“I know you desire me. I cannot deny I . . . crave you also.” The truth glowed bright in her heart. She would never feel passion for another man as she felt for Geoffrey de Lanceau. “I yield not just for my father,” she said, “but for me.”
Torment and desire shivered across Geoffrey’s face, and he shook his head. “I can make you no promises for the melee.”
“Then I expect none.”
“Listen to what you say! You will sacrifice your innocence for naught.”
She shivered at the bite in his words, but did not look away. “I yield because I wish to. Because I want this one moment with you that may never come again.”
“God’s teeth,” he whispered, “you are the bravest woman I have ever known.” Admiration gleamed in his shocked gaze. He reached out and trailed his wine-stained thumb down her cheek. She did not realize she was crying, until she felt the wet path of his skin on hers. “Ah, damsel, how I wish you wept for me.”
His words were soft, tender, and Elizabeth exhaled on a rush. She fought for words to convey the emotions swirling inside her.
He cupped her face with his hand. “Elizabeth, my beautiful, headstrong damsel. I want to love you.”
“I am yours.”
“Kiss me.”
She had never seen such turmoil. Hunger. His need burned inside her.
She longed to feel his arms wrap around her, to taste him, to explore him. The yearning—a desire that surpassed the boundaries of past and future to reach pure, elemental attraction between man and woman—was stronger now than it had ever been.
He set the silver goblet on the table. His hand dropped from her face, yet he did not move closer or try to touch her, though she knelt within reach. Mayhap he feared frightening her away. Mayhap he wanted her to reconsider all that she had offered.
Whatever his reasons, they did not matter.
She would not waver.
With a shaking hand, she touched his leg. His wool hose felt smooth and warm beneath her palm, and, edging forward, she closed the space separating them. His hand settled over hers, and tingles shot up her arm. She glanced up to see if he, too, had felt them. He nodded. His gaze smoldering, he plowed his fingers into her hair.
A ragged sigh burst from him, and he leaned toward her. His breath warmed her cheek. A caress. An invitation.
Elizabeth lifted her mouth to his.
The kiss was sweeter than she ever imagined. Her lips feathered over his, explored his sensuous mouth. He tasted of red wine, a tangy, heady piquancy more intoxicating than a sip from the goblet. She kissed him again and drew back.
He exhaled with a gasp, a sound that expressed a deluge of sensations. As she licked her lips, savoring his essence, his mouth hovered close. He raised one eyebrow. When she flushed, he smiled. Anticipation shuddered through her. Before she lost her nerve, Elizabeth leaned forward and claimed his lips.
“Damsel,” he groaned. His hand, tangled in her hair, shook. She sensed his urgent need, his desire to take control, yet he did not. Instead, he coaxed her with kisses that dared her to seek more.
With a sigh, Elizabeth arched forward to deepen the contact, and her belly pressed against his leg. His fingers slid from her hair and, breaking away for less than one breath, he reached down and drew her onto his lap.
Awareness assailed her. His thigh under her bottom. His muscled arm at her back. His familiar scent. She trembled, overwhelmed, but his mouth found hers. His lips soothed, teased, and when his tongue eased between her teeth, she gasped. His kisses grew fiercer, more profound, until her pulse hammered and her body arched with wanting.
Breathing hard, Elizabeth drew back. She stared up into his flushed face, into his blazing eyes, and felt an inexplicable sense of incompletion.
“Elizabeth.” He nuzzled the hollow of her neck and trailed kisses down her collarbone. “Lie with me now.”
His hushed words were not a command, but a request, delivered with such yearning her heart almost broke in two. She snuffed a twinge of panic and regret. She would go to his bed, for she wanted him, as he desired her. If she could convince him not to plunge his sword into her father’s heart, she must.
She met Geoffrey’s ravenous gaze. “Aye,” she whispered.
He answered with a tortured groan and a kiss so brazen, Elizabeth cried out when their lips parted. Cradling her in his arms, he rose and carried her to the bed, her hair brushing the floorboards. His hands gentle, he laid her down on the coverlet. The bed ropes creaked as he stretched out beside her.
His fingers stroked her tresses. He fanned her hair out over the coverlet and pulled a ringlet over her shoulder. She smiled and, spurred by a rush of boldness, pushed her hand up under his tunic.
He tensed. His eyes narrowed in warning, and she froze with her palm pressed to his warm belly. Had she displeased him? She had never lain with a man before. Dismay whirled up inside her. If she had ruined her chance to save her father—
Geoffrey covered her hand with his, and drew it to a buckled ridge along the right side of his chest. A scar. A long, hideous scar. Elizabeth traced the line of marred flesh with her fingertips and bit back a horrified cry. What had happened to him? How had he survived such a wound?
Anguish shimmered in his eyes, and she sensed him steel himself for her rejection. With a gentle smile, she tugged the tunic up past his navel.
“’Tis not a pleasant sight,” he muttered.
“Please.” She pushed herself up to sitting.
He raised up on one elbow, drew the tunic over his head, and tossed it onto the floor.
Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She had expected the warrior strength of his physique, but not his godlike beauty, which the scar could never diminish. His skin gleamed like polished bronze. She smoothed her fingers over the swell of muscles and ribs, and marveled at the perfection of the human body. His body.
Geoffrey pushed up to sit beside her. The skin across her breasts tingled, for she recognized the wicked gleam in his eyes. His fingers drifted over her bodice, down to her waist, and as she swayed against him, her eyes closed. He took her mouth in a fiery kiss, reached down, and unlaced his boots. They fell to the floor. He did not break the kiss as he unfastened the points of his hose, removed the belt, and stripped the wool from each leg.
His thumb caressed her cheek, and Elizabeth dared to open her eyes. He was naked. Glorious. Her gaze traveled over his body, worshipped each gleaming swell of muscle and sinew. Her fingers burned to touch him. She reached for his thigh, but he captured her hand. His fingers linked through hers and he pressed her back on the bed.
His face taut with need, he leaned over her. His tongue slicked over the sensitive hollow of her throat, then moved to her bodice’s edge. How did such pleasure exist in a simple touch? Through half-lowered lashes, she watched him unfasten her bliaut’s ties. His hands moved again, down her side, down her leg, to her hem.
When his fingers grazed the inside of her leg, she quivered. His lips swept over hers. He whispered tender reassurances, and pulled her bliaut and chemise to her waist. He coaxed her to wriggle out of them, and then dropped them over the side of the bed.
Cool air kissed her skin. Elizabeth shivered. She lay naked before him. The rough hair on his legs brushed against her, reminded her of the different textures of man and woman. With her hands, she tried to hide her nakedness, but he raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, one by one.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured.
“And you tell a fine falsehood.” She gave a shaky laugh. “My cheekbones are too high and—”
“Believe me, damsel, you are exquisite. All of you.”
His eyes blazed, and a thrill of wonder and excitement coursed through her. He ran his hand over her hipbone and flat stomach. When the muscles fluttered at his touch, he grinned.
With slow, careful movements, he lowered his weight over her. As he braced his arms on either side of her shoulders, his silky hair brushed h
er temple. Elizabeth swallowed. Dipping his head, he distracted her with a searing kiss. He teased her desire, taunted her with his hands, lips, and tongue, until her body writhed beneath him.
“Elizabeth,” he said in a thick voice. “Are you certain?”
She nodded.
His hardness pressed into her, bringing pressure and stabbing pain. She gasped. His body tensed above her, and she sensed the effort it took him to stop.
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
“I know.”
His face held such a tortured expression, she drew his head down to kiss him. His lips moved over hers. He kissed her with a muffled apology, and then thrust hard and deep.
He crushed her, everywhere, inside as well as out. She thought she could bear no more, when he whispered her name and began to move. The gentle friction dimmed the pain and brought with it a delicious, slow burn. With each of his strokes, the pleasure intensified.
The smell of his sweat filled her nostrils. His stubbled jaw grazed her cheek. Need heightened, and she whimpered. Groaning, he quickened the pace. She dug her heels into the bedding, matched his thrusts.
Faster.
Faster.
The burn flared, then exploded into a single, brilliant, exquisite flame. She cried out as it engulfed her.
In its fiery wake, Geoffrey roared with pleasure. His breaths became shuddered gasps.
And, when he buried his head against her shoulder, she tasted the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Seventeen
In the hazy glow of candlelight, tears shimmered on Elizabeth’s face. Geoffrey lay beside her on the coverlet and listened to her breathing slow to a normal pace. He wondered if they were tears of regret, guilt, or worry for what the future might bring.
He shifted the arm curled under his head, but left the other draped over her belly. He sensed her drawing away from him even as his fingers caressed her skin. He did not want the moment to end. Not now. Mayhap not ever.
Leaning over, he kissed the damp hair at her temple. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
“Aye.” She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.
“I did not hurt you?”
With a faint smile, Elizabeth shook her head.
“’Twas not easy to be gentle with you,” he said, his tone gruff. He remembered all too well how her sleek body had molded to him. He had not expected such pleasure when it had been her first time. The damsel had surprised him yet again.
Her soft laughter startled him. “I did not expect you to be gentle. As you once told me, you are not a patient man.”
“True.”
He saw her hand stretch toward him, but he still flinched when her fingers trailed the length of his scar. ’Twas not a hasty examination, but one of careful study, as though she committed to memory each puckered ridge and lump. He tried to pull away, but she did not let him go.
“Tell me about this,” she said.
“Are you certain you wish to know?”
Her blue eyes were moist but steady as they met his. “Aye.”
“’Tis not a pretty tale.”
Her gaze shadowed. “This wound almost cost your life.”
Geoffrey closed his eyes and tried not to heed the tenderness in her tone and touch. No words could express the full extent of his injury—the endless months of agony while his flesh had fused, and the emotional torment that had accompanied his healing. He wondered at the risk he took in telling her. To dig into his past would make him vulnerable. If he gave her insight into the man he once was, he gave her a weapon to wield against him.
Part of him no longer cared.
“You got this on Crusade,” she pressed, and linked her fingers through his.
He nodded. “I still remember the day as though ’twere yesterday.”
When she stared up at him, her gaze expectant, he said, “It happened over a year ago, at Acre. The city was still ruled by the infidel. King Richard wanted to free it and the hundreds of Christians imprisoned when the Saracens took control.”
“I have heard of Acre,” she murmured, interest brightening her expression.
“King Richard and the French king had decided to launch a fierce attack. The city, though, was well fortified and situated by a sea harbor.”
“Did they plan a siege?”
“Aye. King Richard and the French king agreed to concentrate forces on the city’s gates, which were the weakest point in the defenses. My brother and I were assigned to the division that would swarm inside once the gates fell. King Richard knew of my skill with a sword and placed me at the front, where—”
Elizabeth raised her free hand. “Wait. You have a brother?”
“Had.” He could not keep the pain from his voice. “His name was Thomas.”
Sympathy softened her eyes. “I am sorry.”
“As am I.” He stared down at his fingers, joined with hers. In the farthest reaches of his mind, he heard his comrades’ coarse laughter, smelled sun-baked sand, and tasted the breeze blowing in from the eastern sea. “The first of our fighters attacked,” he began. “The rest of us awaited the king’s orders. All of a sudden, we heard a terrible noise behind us, yells, screams, and beating drums. It sounded like the demons of hell had come for our souls.
“Hundreds of Turks flew upon us, shrieking like mad men. Soldiers fled in panic. Even knights, like I, who had sworn fealty to God and King within the hallowed walls of the church, deserted King Richard.” He shook his head. “I knew if I ran, I would be no better than the infidel who threatened to bring an end to Christendom. I would die rather than break that sacred oath.” A rough laugh warmed his lips. “I doubt I could have done aught else, for the Turks surrounded me.”
“Go on,” she whispered.
“I had sworn to protect my king,” he said, caressing her wrist with his thumb. “I stood at his side and honored that vow. I killed any Turk who came near, as did my brother. King Richard managed to escape to safety. By then the ground was covered with blood and corpses, yet I kept fighting.
“Somehow my brother and I became separated. I found myself fighting beside a man who had joined the king’s Crusade to free the holy city of Jerusalem from the Turks.”
A startled smile warmed her face. “Dominic de Terre?”
“The same. I saved his head twice, for which he feels indebted to me. As you have seen, I did not survive unscathed.”
“What happened?” She sounded horrified, yet also fascinated. Her gaze dropped to his scar, and he shuddered, remembering.
“Three Turks singled me out. They surrounded me. I killed one, a young man. He was a careless fighter. He must have been the son of one of the other Turks. As he fell, dying, the older Turk screamed and lunged while the other circled to my back. I saw the one behind me raise his blade. I turned and tried to deflect it, but”—he flinched, reliving the pain—“I could not escape the sword that cut my chest.”
“Dominic saved me. I do not know how, but he got me to the Knights Hospitallers. He told me my brother died soon after I fell. Thomas had tried to avenge me.”
Elizabeth’s eyes closed. She seemed to be internalizing his anguish. “How awful.”
“I spent months in the Hospitallers’ care,” Geoffrey went on, the words pouring from him like water loosed from a dam. “King Richard sent a missive in which he expressed his gratitude for my bravery and ceded Branton Keep to me. Yet, I held little hope of ever returning to England.”
“Why?” Elizabeth whispered.
“The physicians did not expect me to live. I suffered fever and was delirious. When at last I awoke, the physicians told me that even if I did recuperate, I would never again be able to hold a sword, a sentence worse than death for a knight.” He swallowed. “I wished I had perished and not my brother.”
“Oh, Geoffrey.” Elizabeth squeezed his hand.
“I grieved for my brother and blamed myself for not protecting him. I had faile
d. I had not saved my father’s life, and had lost my brother as well. Soon, my pain became rage, an anger so intense it gave me a reason to live. I wanted blood spilled for their blood. I wanted vengeance.” He tried to steel the bitterness from his tone, but could not. “If your sire had not besieged Wode, if my father had not been murdered, my brother and I would not have joined King Richard’s Crusade.”
Elizabeth tensed. Geoffrey fought for calm, for the strength to tell her his entire wretched tale, so that mayhap, just mayhap, she might understand. “’Twas a long while before I could sit up, or feed myself, or leave my bed,” he said. “I would have gone mad, were it not for the other wounded men under the Hospitallers’ care.
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