The Golden Lion (Knights of Passion Series 2)

by Evie North

  With the cloak she had saved them from certain death.

  The Sultan’s men went away and then the ship came, but by then the lion was very sick.

  The journey to England was a long one. Once they were off the ship they travelled overland much of the way, and the lion rode in a cart because he was too ill to ride. Batilda tended him as best she could. They dared not say who they really were in case friends of the Sultan found them, and Batilda pretended they were a merchant and his wife, attacked by bandits.

  Garrick thought about this. His head was aching, she could tell by the way he squinted his eyes and rubbed at his temples, but generally he seemed much better. She dared to hope that he was getting well. He’d even asked her about his horse today and spoke of going riding, but he hadn’t the strength for it, not yet.

  “So did they arrive home? Did he live to see England again?”

  “He did.” She smiled, and lay down beside him. “Sleep now. It is late and you are weary.”

  He reached to take her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers, but he did not sleep. She could see his eyes staring up at the canopy of the bed; even after the candle was out she could see their gleam.

  For some reason her heart was beating quickly and she felt anxious and restless. She felt as if there was a stirring in the air, as if tonight something momentous was about to happen.

  “You are my wife,” he murmured in the dark, and he came up onto his elbow and looked down at her. His eyes were clear. The scar that had torn open his scalp and his cheek was healed, although the puckered skin would never be as it was. And yet, to her, he was still the handsome man she had fallen in love with.

  She nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat, and then he bent and kissed her lips, tentatively at first and then more firmly. He reached to cup her breast where she was naked beneath the bedcovers and her nipple peaked against his palm. He made a sound in his throat of desire and need.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered, and bent to run his tongue over her skin.

  It had been so long, her body was greedy. Already she could feel her sex swelling and aching, demanding to be touched. His hand slid down to her belly and for a moment he held it there, perfectly still.

  She wanted to wriggle so that his fingers were in the place she most wanted them, she wanted to take his hand in her own and show him, but she forced herself to remain still. And then he laughed, and she knew he had known all along.

  “My wanton wife,” he teased, and suddenly his fingers brushed across her mound, and the soft hair that grew there now there was no need for plucking, and slid into her outer lips.

  It had been so long and the brush of his fingers felt so strange, and then so familiar, that tears stung her eyes. She rolled over him and settled herself atop him, carefully, astride his hips. His cock was hard and eager, and she placed herself above it, so that just the tip entered her moist core.

  He looked up at her, hands on her hips, and began pushing her down to impale her. He had far more strength than she’d realised. As he stretched her, filled her, she moaned, and he reached up a hand to finger her breasts, teasing the hard nubs of her pink nipples.

  The pleasure was coming too fast when she wanted to slow it down, but she wondered if he would be able to continue on for much longer, so she moved quickly as he thrust upwards, and then he was crying out softly and her own climax took her sharp and sweet, her body rippling around him.

  After a moment she slid off him and lay beside him again, their bodies close together, their breathing slowing to normal.

  “Batilda,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, my lion.”

  “Are we safe now? Are we home?”

  “We are. We are here together, you and I.”

  “Good.” He said, and smiled as he turned his head to her in the night. “I feel as if I am getting better.”

  Batilda waited until he was asleep, and then she rose quietly and went to the chest at the bottom of the bed, where her clothes were folded. Hidden at the bottom was a cloak, dull and musky, covered with strange embroidered symbols. It wasn’t very pretty but to her it was a thing of remarkable beauty. This cloak had brought them together and it had saved their lives.

  She looked at it for a moment, remembering the past, dreaming of the future, and then she put it back and closed the lid, and went back to bed with her husband.