Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  Her hands slid down over his broad back and she slipped them under the thin breechcloth. Her palms stroked back and forth over the soft downy hairs that covered the top of his buttocks and felt as fine as marten fur.

  He moaned something against her mouth, a plea, a desire. ’Twas only her name, she knew, but it sounded like so much more when the sound seem to come from his very soul.

  She opened her eyes, needing to see his face, to see if he felt what she did. He was looking at her as he kissed her and touched her and moaned her name.

  His eyes were the same warm blue of a deep English sky, his pupils the dark blue of midnight. Those eyes were no longer cold, and she wondered how she could have ever thought them hard and icy.

  The passion she saw there was like her own, intense and overwhelming, and it made her want him more and more. She needed to get closer to him, to crawl inside of him, to touch him somewhere deep inside, and to have him touch her in places that just thinking about would surely send her to hell.

  “Touch me.” She breathed her sinful thoughts, and he buried his face in her neck and slid his hand from her tender taut-tipped breasts to in between her legs where she needed to feel pressure and hardness and touches.

  She did not care that she would burn for an eternity, that she would live through all the tortures of purgatory. She spread her thighs wider, and his fingers rubbed harder and harder against that warm wetness that should have humiliated her, but instead made her move with his motions, faster and faster, slicker, toward some higher place that had to be heaven. It had to be splendid heaven, for if this were hell, she wanted to go there.

  She gasped and gripped his bottom so hard, her nails were digging into his flesh. “I’m dying,” she called out. “I’m going to die.” She felt she was going to explode, to burst, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  He rubbed faster and faster. “Come, my sweet, come.” He whispered in warm breaths against her ear. “Let it go. Feel it, feel it.”

  The intensity of what was happening to her was so strong, so very powerful, that the moment she burst she saw nothing but flashes of stars and felt her blood all rush and pool in her nethers, throbbing as if her life’s blood were spilling from her. It went on and on, forever, this warm wet feeling that was better than dying.

  He stared down at her, his expression so tender and so full of feeling that she had to blink to see if perhaps she were dreaming.

  “Again,” he whispered, and when she shook her head and tried to move, he slid his hands up her arms and pinned them above her, while his lips skimmed down over her thin linen shift that was twisted like a cloth belt between her breasts and around her waist.

  He released her, lifted her hips and buried his face between her legs and kissed her there. ’Twas more than she could bear and she cried out and tried to twist away again.

  His mouth followed her and kissed her so intimately that she almost fainted. His tongue went deep, as if it were only delving inside her mouth, then he sucked and took all of her in his hungry mouth until she burst apart again and again.

  Between Prime and Terce, the same sin happened more times than she could count, until she had no life left in her. She lay there limp and wilted, her lips bruised and her body flaccid as a flower, swept away by the sheer power of the wind and rain.

  Merrick, however, seemed to have an inordinate amount of life, as if he had slept all night. He got out of the bed with so very much vigor in his step that his motions almost made her dizzy. He washed and dressed with more enthusiasm than she’d have thought a king’s earl was capable of.

  Somehow she’d imagined him as a warrior, someone who was not human, just a being whose duty was war and guarding the borders and making Camrose into a stronghold so massive that no enemy could ever pierce its stone walls.

  She propped her head on her hand and watched him. He confused her, this gentle man who touched her as if she were his world. Part of her wanted to sleep, to escape this confusion. But with him humming and whistling and preening she could not sleep.

  He looked up after toweling off his face. “What has you scowling so?”

  “You stole all my life,” she said, plucking impatiently at the bed linen and pulling small down feathers from the bed.

  “If you keep picking apart the mattress, we shall have to sleep on that old hay tick.”

  She swiped at the feathers, which curled up into the air and then floated to the floor. “’Tis not fair, you know. I have no life left, not even enough to get up, and you are footslogging around this chamber as if you have fire under your …” She paused.

  “My what?” He was grinning at her.

  “Your big feet.”

  He laughed loud and heartily and tossed the towel aside. “You know what the old wives say about big feet.”

  Before either of them could speak, there was a horrendous pounding on the chamber door. “Merrick! Merrick!”

  Seeming to ignore Sir Roger, Merrick slipped on his leather jack and crossed the room as he buckled on his sword belt.

  He stood over her as the pounding went on. He bent down and pressed his hands flat on the mattress, pinning her just inches from his face.

  She looked up at him, her gaze drifting all on its own to his sensual mouth, then to his bristled cheeks and his warm blue eyes. His face was so very close that she could smell the sweet soap scent on his clean skin—thyme and heather and mint. It made her heart speed up and her wits go walking all at the same time.

  “Roger is still angry with me for foisting Old Gladdys off on him.”

  The door rattled again, then came Roger’s loud voice, “Are you going to lie abed all day, Merrick? Get up, you sloth, so I can whip your arse on the practice field!”

  Merrick dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head instead of her mouth, where she wanted it.

  By the time she opened her eyes to scowl at him again, he had crossed the room and jerked open the chamber doors. He stood there in all his tall glory. “Well, if it isn’t Sir Roger the Ravished.”

  Even Sir Isambard choked back a laugh.

  Roger leveled a vengeful look at Merrick. “Your wit astounds me.”

  ’Twas then that Merrick clapped him on the shoulder and apologized. Merrick de Beaucourt, the Red Lion, told Roger he was sorry about the old Druid.

  Clio was shocked. She could not have imagined him admitting he was wrong, let alone telling anyone he was truly sorry.

  She felt strange and uncomfortable, as if she had just walked around a corner and seen someone important naked, like the pope or the king. Had she been that very wrong about him? About his hardness and character? Perhaps she was the one who had been too stubborn to give way.

  “Come,” Merrick said in a completely different tone from the one he used when he’d said that very word to her. He must have noticed, too, because he turned back and looked at her.

  Something hot and intimate passed between them. A sweet and sinful memory.

  Roger straightened and peered over Merrick’s shoulder at Clio. “Tell me that is not Lady Clio, the sweet and innocent maiden, lying in your bed.”

  She gasped and pulled her covers over her head, curling into a ball of humiliation.

  “’Tis her bed now,” was all Merrick said.

  “What are you about?” Roger asked with some tone of censure.

  “She is still a maiden.” Merrick’s voice was all too cocky.

  Clio lay beneath the covers and gritted her teeth together until they ached. How very splendid of them to stand in the door to her chamber and discuss her virginity as if it were the day’s weather.

  “Good day to you, my lady,” Merrick said pointedly and closed the door.

  Merrick and Roger turned to leave, and something hard thudded against the heavy bedchamber door.

  “The iron candleholder?” Roger guessed.

  Merrick shook his head. “Too muted. I’d say her shoe.”

  Roger nodded in agreement as Merrick turned to Sir Isambard. “Have one
of the men, no …” Merrick paused for a thoughtful instant. “Have three of the men watch over her today.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Merrick and Roger went down the stairs side by side.

  “I came earlier,” Roger said almost too casually.

  “Oh?”

  There was a glint in Roger’s eye. “To get you up.”

  “I went to bed late.”

  “I heard the lady shouting,” Roger said, then was pointedly quiet.

  A tense moment passed, the kind when time seemed to stretch out before them.

  Roger looked at Merrick and smothered his grin. “Then tell me, my friend, did she die?”

  “Aye,” Merrick said without missing a step. “She died the sweetest death I’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter 27

  A piebald gelding charged toward the quintain with Thud bouncing atop his flat training saddle in the same floundering way a puppet bounces on its strings—arms flying out, legs loose, and ass rising a good foot in the air.

  With every full stride of the horse, Thud’s head flopped about his neck as if it were broken, his hair slapping his brow and face.

  “God’s teeth,” Merrick muttered. “How the hell does he stay on?”

  Sir Isambard stood there rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Stubborn determination.”

  The lad hit the quintain at a full, yet somewhat flailing run. Thud grunted loudly; it sounded as if someone had belched up a north wind.

  The wooden target spun round so fast that Merrick closed his eyes and winced.

  There was a loud thud!

  When Merrick opened his eyes, the boy was sprawled on the ground a good five feet from his mount. Thud’s lance had slipped from his loose grip and shot backward like an arrow from an upside-down bow, then rolled uselessly to a stop at Merrick’s feet.

  Tobin and some of the other squires were doubled over, crowing with laughter.

  Thud adjusted his helm and shoved the visor back. He stared at Merrick, his eyes looking dazed.

  Merrick stood there watching him, then pointed toward the horse.

  Thud understood him and awkwardly got to his feet, then half stumbled toward his horse. He stuck one foot in the stirrup and gripped the saddle, then tried to mount.

  On the wrong side.

  Confused, the horse danced around in a backward circle with Thud hopping on one foot and trying to pull himself up.

  The squires were all but rolling on the ground they were laughing so hard.

  Sir Isambard cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Switch sides, lad.”

  Merrick groaned and shook his head. “Don’t you think the lad should learn to ride before he tries the lance?”

  “Aye. But the boy insisted.”

  Thud had managed to mount the horse, and he rode— using the term loosely—back toward the starting mark.

  Merrick walked over and handed him the lance. “Here, lad.”

  Thud took the weapon.

  “Tighten your knees on the horse and move your body with him. Will keep you from bouncing off. Grip the lance tightly under your arm and try to keep it straight.”

  Thud nodded, listening intently and wearing a face that was serious with concentration.

  “Aim for the target’s torso.” Merrick pointed at the practice dummy. “Right there, where the heart would be. See the splintered marks?”

  “Aye.”

  “The moment you hit the target, lie low over the mount’s mane and urge him forward with your knees. The horse will do the rest.”

  Thud nodded. He slipped the lance under his arm and took off, still bouncing like the leather football the squires used to play melee games.

  He charged again, more daylight showing between his butt and the saddle than shone in the morning sky. He hit the dummy. Hard. The lance flew back again and the boy crouched low over the horse … just as the quintain spun by and swept him off.

  But he didn’t fall.

  Thud clung atop the spinning quintain, his legs clamped around it while he spun round and round like a traveling acrobat. His riderless horse trotted easily over to a clump of nearby grass and began to eat.

  This time the squires were on the ground, holding their sides and rolling around with laughter.

  “Keep at it, Thump!” Merrick shouted, figuring a little encouragement wouldn’t hurt the lad.

  “Thud,” Sir Isambard said from the corner of his mouth. “His name is Thud.”

  “Thud!” Merrick corrected, then looked at his man. “Where is the other one.” He paused and frowned for a moment. What was the other lad’s name? “Thwart? Where’s Thwart?”

  “Thwack.”

  “Aye.” Merrick nodded. “Thwart, Thump, Thwack. ’Tis enough to confuse a saint.”

  “The last I saw of him he was trying to pick his mount from horses in the stable yard.”

  “How long ago?”

  The older knight shrugged. “An hour or so before None.”

  Merrick glanced up at the angle of the sun in the sky. ’Twas well past None. Shaking his head, he took off toward the stables.

  Clio strolled across the inner bailey, her guards, three of Merrick’s men-at-arms, trailing along behind her like overgrown ducklings. However they were not her concern at the moment.

  She was secretly searching for the Earl of Lips, wonderful, wonderful lips, and trying not to be too obvious. Should he discover how she felt, the man would not be able to get his great swollen head through the castle doors.

  She moved toward the stables. The familiar scent of freshly mown hay, mixed with the sharp tinge of manure, filled the warm air. She paused, then poked her head inside, where it was dark and dank, and it took a few moments for her vision to adjust.

  The horses shifted in their stalls. One of them neighed and threw up his massive head. ’Twas Merrick’s warhorse. She scanned the inside but could not see Merrick, so she left.

  Around back, more horses were in the stable yard, where new fences had been made to keep them safely penned inside. Merrick had explained during a meal conversation with Sir Roger that he had done so in case of an attack. The men could find and mount them quickly. As if she could not figure that one out on her own.

  She strolled toward the fences, then stopped. Her keepers stopped a few feet behind her, as if they were actually attached by puppet strings to her slippers and had to move when she moved, stop when she stopped.

  ’Twas humiliating and made her feel a snatch of rebelliousness toward Merrick and his need to control her every motion. She scowled and kicked a rock away in frustration.

  She kicked a few more rocks just for the pleasure of kicking something solid and thick and heavy. Rocks were after all not unlike a man’s head.

  She paused and eyed the pen. After a moment’s thought, she climbed up on the lowest fence railing and rested her arms over the top, then just concentrated on watching the horses.

  They played about the yard, nipping each other and trotting around the fencing with their tails up as if to say, “Yes, look at me, watch me prance.” They were stallions, the lot of them, she thought with no little surprise.

  She turned to hop down from the fence, but stopped when she heard the quiet, distant sound of voices coming from the rear of the stable.

  She smiled. ’Twas in truth not the arrogant male horses that had her attention, but a different arrogant male. Yes, she knew the distinct tone of Merrick’s voice, and felt something twitch inside her belly at the deep sound of it.

  She did not get down and go into the back of the stable. She had her keepers with her and they would surely tell Merrick if she were to eavesdrop. Besides which, if she concentrated, she heard fine right here.

  “Remember, lad. Move with him,” Merrick was saying. “Give him his head. Let the horse do the work.”

  Before Clio had a chance to discover whom Merrick was instructing, the rear stable doors blasted open. Her keepers moved into a protective circle around her, their weapons raised. As if th
e doors were going to harm her.

  But before she could speak, a rider shot out of the darkness into the clear sunshine, and Clio clung to the fence railing, unable to believe what she saw.

  Thwack was atop a huge black horse, its mane flying as they rode past. The lad, who to the best of her knowledge had never been atop anything other than one of the miller’s oxen, was bent low, his hands on the reins. His knees were high and gripping the mount the same way she remembered Merrick’s were when he’d charged those outlaws in the forest.

  Thwack, sweet and simple Thwack, moved with the horse as if he were born there.

  “That’s the way, boy!” Merrick stepped from inside the stable. He was laughing. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Lean low, lad, and ride!”

  She jumped down from the fence and elbowed her way through her keepers, her skirts in her fists as she ran after the boy, half in awe and half afraid he was riding toward his death.

  She did not care that his men ran behind her; she was afraid for Thwack. Her eyes had to be deceiving her. As she rounded the corner of the armory, with Thwack just ahead, someone ran past her, someone large, someone wearing a familiar brown leather jack. Someone with long muscled legs.

  She gripped her skirts even tighter and higher, ran faster, trying feebly to match his long strides.

  Her breath grew tight in her chest. Her throat burned. She could feel the sweat, the heat of exertion color her face.

  He turned at the smithy’s, the same direction Thwack had gone. She churned her hands and feet faster and faster and whipped around the stone corner of the smithy’s and ran right into the Merrick’s open arms.

  He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather. “I thought you’d never get here.”

  She stared up at him, unable to speak because she was trying to catch her breath. He was grinning down at her. He was not even winded.

  She felt as if her chest were on fire. Her mouth was open and panting.

  One hand slid into her tangle of hair and held her head close to his. He kissed her then, before she could speak or gasp or breathe. His tongue filled her hot mouth and made it hotter.