A hollow laugh escaped his throat. “Aye. Would you believe we used to be bosom lads?”

  Two boys came into the room then, carrying platters of food and a flagon of ale.

  Robert filled two tankards with the ale and handed one to her.

  “What happened?”

  Robert swirled the ale in his tankard. “De Buche and I joined Sir Hugh’s household at the same time.”

  So lonely he had been as a lad, torn from his mother and sister and his kin. His most vivid memory was of a throat choked up with hot tears and how he’d had to suppress them, behave manfully, show no emotion or weakness. That journey to Sir Hugh’s as a lad had been an exercise in taming the hot lump in his throat, in blinking fast, and resisting throwing his arms around his mother and not letting go. A mewling infant he’d been. So ashamed he’d been of himself.

  He’d forgotten, until now, that he’d questioned her sending him to Sir Hugh, a Norman stranger. Begged to be fostered with his uncle Pedr. And she’d met his pleas with silence or a sharp word.

  “I, uh, needed a friend, and I suppose de Buche did as well, and we were soon inseparable. Those first months getting into scrapes with him, sneaking treats from the kitchen, playing merrills, and catching fish helped dispel my homesickness. I’d begun to think I could adjust with de Buche as my companion, adjust being in a strange Norman household. The Two R’s, Sir Hugh used to jest, saying the nickname mimicked his steward’s constant refrain when complaining about us—‘Arrgh.’ ”

  “What came between you?” She took a sip of ale, her gaze holding his over the rim.

  What indeed. “My father.”

  “I thought—” She set her tankard down distractedly, causing it to tip. She righted it quickly. “—I thought your father had already been killed?”

  “True. Mayhap I should say, his ghost. You see, I hadn’t fully grasped the implications of my father’s treason. One day we got to boasting about our forebears, and I innocently piped in with my father’s deeds.”

  Christ on a cross, never would he forget the look on de Buche’s face as he realized who Robert’s father was. Disgust, mainly. “His uncle had been killed at Lewes, and de Buche had been raised to despise Montfortians. It was also to his father that my father’s lands and titles were awarded, though he’d not made the connection until then. Thereafter, de Buche shunned any association with me. He even complained to Sir Hugh that he did not wish to foster in a household that harbored traitors.”

  And Sir Hugh had promptly dismissed his concerns as not being relevant anymore—allegiances were always shifting on the Marches. Which only hardened de Buche’s sense of outrage into an impotent bitterness. A bitterness that manifested into him becoming the instigator of all the subsequent taunts and pranks from the other lads. Until Robert learned to defend himself with his fists. It had driven him to practice with sword and on the quintain during his leisure time.

  Robert sipped from the tankard, the memories still a sour taste on his tongue. “So you see, our enmity is long and this another notch in the tally. In truth, I should have ridden onward. His behavior is normal in war. I cannot change these things as much as I wish otherwise.”

  That was another bitter lesson. Not only had he relentlessly pushed himself to train at arms, he’d also read as many of the Arthurian romances as he could find and truly believed the ideals expressed within were the standard state of affairs awaiting him when he became knighted. But it was as Sir Hugh’s squire he’d learned this was not true.

  He flexed his free hand, the faint scars on his knuckles visible still, as was the one along his jaw under his beard, earned when he’d been beaten to a pulp by a knight when Robert was naught but a squire. An English milkmaid, alone and defenseless as their party swept through the Marches subduing Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, had incited Robert to her defense against that knight and his pleasure.

  But what purpose did all this resentment serve? Instead of following his own dictates to keep himself in the moment, he’d been blind to this side of himself—for too long he’d allowed de Buche and others to dictate how he lived his life, Christ, even to dictate the goals he pursued. And he’d no longer allow himself to believe protecting that woman had been foolish.

  “No. You did the right thing,” Kaytee said, her clear voice bringing him back to the present. “And you know it. I can see it in your stance and in your eyes. What you did was instinctual to you. This hardened, cynical attitude you project to others is a shield to hide what a compassionate man you are on the inside.”

  “Compassionate? Woman, I am not soft.” But he was not in earnest. He loved that she could so provoke him. But as he stared at the only person who made any goal worthwhile, a new bitterness surfaced. “And I’m not the only one who hides behind a shield.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You erect walls around yourself. Any whiff of strong emotions heading your way, and up goes your drawbridge with you huddled inside.”

  Katy reeled back from his words.

  Close. Oh, he was close. Not strong emotions necessarily, but… She took in his raw sensuality, his fierce gaze. Okay, yes, she’d erected a barrier. But a barrier against the chaos generated when they were together, not against strong emotion. She felt spontaneous and free when they made love, tempting her to live like that in general. Live as if she didn’t have to organize every corner of her world to feel safe. And, boy did that make her scared. Scared because it meant giving up her protective shield.

  Vulnerable.

  But, damn it. She didn’t want to live in fear. Live jealously guarding her veneer of control. And he’d helped her see this.

  Hell, who was she kidding? She…she… “Robert,” she croaked, tears thick in her throat. “Make love to me.”

  His breath quickened, and, if possible, his eyes grew darker. “No,” he gro
wled.

  The air punched from her lungs, and pain lanced her heart.

  His large hands clasped her face, caging her in a warm cocoon. He made her meet his gaze. “No,” he said, his voice gentler. “You are not escaping this way.”

  His thumbs rubbed her cheeks, brushing aside an escaped tear, a warm dot smearing across her cheekbone.

  What was he saying?

  “Katy. Listen. I wish to make love with you now more than anything I have ever desired. Actually, no.”

  Jeez, her heart couldn’t take this ping-ponging.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m making a hash of this. What I desire more than anything, is you. But only if you are with me, wholly and completely.”

  “What are you saying?” she whispered, as a hope in her heart shyly unfurled, a hope she didn’t realize had taken root.

  He touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, his soft sigh brushing across her lips. “Please tell me you might come to have feelings for me. That you might be willing to stay here in this land. With me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart pounded with a cadence that spelled, This is Right. “But. I thought…I thought you couldn’t marry.” She hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted him.

  “No more do I care for regaining my family’s demesne. Katy—” his thumbs rubbed circles on her cheeks, “—if I could live in a villein’s hut and be with you, I would. But you deserve more.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “If you will have me as your husband, I will withdraw the suit. The king would surely reward me enough for my current service.” He took a deep breath, and his fingers flexed behind her ears. “If not, I will earn prize money in the lists after this cursed war is over. Either way, I will provide for you.”

  With his hands warm against her cheeks, his forehead leaning sweetly on hers, she grounded herself in the moment, with him, and listened to herself. And what her self told her was, yes, this was the person she’d ached to find. The distant lure of her life in the future just wasn’t tugging on her any more. This is what she’d sought. He was who she’d sought. She could—she took a ragged breath—she could do this. Step into this moment and be with him.

  “Yes,” she whispered, the one word carrying all the hope and anticipation and gravity of her decision.

  And, at last, she also finally understood her friend Isabelle. Understood why she’d decided to remain with the man she loved, regardless of the surroundings.

  His hands gently tightened on her face. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes. I’ll stay. I’ll stay for you. For us.”

  His breath brushed across her lips. “Oh, cariad.”

  The atmosphere in their room fair crackled with the gravity of their commitment. He knew not what she left behind, but he judged it to be a great sacrifice nonetheless, and it humbled him. Humbled him that she’d chosen him despite his lacking title, lands. Humbled him that she’d chosen him.

  All day, he’d thought about his father and mother, his fixation on righting a perceived wrong. Each time he held that goal in his hand, envisioned attaining the honor he’d been denied and triumphing at last, he felt hollow. However, when he looked upon Kaytee, a feeling of completeness and purpose suffused him. The contrast had become so apparent, even an idiot knight such as himself could come to no other conclusion: only being with her mattered.

  Robert cradled Kaytee’s face in his hands. She wished to stay. With him.

  He traced his thumb across her lips.

  He would do anything for her. Anything to prove that she’d made the right decision.

  A raging, primal need to possess her gripped him. His mind wished to be gentle, to prove her decision was the right one. His body, however… His body wished to claim her. Mark her as his.

  Hands shaking, he leaned in and swept his lips against hers. Her soft breath feathered across his face, and a shiver chased down his spine, pooling as heat in his lower back.

  Be gentle.

  He sipped on her lips, tasting her--her desire, her love, her anticipation. So different it was, tasting her now, knowing this was only the start of their commitment, their sharing of each other. Her tongue darted against his, and she gripped the nape of his neck, her nails softly scraping against his skin. He shivered.

  “Cariad, I want you.”

  “I want you too,” she whispered against his lips. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What does ‘cariad’ mean?”

  He swallowed hard. This would reveal much. “It is Welsh for beloved.”

  Her eyes softened, her mouth parted slightly against his, and she kissed him with more urgency. “Cariad,” she murmured.

  He skimmed his hands across her shoulders, pushing the fabric down one delicate slope, then the other.

  The soft glow from the rushlights flickered across her skin, tempting him to explore further. He traced a finger down her neck, to the curve of her breast. He teased the tip, delighting in watching it stiffen into a hard, pert peak. For him.

  He brushed his mouth down her neck, tasting, nibbling, breathing in her unique scent. He plumped up one of her firm breasts and touched the peak with his tongue. This was his woman.

  “Robert,” she breathed, her body squirming. She leaned back, arching toward him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, supporting her, while he worshiped her perfect breasts.

  Never would he get enough. And thank Christ he’d have the rest of his life to explore her every curve, teasing and testing to find what drove her wild.

  Wild. Oh, that thought alone—her wild beneath him—coursed through him, fighting against his desire to take things slow. He nudged her backward, his mouth sucking and kissing more frantically.

  Wild. No. Not wild tonight. He’d delightfully discovered that this calm, collected woman would light up like a torch with but the merest touch from him, which felt…oh, hell, it felt exhilarating that he alone knew that side. But tonight, he wished to blend and meld with her calm, collected self, to experience that she was his in all ways.

  She fell against the bed, and he landed next to her. He covered her, holding his weight on his elbows. He skimmed his hand over her smooth stomach, caressed the generous curve of her hip, something primal curling through him at the sight of his darker, rougher hands against her creamy smooth skin. When his fingers brushed against her feminine curls, he gently explored, parting her flesh and finding her wet.

  He groaned, his body tightening, and the perfume of her growing pleasure filled his senses, making his cods ache. He caught her gaze in the dim light, her hazel eyes burning bright with love, acceptance, with everything he’d ever hoped to find in this life or the next.

  I’m loving you, now, my sweet.

  Her breath caught on a tiny hitch, flashing heat through him again. He teased with his fingers, circling her tight bud and felt it plumping under his attention. He dipped a finger into her tight channel, then moved slowly down her body.

  He knelt between her legs and took in the sight of her body arching and trembling. Her face flushed a luminous pink. He let up slightly with his touch, careful to stoke her fire slowly.

  He eased down onto his stomach between her legs, threaded his arms under her luscious thighs, then reached around to part her feminine lips. He groaned at the sight of her pink, wet flesh, and then, unable to resist any longer, he moved in, tasting her sweet flesh.

  She bucked and trembled, and he moved a hand forward and held her down at her hips.

  “I have you.”

  She clutched his hair and tried to arch again. “Robert. I don’t think I can—”

  “Don’t think…”

  Oh, how he ached to smooth his hand another inch upward to squeeze a perfect breast, but he knew, by the shudders and flushes of her body that she was close, and he wished to draw it out. Wished to find their initial completion tonight together, to mark their new beginning.

  In this way, he teased her flesh with breaths and lips and tongue, applying more and less pressure as needed to bring her to her peak by slow de
grees instead of a sudden flash. Never had he been so hard in his life, but he pressed his hips against the mattress, welcoming the ache, and concentrated on her.

  Her fingers flexed harder across his scalp, and her voice became only a repeated whisper of Robert-Robert-Robert-Robert.

  He timed his next move when her body needed him to relent somewhat, and when she’d built to another edge, he pulled away, surged upward, and—at the same moment he captured her mouth—he slid inch by inch into her, her body shaking the whole duration of his slow, deliberate invasion.

  When he was fully seated, with her hot feminine flesh clutched so tightly, so sweetly around him, he broke their kiss and cupped her face with a free hand. He looked into her eyes, and this time he had no fear of her probing gaze, of her burrowing inward to see what was there. He was no longer hollow. Indeed, he’d only believed himself to be.

  His chest swelled with emotion, and he pulled slowly out and, oh it was so difficult not to close his eyes and relish the sweet slide of her flesh against his, but he held her gaze, feeling their joining. The air around them pulsed and snapped with meaning. How soon before her herbs would wear off, and he’d be making love to her and implanting her with their babe?

  Nearly fully withdrawn now, he again eased into her, tilting his hips, and she met his, her fingers touching his face, her eyes brimming with emotion. In unison, they established a rhythm, slow, but exquisite, never breaking eye contact, and again their passion leisurely built until it filled the whole room with its possibility, its potential.

  And the peak arrived, not of a sudden, but as a natural inevitability to their building passion, and he could see it there in her eyes too. On the next slow thrust, he gave an extra twist to his hips, to stroke her bud of pleasure with his hard body, and she gasped, bucked, shuddered in his arms as he pulled out and drove in one final time, giving up his body to the most exquisite release, the longest he’d ever experienced.