Henry kicked open the door as a bolt of lightning lit the sky. “Now that was a dramatic entrance.” Rolling a small, muddy barrel with his foot and his arms piled with firewood, Henry moved toward the hearth. Frances helped unburden him of his load, and Henry took over building the fire.
The kindling fire caught the larger logs just as Frances finished tapping the barrel and filling the cottage’s single tankard with honey ale.
“That smells delicious,” Henry murmured, accepting the mug with thanks. After a deep draft, he handed it back.
Frances sat back on her stool, sipping her ale with something akin to worship as the flooding warmth soothed the tension from being lost in the wood and caught in a storm.
They both sat in silence, soaking in the heat from the hearth as it filled the dark little room. Frances stood and began to take off her sodden riding habit. “Henry, please do not take this as an invitation . . . ”
“Worry not.” Henry rose and followed suit, dropping his soaked doublet onto the rug near the door with a splat. “I know you to be nothing if not practical.” His Venetians joined his doublet on the floor, leaving him standing in his sodden linen shirt and nether hosen. “I hope that I have proven that I am a man of honor. I will not ravage you.” Walking over to the cot, he retrieved the worn quilt and brought it over to his wife. “That is, unless you ask me.” The room was too dark to see, but Frances was sure he was smiling.
Frances, now stripped to her corset, chemise, and stockings, accepted the gift of the quilt with a noble nod. “Unless I ask you.” Would she? Last night she cursed their blasted arrangement, longing for him to take the lead; perhaps it was not so far-fetched. The image of lying with him in their marriage bed still made her uneasy, but here, in a cottage, during a storm, it was as if they were two lovers trysting instead of a duty bound married couple.
The next bolt of lightning punctuated Frances’s thought, and a frisson of awareness shivered through her body.
“Frances, you’re freezing. Pick up the quilt and come to the fire. I have something I want to show you.”
Frances obeyed wordlessly. She was too wrapped up in her thoughts. Come to think of it, she was still wrapped up in her corset. The quilt tucked over her shoulders, Frances reached around and deftly began picking loose lacings until the corset dropped at her waist. Henry let out a bark of a laugh as Frances pulled the corset out from under the quilt and tossed it across the room in the general direction of her hanging clothes.
“Is this your way of inviting my attentions? If so, you need to be more explicit.” Henry’s tone was jovial, but his eyes were piercing.
Frances smiled at his playful words. “I think the reed boning is waterlogged and doubled in thickness and weight,” Frances offered before adding, “Honestly, had I wanted to enamor you with my figure I would have left it on.”
“What could be more seductive than a naked woman?”
Wrapping the quilt tighter, she moved closer to the hearth to dispel the chill that shook her.
Henry rose from his stool, discovered a woolen blanket for himself, and discarded his wet shirt and hosen, wrapping the cloth about his waist like a kilt. He returned to sit on the rug in front of the hearth. “My underpinnings were never going to dry . . . ”
“No need to explain. It’s perfectly logical.” Frances was intensely aware that, but for the quilt, he was naked. “Would you have more ale?”
“Aye.” He nodded his assent, then gestured toward her. “Come sit on the rug with me. ’Twould be easier to share our loving cup.”
Again, Frances could not fault his logic. Besides, she was aching to be closer to him, and this was a practical reason. “Just a moment.” Crossing the cottage to a darkened corner, she divested herself of her wet linen chemise and woolen stockings, and wrapped the quilt securely across her bosom. Checking that she was well-covered, she returned to the hearth, joining him on the rug before the fire.
The storm continued on outside—the thunder and lightning passing on to leave only the driving wind and rain. It was still early in the day, but the sky was dark with clouds and the shutters of their haven shook with each gust. Inside, the firelight caressed Frances and Henry with a golden glow. They were safe. They were together. They were naked.
And Henry had just risen to refill their cup for the fourth time. He returned to hand the tankard to her, then retrieved one of the saddle bags before joining her once more.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” she asked after taking a sip. The ale got sweeter with every swallow.
“Yes. I keep it with me lest it be taken from our rooms.”
“What is it?” she asked as he unwound the leather wrapping.
The pillow book. Heat flooded her face, and she looked up at him, panic taking hold anew. “Henry, I am not certain . . . ”
“Hush. Wait.” He opened the book and removed a small silk pouch from a compartment within the cover. “I learned that there are ways to prevent conception and I thought you might be interested to learn. Please, know that I am not pressuring you.”
She swallowed her instinctive denial and simply nodded.
He opened the ties and upended it onto her lap—a circlet of leather so fine it may almost be silk, with two ribbons attached. “What is this?”
He took it from her and unrolled it into something resembling a glove for a very thick finger. He handed it back and said, “This is something they use in the Orient to prevent the pox.”
So not for a finger then. Lovely. She dropped it back onto her lap and wiped her hand on the quilt. “Has it been in there all this time?”
“No, it is new. I procured it from a glover in London.” He picked it up and slid a finger inside. “It fits over the male member so that a man’s seed does not enter the woman’s body.”
Oh. She blinked at his finger. Despite his large hands, the single digit inside the sheath was hardly filling it. If that fit over him, then he must be . . . Oh! No wonder coupling had always hurt.
She looked away and shook away the thought. “So this eliminates the chance of pregnancy?”
“Lessens it, from what I was told.” He rolled it back up and slipped it inside the pouch once more. “I know that fearing another babe is only part of what holds you back, but I thought if I removed that obstacle you might be more open to . . . ” He swallowed, for a moment reminding her very much of the young boy she’d married a lifetime ago. “Me.”
The nervous edge to his voice tugged at the knot in her chest. She met his eyes, her uncertainty waning under the raw emotion she saw aching in the deep brown depths of his gaze. She bit her lip and turned away. Coward.
“So,” she cleared her throat to relieve the unexpected tightness there, “the book. You carry it with you?”
He was silent a moment before responding. “I do not know how much of this book you examined, but I have set out to become a scholar.” The levity in his voice was a relief.
“A scholar on making love?” she asked, her voice edged in laughter,
He leaned closer and winked, playful once more. “I cannot think of a better thing to be an expert in.”
“Well then some would call me a lucky woman.”
“I would love to have you agree to that as well,” he said, his voice low against the thrumming rain. “First I learned that there are multiple, erhm, access angles . . . ”
He flipped open to a page showing a woman standing against a wall, one leg wrapped around her lover’s hip. The man had an enormous . . . She blushed as she pictured the size of the leather sheath he’d just shown her.
Henry flipped the page. And another, she assumed it was supposed to be a man’s organ but looked more like a stave, penetrated a woman who bent forward. It was intriguing and embarrassing and silly and . . . arousing.
“What I do not understand,” Frances mused as Henry turned the page, “is why this is a good idea. It all looks uncomfortable and,” she took another sip of the ale and shifted her weight to her hip so th
at her shoulder leaned against her husband, “messy.”
Henry chuckled, his laughter shaking her softly. “I imagine there is some pleasure involved.”
“Oh, for the man, certainly. I imagine there is.” She leaned her head back against his chest. “But the woman, it just looks awkward.” And her memories of their coupling over the years did not help, despite the unfamiliar warmth at her center.
“You seem to enjoy looking.” He shifted to accommodate her position, laying a hand on her hip to move her closer. With a jerk, he pulled away. It took Frances a moment to realize why: he’d touched her without permission.
She reached over and took his hand to lay it back on her. His fingers splayed, drawing her tighter against him, the pressure of his touch hot even through the quilt. She bit her lip at the intimacy.
It felt so right, like she fit in his arms, his hands made to touch her. Drawing an unsteady breath, she looked back at the book. Henry turned the page to the one she’d originally marked. This time the look of abandon on the woman’s face resonated within her. She remembered the way he made her feel, the way he loved her with his mouth that night on the barge. It was wanton, it was illicit, and it was perfect. It made her wonder what more was possible.
She looked up at him to find him focused on her. He was so close, just a breath away and all she wanted was to taste his kiss again. Her body ached with it. Please, please—she willed it, but he stayed still, his mouth a taut line, his jaw tense.
All she had to do was ask. Of course, there was that kiss this morning—that was entirely him. No permission and no apologies, he kissed her until her toes tingled. But that was different; she knew that kiss was fueled by fear for her safety, the need to confirm their connection. That wasn’t seduction, it was a claim and she could not deny it. Didn’t want to. Damnation. It was up to her.
But she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t even know what it was she wanted. She didn’t particularly want Henry’s gigantic phallus, if the pictures could be believed, anywhere near her . . . Except she did. A little. Really, all she wanted was a simple kiss. Maybe that would lead somewhere, maybe it wouldn’t. And if she didn’t like that path, she would make the right choice for herself, wouldn’t she?
“Henry, I . . . ” and “Frances, I do not . . . ” overlapped each other, causing both to pause in order to let the other speak. Courteously, both Frances and Henry reassured each other, “No, you speak . . . ” again, talking over each other. Frances let out a sheepish laugh, Henry sighed, the honeyed ale on his breath fanning against her cheek. After an expectant silence, both laughed again, the laughter only stopping when Frances said, “This is nonsense. Stop laughing and kiss me.”
Henry did not need to be told twice.
Chapter Twenty
Rule Twenty-Six: Love is powerless to hold anything from love.
Henry leaned his head down as Frances lifted her lips to meet in a soft kiss. Just a brush of lips. Then another. He lightly kissed the corner of her mouth in a feather-soft brush. Then her lower lip. It was playful. It was not enough.
Frances wanted more. The sweet uncertainty in his touch whetted her appetite and teased her with the memory of their kisses on the barge. Abandoning her secure hold on the quilt, she reached for him with both hands, delving her fingers into his curling hair and pressing him to her. Frances crushed her lips against his, seeking something more, and Henry responded immediately. No more soft and sweet—their lips moved over each other, tasting, tempting—Frances could not get enough.
He pulled away with a jolt, his eyes heavy lidded, their dark depths boring into her. “I will not presume. Remember, you must guide this, not I.”
She nodded and pushed forward to continue the kiss only to gasp as he dipped lower and pressed a hot kiss beneath her ear.
Henry’s lips skated across her jaw while Frances explored the cords of his neck, the tight muscles of his shoulders. She gasped in pleasure, encouraging him with each whimper and breath, but not sure what words to say. More? What would that mean?
• • •
Henry could not lose control, but this pounding, lust-driven madness had captured the two of them. He wanted to slowly love each inch of her body. This frenzy of hands and lips on bare skin was wild and uncontainable. The thought that he should stop and ask before kissing lower, the tight peak of her breast inches below his lips, seemed insignificant, her permission implicit with each gasp. But no. He shook his head, his lips brushing the soft rise of her chest, as he regained himself.
“That feels,” she breathed the words against his hair, and then pressed closer, shifting the pressure of her breasts against his bare chest, “wondrous. I want . . . ” She moved against him. “I want . . . ”
His entire body ached with need, so tight every muscle strained for more. Henry looked up, breathing in the heat of her panted breaths, and smiled into her passion-dazed eyes. “What do you want? Tell me.”
She pressed her forehead against his, shaking her head, biting her lip. With one hand, she took his and brought it to her breast. The warm globe filled his palm, the tight budded nipple a sharp contrast to the lush fullness. Stunned, he stayed still, simply holding her. Then she pushed into his hand and cried out.
Henry leaned in, capturing Frances’s waiting lips and swallowing her sigh as he shifted his hand and fit her nipple between his fingers in a soft pinch. “You want me to do this?” Henry asked, his lips still against hers, their breath mingling. “Does my touch please you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. He angled his hand, his thumb steadily toying with the beautiful rosy tip. She shivered, and her skin puckered in a wave of gooseflesh.
“I did not know,” she whispered as she snaked her fingers through his hair, “it could feel like this. Your touch.” She kissed him again, opening herself to his mouth.
Henry felt Frances’s sharp intake of breath with each caress. Her eyes closed as she leaned her head back, offering herself to him. His other hand came down, tracing the line from behind her ear, the cords of her neck, and finally resting on her other breast. The full mounds of firm, pliant flesh, with a beautiful rosebud nipple just asked to be tasted.
“I would like to kiss you.” Henry broke away from her lips, the desire clear on her face not helping his restraint.
“You were kissing me,” she answered and leaned in once more.
He met her mouth and then trailed his lips to her cheek before muttering, “No, I want to kiss you,” he pinched her nipple between his thumb and finger, rolling it softly, “here.”
She bit her lip and her head lolled back as she presented herself without words. “Tell me you want that too.” His mouth followed the trail his hand had just made, along her jaw and to her neck. “A kiss is a touch . . . ” He blew on the sensitized peak, and Frances shivered. “May I?”
“Please. Yes.”
• • •
Frances had never known her breasts could give pleasure. His hands were so hot, but his touch was so light. And his lips. She wanted more, but she didn’t even know how to ask. With another brush of his lips, then the coolness of his breath as he exhaled, Frances’s body took over, and she arched her spine, offering him even more. The light touches became more intense, his mouth searing her nipples as he tasted her. Sensation jolted through her body. She was not in control of herself—of the small cries she let go with each spasm that coursed from her breast to her womb. It was too much to wrap her mind around, too much to feel, but she wanted more. She needed more.
Her hands were in his hair, cradling his head as his hot mouth moved from one breast to the next. She arched back, pressing herself to his mouth, his hands cradling her back, her head, as he lowered her to the floor. Her hair splayed out against the thick pile of the sheepskin rug, his arm wrapped around her back helping her body bow toward him. Her breasts felt heavy. She became aware of the pooling moisture between her legs and involuntarily flexed her inner muscles, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body.
She could not find the words. The memories of the way he brought her pleasure on the barge, the way he touched her so intimately, she wanted that. She squeezed her inner muscles, surprised at the sensation tingling across her skin. Frances arched toward him, pleading with her body, as he knelt over her, his arms around her, holding her to him. He shifted back, pulling her up to straddle his knees, leaving her completely open to him.
The heat of his mouth on her breasts contrasted with the cool air caressing her, making her acutely aware of an emptiness, a need to be filled. Could she be longing to couple? To feel his manhood inside her? The thought scared and aroused her, and she squirmed against his mouth, feeling too much and needing more all at once. A sharp jolt of heat at her breast shocked her out of her thoughts and all she knew were the demands of her arousal. Naked and open before him, wrapped around him, Frances was too hot with desire to be embarrassed—too wild with need to hold on to any thought other than that she wanted him to soothe the ache inside her.
She pressed her pelvis forward, her legs spread wide over his thighs, his engorged shaft just inches away.
“Frances?” he asked, lifting his head from her bosom. His eyes held a question, an innocence and uncertainty that contrasted with the tension in his jaw. He needed her permission—it would be so easy to simply take her, and yet he still needed her say. Her heart felt too large for her chest, her breath almost painful against the rapid thudding at her throat. Evidence of his need, as strong as hers, lay between them and still he honored her. He did not demand or assume.
She stilled the frantic urges of her body, asked herself what she wanted. All her arguments against marital relations seemed moot in this moment of passion. She wanted this, wanted him.
Courtly Pleasures Page 20
