by Falcons Fire
Peter hesitated. It was the white queen from the chess set that Lady Martine had given Edmond as a betrothal gift, the white queen carved in her own image—the piece that had turned up missing from the set shortly before the wedding. It was of little account, everyone agreed, since Edmond didn’t even play chess. Indeed, no one even mentioned the theft to him and he did not seem to notice it.
It was the image of Martine of Rouen that Thorne carried with him and cherished, stared at longingly and held close to his heart. A poor substitute for the lady herself, but one with which he’d had to make do. Did she know of his feelings? Perhaps not. And if not, it wasn’t Peter’s place to inform her.
Drying her hands, Martine said, “What was it? A rock?”
“Aye,” Peter said, secreting the white queen in the pocket of his undershirt. “Just a rock.”
Nodding, she indicated the basin. “If I could just trouble you to wash your hands...” She brushed a lock of hair off Thorne’s forehead, and then her gaze traveled down his long body, lingering on the bolt that pierced his shoulder and arm, the leg that had been all but destroyed. Taking a deep breath, and looking slightly overwhelmed, but very determined, she added, “Then we can get to work.”
Chapter 18
Thorne opened his eyes. It was the middle of the night. From beyond the curtains enclosing his bed came the steady breathing of his fellow patients. The only light in the infirmary was the golden glow of the fire pit on the other side of the curtain to his right. No, not quite the only light; something glimmered to the left. Knowing better than to try to sit up without help—his right arm and leg being strapped into splints—he merely turned his head in that direction, hoping to see her there and praying that she hadn’t stopped coming...
She was there, curled up on the big chair they’d dragged in for her, fast asleep. The glimmer came from the oil lamp that shared the little bedside table with her puzzling collection of vials and jars, a stack of fresh bandages, a ewer, and a cup. She had sat up with him, tending his injuries and keeping him company, every day and every night for... how long had it been?
He had no recollection of being brought to St. Dunstan’s, and only fitful, pain-blurred memories of the first day or two, but as near as he knew, this was his fifth night in this place. His fifth night, and she’d been here the whole time, only returning to the prior’s lodge for brief naps or to wash up. Brother Matthew had tried to make her stop coming, maintaining that a monastery infirmary was no place for a woman, but she had argued ceaselessly, claiming Thorne needed her.
And, of course, he did. Needed her in ways too numerous to count.
Right now he needed simply to look at her. In obedience of the dress code enforced on her, she wore a plain dark tunic and a heavy white veil that completely covered her hair. Her face and hands glowed softly in the warm firelight filtering through the curtain, her eyebrows and lashes black as soot against her ivory skin. Those generous lips of hers were slightly parted, revealing the edges of her perfect white teeth.
One of her hands rested on an open book. When he tried to lift his head for a better view of it, pain lanced his right shoulder, and he sank to the bed, sucking in air. As the pain subsided, he reached out his uninjured left arm and carefully slid the book from beneath her hand.
The movement awakened her with a jolt, whereupon the little volume slipped out of his hand and tumbled to the floor.
“What...” she murmured, blinking in confusion. “Thorne, are you all right?” She noticed his arm hanging off the bed and carefully took hold of it, replacing it at his side, then retrieved the book.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, speaking in low tones so as not to disturb the sleeping men beyond the curtains. “I wanted to see what you were reading.”
She showed him the cover. “Ovid’s Amores.”
“Would you read it to me?”
She glanced at the book, grinning self-consciously. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer his Heroides? There’s a copy in the library.”
Thorne chuckled. “Nay, tonight I believe I’m in the mood for Amores.”
Martine read page after page of the courtly poetry as Thorne watched her through half-closed lids, basking in her soft, melodious voice, her infinitely comforting presence. She finished reading, then poured herself a cup of water and drank it.
“Could I have some of that?” he asked.
“Of course.” She poured another cup, then sat on the edge of his bed and carefully slid her arm beneath his back, avoiding his bandages. He gripped her shoulder with his good left hand and held his breath. “Easy, now,” she coaxed as she urged him into a sitting position. He grimaced as pain coursed through him, realizing only after he’d sat up that his fingers had sunk deep into her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmured, shaking out his left arm. “You’ll be bruised tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I’m covered with bruises. ‘Tis one of the drawbacks of tending the ‘English Giant Who Won’t Die’.”
“One of the drawbacks? Are there many others?”
He saw her glance at his bare chest, for he wore nothing beneath his sheet, and quickly look away. “Nay.” She reached for the cup and brought it to his mouth. He steadied it by wrapping his big hand around her small one, wondering whether her slight trembling owed more to the late hour or his proximity. He’d noticed that she didn’t seem to much care about his state of undress when she changed his dressings or spooned elixirs into his mouth, but at other times, such as now, she appeared uncomfortably aware of it. It was when she saw him as a man, rather than as a helpless patient, that she found him most disturbing. But then, how could it be otherwise, given what had occurred between them?
He drained that cup and another. “Thank you.”
She set the cup down. He assumed that she would return to her chair then, but she surprised him pleasantly by bringing her hand to his face and stroking his five-day growth of beard. He closed his eyes, savoring the cool caress of her fingers. “You need to shave,” she said.
“I can’t do it with my left hand.” A rather agreeable thought occurred to him. “Perhaps you could do it for me.”
She dropped her hand to her lap and appeared to consider the possibility. With a small shrug, she said, “Very well. I’ll do it in the morning.” Thorne beamed in anticipation. For a few moments she stared at her hands, looking very prim indeed in her nunlike garb. He wished he could see more of her. That damn veil even hid her forehead. He smiled to himself, remembering the day they met. He’d been so sure that her headdress concealed pockmarks, patchy hair, and God knew what other defects. The next morning, when she glided across the bailey in her indigo gown, with her flawless face and her hair like spun gold, he’d felt as incredulously stunned as if the sun had just risen in the west.
“There’s a question I’d like to ask you,” she said. “I suppose it’s actually a rather personal one.”
He allowed himself a smile. “There’s a favor I’d like to ask of you. I’ll answer your question if you grant my favor.”
Her brows drew together. “What’s the favor?”
He shook his head, grinning. “You can’t know beforehand. Where’s the sport in that?”
She rolled her eyes. “All right. But first my question.”
“Of course,” he replied soberly.
She took a deep breath. “That night at Blackburn Castle, when you tricked Peter and Guy out of following you inside to find Lord Neville—” she shook her head, her expression troubled, “you knew you’d die. I mean, you knew it. It was a miracle you survived.”
He closed his hand over hers, clutched together in her lap. “‘Tis your doing that I survived—in one piece, at any rate.”
“Nevertheless,” she continued gravely, “you shouldn’t have lived. You knew you wouldn’t.”
He gently squeezed her hands. “What is your question, Martine?”
She shook her head in evident bewilderment. “Why? Why were you willing to do it? Why were
you willing to die?”
“Someone had to—”
“Nay,” she said firmly, and met his gaze almost fiercely. “Why you? Why you alone, when ‘twould have been safer with Peter and Guy to help you? I think,” she added, her voice quavering with emotion, “perhaps you wanted to die.”
He let her statement hang heavily between them for a moment, and then said quietly, “There’s a difference between wanting to die and” —he shrugged— “not particularly caring whether you live.”
She frowned. “Everyone wants to live.”
He looked down at his hand caressing hers. “Not if you have nothing to live for. Not if what you most desire in the whole world is forever denied you.”
Their gazes locked in intimate communion for a wondrous moment. But the moment ended abruptly when Martine’s eyes registered a sudden realization and she turned away. “Your land,” she said.
Land? “Nay, I meant...” He meant what? What was he thinking, saying these things to her, preparing to deliver some sort of declaration of... of what? Love? Love was a liability he could ill afford.
That afternoon, when Peter had come to the infirmary to say good-bye before returning to Harford, he’d handed Thorne the little chess piece carved in Martine’s image. “You dropped this.”
Thorne had accepted it wordlessly, tucking it carefully beneath the straw mattress, where Martine wouldn’t find it.
“Do you love her?” his friend had asked.
“Nay,” Thorne had answered quickly. “I need her. It’s not the same.”
Peter had chuckled. “Isn’t it?”
It wasn’t, Thorne told himself, with more conviction than he felt.
“Don’t worry, you’ll earn a manor eventually,” Martine said now, her tone that of polite conversation.
Thorne looked away from her and nodded. “Aye.” Disengaging his hand from hers, he took her by the shoulder again. “Help me lie down?”
She wrapped her arms around him and eased him back onto the bed. He put the discomfort out of his mind, wanting to cherish the pleasure of her embrace, imagine it to be the embrace of a lover. His head sank into the feather pillow, and he closed his eyes, willing the last of the hurt to recede. When it did, and he opened his eyes, he found her looking down on him, her expression solemn, her sapphire eyes huge and glittering in the muted firelight.
“I owe you a favor,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear it.
Her innocent words shot a thrill of excitement through him. He could ask anything of her, anything at all, and she’d be honor-bound to comply. Swallowing hard, he reminded himself that she had spent the past four days and five nights nursing him back to health. It would ill repay her kindness to take advantage of her. He therefore resolved only to ask the favor he’d originally intended.
Raising his hand to her veil, he fingered the heavy linen. “Take this off.”
If the command surprised her, she gave no hint of it. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached up, unfastened the head covering, and pulled it off, tossing it onto the chair, then shook her head. His breath caught in his throat as her hair, freed from its confinement, spilled onto his bare chest, a cool, heavy mass of gleaming silk.
Her scent—sweet woodruff and lavender, warm skin and sunshine—blossomed into the air, enveloping him, overwhelming his senses. He brought a fistful of hair to his face and inhaled, breathing in her essence. She leaned over him, her hands braced on either side of his head, her face very close, her eyes fixed on his. Her hair enclosed them like a perfumed satin tent—a luxurious hiding place for just the two of them. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being completely surrounded by her, warm and golden, fragrant and mysterious. His mind reeled; his heart galloped in his chest until it pained him just to breathe.
Thorne couldn’t keep from touching her, regardless of his good intentions. He brought his hand up and cupped her cheek. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if trying to resist him; but in the end, with a sigh of capitulation, she turned her head and pressed her warm lips to his palm. “Martine,” he rasped, curving his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer, closer...
She paused briefly just before her lips touched his, and he saw the apprehension in her eyes. But then she closed them and kissed him, really kissed him, with a passion and intensity that drew an ecstatic moan from his throat. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gripped her head harder than he knew he should, deepening the kiss, reveling in her taste, her warmth.
Unable to stop himself, he trailed his hand down her throat and covered one soft breast through the wool of her tunic, thrilling at the little whimper of pleasure that escaped her. His body responded instantly. He’d never grown so hard so fast.
“Lie next to me,” he whispered gruffly.
She kicked off her slippers and lay half on top of him, her mouth seeking his again, her hands in his hair, on his chest, stroking, caressing... With a mindless urgency born of fierce arousal, he tugged at her skirt, yanking it up and gliding his hand between her soft thighs. He lightly stroked her with his fingertips, then found her tight entrance and probed deep.
She gasped. She was wet. She wanted him, was ready for him. He explored her with a sense of awe, enthralled by the narrowness of her passage, its slick, inviting heat. Withdrawing his finger, he slid it upward until it grazed her most sensitive flesh. She quivered. “Oh! Oh, God!”
She buried her face in the crook of his neck as he touched her; he kissed the top of her head, nuzzled her hair. “Yes,” he whispered as her hips began to move to the rhythm of his caress. Her breath grew quick and shallow, her entire body tensed, and then she trembled all over, her fingers digging into his chest, her soft cries muffled by the pillow.
He held her until her breathing steadied, and then took her hand and guided it down over the sheet, shaping it to his aching need.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
“You’ll have to be on top.”
Martine’s eyes widened, but then she nodded, seeming to comprehend. She shifted position, glanced around to make sure the curtains were drawn, and then lowered the sheet to expose him.
“I’ll be quiet,” he promised—a promise he broke almost instantly, crying out in agony when she tried to position herself astride him. Her knee barely nudged his splinted leg, but it was enough to send a bolt of fire along every nerve in his body.
“Oh, my God—Thorne!” Martine knelt beside him on the bed, cradling him helplessly as he panted like a wolf caught in a trap. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s not your fault,” he managed between clenched teeth.
She stroked his hair, leaned over to kiss his temple. ‘Twas foolish of us to try to... We can’t do this. ‘Twill hurt you.”
He chuckled breathlessly. “Some things are worth a bit of pain. But perhaps... well, perhaps not quite that much pain.” He listened carefully to the quiet, rhythmic breathing from beyond the curtain. “I didn’t wake the others, but they won’t be able to sleep through much more of that.”
She glanced down at him. “Won’t you be... frustrated?”
Thorne smiled. “I have no intention of being frustrated.” He took her hand and closed it over his throbbing shaft. “There are other ways.”
She watched for a few moments as he guided her fist up and down, and then he released his hand she continued the caress on her own. “Is this what you want?” she asked. “I mean, is this all, or is there—” her hand stilled and she glanced up at him a bit timidly, “something else?”
His gaze strayed to her mouth, to her lush lips the color of crushed berries. There was something else, of course, but he was loath to ask it of her. It was a service only whores had performed for him, and for extra payment, at that. Despite her intellectual sophistication, Martine was, he reminded himself, very much an innocent. Such an act might disgust her, make her feel defiled.
She had evidently noticed the direction of his gaze. Her tongue flicked out to moisten those tempting lips, a
charmingly unconscious, but nonetheless provocative gesture; Thorne closed his eyes, praying for self-control.
“Last summer,” she began, “at the river, when we... when we were together, you... kissed me.” He knew without elaboration what kind of kiss she meant. “Is that something that a woman could do for a man?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
She glanced down at her hand resting on his erection, and then looked him in the eye. “Would you like me to do it for you?”
She seemed so sweetly sincere that he couldn’t repress a smile. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
“Show me,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
He trailed his fingertips down her face and tenderly brushed them across her lips. “Just... I don’t know. Do whatever you think I’d like. You could hardly go wrong.”
Looking decidedly unsure of that, she lowered her head, her incredible sweep of hair blanketing him like a silken cape, obscuring his view of her—possibly, he thought, a deliberate ploy on her part to protect her modesty. He closed his eyes, and after what seemed an eternity, felt the first light touch of her mouth on his tormented, straining flesh.
Thorne bit his lip, struggling for composure. He felt the whisper-soft pressure of her lips, and presently the hot, wet tip of her tongue. The tentative nature of her efforts only intensified the stimulation. “Oh, God,” he whispered shakily, his fist closing around a handful of her hair.
He’d told her she could hardly go wrong, and she didn’t. The most practiced courtesan could have done no better. What she lacked in experience, she more than made up for in her touching desire to please him. Her generosity in doing this for him moved him profoundly, and he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps, deep in her heart, she still harbored some real affection for him.
When she finally took him full in her mouth, he growled deep in his throat and shoved his hand through her hair. “Martine... oh, God. Yes!”
His climax approached swiftly. He released his grip on her head. “Martine, I’m... close.” She didn’t understand, and made no move to substitute her hand for her mouth. Given her inexperience, he thought it best if she did. “Martine,” he gasped, taking her by her shoulder and pulling her up.
