“Nay, nay!”
Her panicked screams became wails as she gave in to hysterics. Finally, Weston was able to pin her hands above her head, and her lower body was stilled when he sat upon her, restraining her easily between his heavy limbs. His intention was merely to dress her, but hovering near inches from her face, he lost track of his thoughts. Her golden hair fell in silky curls to frame her face. Her lips, rosy and full, beckoned to him.
And once again, the sweet, heady fragrance of roses drifted to his nostrils. Briefly, he wondered whether it was the white rose he’d scented in the garden, or whether it had been Chrestien herself, for it was near impossible to differentiate the two. Instinctively, he leaned closer to brush her lips with his own. “Stop,” she begged. The scent of her was intoxicating, muddling his thoughts. The softness of her lips invited him... teased him... and he could feel her responding by opening to his gentle pressure.
It was more than a shock when her teeth bit down upon his soft inner lip.
“Owwww! Damn you!”
His right hand came up to inspect his throbbing lip, making certain there was no bleeding, while his left hand kept her pinned to the bed, arms secured above her head. His fingers squeezed her wrists without mercy, as he gathered the chainse into his free hand, and with some effort, he drew the filmy linen over her head, nearly tearing the cloth as he tugged it down.
It was only then she seemed to realize he intended to dress her. And apparently, she was so stunned that he was not going to defile her that she remained still while he smoothed the material over her body.
He didn't give her a chance to think or ask questions. He picked her up like so much baggage and hauled her unceremoniously through the chamber door.
Chrestien screamed.
It didn’t take a wise man—or woman—to know that whatever his intent, it boded her no good. He set her down and she sank to the floor upon her rump, wishing she could grow roots.
His voice was low and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Get up, demoiselle.”
“Nay! I’ll not—not until you tell me where it is precisely you would take me dressed in naught but my chainse!”
He merely glared at her and she gasped with horror as he grabbed her once more and hoisted her over his shoulder, exposing her thighs to all who would see.
Balling her fists, she beat his back until her hands hurt. “You baseborn lout—swine—savage—unhand me!”
She punctuated her expletives with a slam of her fists on the middle of his back, then shut her eyes tightly to stop the flow of tears. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded and drew back to whack his back yet again.
“To Caen.”
Chrestien's hand stilled in mid air.
“La Trinite?”
“Yes!”
On the heels of her shock, an unexpected well of sadness enveloped her. But at least now she could stop worrying about what he intended to do with her.
“You need not carry me like so much baggage,” she protested.
He acknowledged the complaint with a grunt and set her down again. Keeping a firm hold on her left wrist, he carefully led her down the steep stone stairs, never allowing more than a foot's distance between them.
Chrestien was so relieved to be on her feet again that she did not object to his hold on her arm. Nor did she remember that she was clad in aught but a thin undergarment. Her back straight, shoulders squared in an attempt to salvage her dignity, she walked proudly before him, ignoring the curious looks of his men. Eauda crossed herself and gave her a piteous look as they passed. It was not until she was seated upon his black destrier with his warm body burning her flesh, and the chill wind biting into her skin, that it dawned on her what she was wearing—or rather what she was not wearing.
“Wait! I cannot go to La Trinite this way! What will they think of me?”
“They will think what they will,” he assured her, and spurred his mount forward, determined now to let nothing stand in his way.
Weston shouted for the guards to open the gates and they complied at once. He charged through them as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.
The smell of Chrestien was intoxicating and he could feel the heat of his need surge through him once more, quickening his breath, filling his braies.
In an effort to shield her from the cold and himself from her touch, he removed his mantle and placed it about her shoulders, roughly, because it was her fault he burned yet again. “My cloak is all you shall need,” he reassured her.
With a little luck she would not realize his intent until they were standing before the altar, and then it would not matter whether she gave her consent once he showed the priest the mandate bearing Henry’s seal. As some men were greedy for gold, he was greedy now for the feel of her body. Possessed by desire, he shuddered with thoughts of making her his own.
* * *
With each hour spent in his embrace, Chrestien’s anger melted. How could she continue to loathe him when his touch was so gentle? His words said one thing, but his actions said something more. Twice he’d pulled his cloak about her to shield her from the night air, and each time he’d clutched the white ermine in his fist just below her breast, giving her a firm but gentle embrace. To Chrestien’s way of thinking, this was not the gesture of one who was so repulsed by her. Of that she was certain. She felt dizzy from the unknowing affection he gave her and once, he buried his face in her hair and she could feel his lips as they brushed her pate with a tiny, gentle kiss.
She knew he had no idea what he had told her without speaking, for she had not forgotten his bitter words so soon, and neither would he. But now she understood something she did not before, because the man seated behind her was no more immune to her than she was to him. She could feel his arousal even through his braies. Mayhap she had never known a carnal embrace before, but there was no mistaking the sword at her back. And this one was not made of steel, nor was it cruel, but it pressed against her unyieldingly, telling her without words that he desired her.
His husky breath at her ear sent a chill down her spine and in spite of the lifting breeze, she knew it was him that evoked the chill, for his body kept her overly warm. He nuzzled his face in her hair, and she shivered again at the tenderness of his touch.
They rode for what seemed an eternity and it was dawn when they arrived at a hostelry.
Dismounting, Weston pulled the mantle about her to cover her with the rich black velvet. “Stay here,” he demanded. “I will return in but a moment.”
He studied her carefully, and started to leave, but noted that her chainse was still visible—even with his heavy mantle draped over her—and he frowned as he returned to clasp the mantle together in front of her. “Keep this tight,” he demanded, giving her his most exasperated look.
Chrestien tried not to smile.
“Say naught to anyone, Chrestien—and keep yourself covered. Do you heed?”
Chrestien nodded, smiling to herself.
“Can you not speak to acknowledge what I have just said?”
For all that he had bedeviled her, she could not help but give him grief. “Aye, but did you not order me not to speak only a moment ago?” she asked him sweetly.
“Aye, but I meant—never mind, Chrestien!”
She batted her lashes at him. “But did you not tell me—”
His jaw worked, and still he seemed reluctant to go. “Aye!”
“Very well, then. I said I would not and I shall speak to no one.”
He gave her one last inspection. “Get down!” He pulled her down off the horse and dragged her behind him possessively, taking her with him.
Chrestien pressed her lips together to keep from giggling. Suddenly, she understood so very much. Amazing what a simple ride in such close proximity could reveal.
The only thing that might have dampened her spirits was the thought of where he was taking her—to Caen to cloister—but she decided to think of it all as an adventure, and later she would consider wh
at might have been. For the moment, she had never been to an inn before—had never even seen one, but she had heard so much about them from her father’s men at arms.
Alas, based on their accounts, she had expected something far more... colorful—not the gray, dimly lit interior full of rancid smoke that reeked of sour ale.
Upon entering, she was immediately self-conscious about her state of dress, for the room harbored a horde of men from every station of life. There were peasants and noblemen alike spread about the fetid tavern, partaking of spirits and fondling serving maids. Good lord, had he thought to leave her outside alone? Embarrassed though she might be, she was heartily glad he had not.
He singled out the innkeeper immediately, and pulled Chrestien behind him as he made his way to the burly-looking man. “I’d like to purchase provisions from you, good sir.”
The innkeeper’s eyes widened as his eyes fell on the wolf upon his tunic. His voice gave away his fear. “What would you have of me? Ask of me anything and it is yours!”
Chrestien didn’t pay much attention as Weston rattled off a list and the hefty old man scurried away to do his bidding, nearly tumbling over himself in his haste.
When the innkeeper returned, his arms were loaded with everything Weston had asked for and more. He removed the bundle from the man's arms, handing him a few coins in return. Then, without a word, he grabbed Chrestien’s wrist again and nearly dragged her out of the tavern, cursing to himself.
For the remainder of the journey, few words were spoken between them, but the less he was aware of her weakness to him the better! Soon enough she would find herself cloistered and Henry’s Wolf would be aught but a memory.
But that was as it should be, she told herself.
* * *
The sun rose and fell again.
When Chrestien finally slumped against Weston’s arm, he knew she was finally asleep, but he was only slightly amazed fatigue had taken so long to claim her. This one was full of spirit. Alas, but she would need to be for the life of a landless knight was hardly an easy one. Not once did she balk after he gave her his mantle—not even to complain of her weariness—and he had to admire her endurance. He had not known many women who would last so long in the saddle.
A smile turned the corners of his lips as he thought about the moment he’d met her. The wench had stabbed him. And then she’d bitten him. God’s teeth, she’d stood tall and challenged him like a man—no wonder he had thought her to be one, although he must have been a blind fool not to notice the beauty beneath the grime.
In contrast, her own sister had burst into tears within only minutes of knowing him. Granted, he had abused her by throwing her into his bathwater, but had not Chrestien endured over thrice as much with nary a tear?
Indeed, she did have spirit, he determined with a conclusive nod to himself.
They rode until dusk and only when exhaustion was about to claim him as well did he make camp for the night. He found a secluded spot—somewhere no one could stumble upon them.
He had fully intended to procure a room at the inn, but the thought of her sleeping surrounded by so much filth and salivating men had given him a murderous feeling in the pit of his belly.
Dismounting, he took her into his arms, laying her over his shoulder gingerly. Somehow, he managed to lay out a blanket, and when he was finished, he set her down upon it, carefully, so as not to wake her. Then he covered her with his heavy mantle. He let her sleep while he tethered the horse and then he lay down beside her, careful not to touch her. He didn’t share the mantle, not daring to be so close.
Sleep would not come easily, and he lay for the longest time watching the stars. When his stomach growled, he recalled the bit of foodstuff in his saddlebag, but decided against retrieving it. He would wait until Chrestien awoke before he partook. The poor girl had eaten naught but a bit of bread and salted meat he’d purchased at the hostelry and he would not eat himself until she could join him.
Ignoring the sword that persisted in his braies, he closed his eyes against the chill of the night and attempted to avail himself of much needed respite. However, a chill crept into his bones, and Chrestien shivered beneath his mantle. With a groan, he carefully slipped his arm about her waist, drawing her near to him, burying his face in her hair, only to find that the heavenly fragrance of her hair kept him miserably awake.
Unwittingly she moved toward the warmth of his body and he smiled, and dozed… for awhile. And then he was awakened by a throbbing in his loins.
The night was black now and he could see aught, for it was a near-moonless night. But Weston had no need of light to know that her sweet bottom was resting in the crook of his thighs.
Sleepily, she wiggled her rump, and despite that he knew it to be an involuntary motion, the gentle massage against his already heated groin sent fire shooting through his veins.
She wiggled once more and he began to suspect she did so apurpose, so he stilled her hip with his hand, hoping she would reveal her awakened state to him.
When, alas, she made no move to continue, he concluded by her smooth, even breath that she was asleep and he dared to pull the mantle over them both.
His fingers ached to wander, and he could feel the softness of her ivory skin beneath the thin material of her garment. Surely, she would not awaken were he to slide his hand very gently across the smoothness of her thigh, he reasoned. After all, she would soon be his wife and he craved her madly...
Before he’d even concluded the thought, he found his hands skipping across her legs... and then her buttocks, commending the satiny feel of her skin to his memory.
She wiggled again and his breath stilled as he fought the desire to take her here and now.
It was not as though she were a virgin, he reasoned. If she were, her body would not seek his so instinctively—even whilst she slept.
The curve of her body fit too neatly into his, conforming to his manhood almost as though it were exactly where she belonged. He longed to bury himself between her legs and relieve himself of the pain.
Mindless with need, his hand slid across the material of her chainse, coming to rest under the swell of her breast, and he closed his eyes to regain some of the control he felt waning with every touch of her... only his hands betrayed his will, and while his mind recounted the reasons he should leave her be, his thumb inched determinedly to the crest of her bosom. That it reacted immediately to his touch was all the more stimulating...
Chapter Ten
Chrestien lay still while he caressed her.
Some part of her wanted to cry out for him to stop—tell him that what he did was unseemly—but he’d awakened a dormant desire within her and she could not bring herself to speak. Then again, she could not consent to his boldness, so she kept silent and let him believe her asleep. God help her, it could not hurt to let him continue but a while. He would explore... and she would discover more about this elusive feeling... and then he would stop—none the wiser.
Right?
Right.
He grew more bold. She closed her eyes as he gently caressed her nipple between his fingers, and she ran her tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. She fought desperately to keep her breath even and shallow, but, against her will, her breathing quickened and her heart beat faster—and louder. She could not hold back the cry that escaped her lips when his hand slid beneath her chainse and came to rest in the valley between her thighs.
She was wet.
The discovery gave Weston's heart a jolt.
And yet realizing that she was awake after all gave his hands new purpose and he gave his touch slightly more pressure as they slid knowingly across her abdomen, then back down to her soft mound of curls.
“Nay,” she whispered, but her body betrayed her, seeking his fingers, following them when he moved in retreat. The silky wetness took his breath away and he longed to bring his fingers to his lips to taste the nectar of her body. “Please,” she begged.
He knew she desired for him to conti
nue… and he did.
She said nothing more and he lifted her chainse and rolled atop her, his lips moving to her breasts as a predator to its prey.
“You will not stop?” she asked quietly, but it sounded more a plea that he continue.
He brought his face near inches from hers. “Nay,” he whispered and he parted her thighs, his fingers seeking the telltale wetness. Finding it, he entered the heat, closing his eyes against the exquisite feel of her, his body trembling over the control he was losing... and then he felt it—the barrier that separated the girl from the woman... she possessed it.
Pangs of remorse surged through him.
She was a virgin.
He could not take her maidenhood from her until he was her rightful husband.
A wall of protectiveness rose up before him like an impenetrable fortress to keep away his burning lust. The taint of his own birth hovered over him, giving him the will to suppress his overwhelming desire. It was rare enough that a virtuous woman could be found and he could not defile her—or take the chance that his child be conceived on the wrong side of the sheets—particularly when she would be his before long.
Of a sudden, all the anger he’d felt for her receded, replaced by a powerful urge to shield her from all who would harm her. He said naught to her. He would not insult her further by telling her that he thought her to be dishonored already.
He had no idea how long he lay there, but hearing her muffled cries, he swept her into his arms, holding her close. She welcomed his embrace. Sobbing from the depths of her soul, she allowed him to rock her until she fell asleep.
After a long moment he whispered into her ear, “I will make it right, Chrestien.”
He watched while she whimpered in her sleep, her breath catching pitifully every little while, and a whirl of emotions whisked through him all at once. He could not sleep for the confusion it brought him.
Angel of Fire Page 12
