The Knight's Scarred Maiden

by Nicole Locke

  It felt safe in the cellars with him holding her. It felt right.

  ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  He didn’t move, and neither did she.

  It wasn’t his words she listened to, but the tone of them. His low, and rough, as if they were scraped out of him. As if he shouldn’t be saying them.

  Desire and need battered against her insides as she listened only to the persuasive hunger behind his words. ‘Why? We’re pretending.’

  ‘We’ve shared enough kisses.’

  ‘I want more.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t pretend any more or I may just believe. You need to be kept safe. If I go further, it’ll be all for naught. Everything for naught.’

  Everything felt for naught. Everything except her emotions that poured out of her and seemed to be spilling on him, too.

  He seemed undone, like her. Held by something only he understood. But she didn’t.

  He wanted her. Despite her scars—no, he said because of them. He knew her family died, while she lived, and still he kissed her.

  Yet he said he wanted them to pretend, that he didn’t deserve her. He wasn’t rejecting her, he was holding back. Excitement rushed up her spine. Uncertainty dousing it, but not enough to stop her hope for more.

  Whatever was between them was like a scale, precariously balanced. She knew of scales, how a pinch too much of one ingredient could irrevocably ruin a dish.

  But whatever was between them felt substantial and heavy. His kisses tipped her more to one side than the other. They were off balance and she wanted more.

  She stepped away, pulled off the leather tie holding her hair until it fell loose about her.

  He closed his eyes. ‘You know now, don’t you? It’s why you’re—’

  She only knew her body felt tight like it had by the stream. Now with his kisses, she wanted to relieve it. She had to balance the scale. She unlaced the first lace of her gown. ‘Know what?’

  ‘You believe me now, when I say how much I desire you.’

  That’s how this began, but if she did admit to believing, he would stop, and this recipe needed more ingredients.

  ‘Not enough. I need more,’ she said.

  His eyes shot open and took in her determination. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘We’re not.’ She reached the lower laces and began to pull them apart. ‘This is merely pretending.’

  His eyes lowered, took in her clumsy fingers. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.

  Gone was the mockery and the assurance. There was only heated vulnerability and a moment suspended.

  ‘I can’t pretend any more,’ he said.

  ‘Just a little more.’ Tip the scale, a couple of grains, a couple of kisses. Dollops of honey, and she wanted his touch. The laces undone, she let go of the gown and it fell to her feet. She stood in her chemise. The fabric fine, but not sheer. She was still fully clothed, but didn’t feel it as Rhain took in her loose hair and bared feet.

  Trepidation shook her body as anticipation beat her heart. Underneath the chemise were the worst of her scars.

  He looked wildly around the room. ‘Here, Helissent? Here you want me to see you, to touch you?’

  She could think of no better spot. The cellar, brimming with life-giving food, with combinations of ingredients she’d never tasted before, with recipes just waiting for her to discover. ‘Yes, here. Yes.’

  A low rumble deep in his chest. Then suddenly, his elegant hands were on her arms, the press of his body against her own, a step back, for balance.

  She found none. Only the security of the wall behind her back and the certainty that Rhain was holding her up.

  Holding, a moment’s pause as if he, too, was surprised he was suddenly there, then he groaned and his lips slammed on to hers.

  No more teasing kisses. Only his taste, his smell. Acutely aware of hands rubbing along her arms, of the press of his chest, the strength of thighs against hers. Of his mouth, his tongue, his kisses demanding more, devouring, wanting, longing.

  Her hands going between them, feeling the thumping of his heart, the hitching rise of breath in his lungs. She felt...she felt... How could she feel so much?

  * * *

  Craving more of her kisses, more of the feel of her in his arms, Rhain undid his belt and threw it aside and toed off his boots.

  Helissent stood trembling before him. Her unbound hair cascaded over one shoulder, an errant lock across her right cheek. The torch’s light couldn’t capture the colors. But he could see enough of the tumultuous waves and his fingers ached to know how each strand felt. Her eyes were wide, uncertain, but dark with desire and determination.

  She was so beautiful to him and held still as he carefully lifted the chemise off her body and laid it on the ground.

  Bared, her shoulders arched back, her chin jutting out. As if despite his words, he might reject her.

  He could never reject her. He wanted to fall down on his knees and worship her. The grace and strength of each limb, the full curve of her breasts, the tips rosy and waiting for his touch, for his kisses.

  Her entire skin was wrapped in jagged ribbons of scars, some white, a few very dark and deep. All testament to her true worth and beauty.

  But now, here, he wanted only to feel her skin, to taste every inch of her. Explore and bring her pleasure. Nothing was about the past and he’d never needed a woman more.

  ‘You humble me,’ he said through the tightening in his voice.

  * * *

  Every limb shook, every nerve inside her quivered. Her hair from her scalp to down her arms and legs felt as though they were all trying to escape.

  In some way, despite his actions, a part of her still expected pity or horror. She got none of that.

  Instead Rhain’s eyes darted as if he couldn’t take in her features fast enough.

  As if he wanted her. Truly wanted her. It was staggering.

  ‘Do you believe me now? How I can’t pretend. Look, Helissent, look how I desire you.’ He lowered his eyes to his breeches and hers followed his. Followed to what he could not hide. His need, his desire for her, blatant not only in the tension and hardness of his body, but in the flush across his cheeks, the heaviness of his lids, the softness to his lips.

  She felt the flush of sweat at the small of her back and around her hairline. He was showing her more than acceptance. Could she believe this? ‘I don’t understand how you could want me.’

  He opened his eyes. Shuddered. ‘You’re not sweet, Helissent, not at all. You torture a man with your demands. I have no reserves when it comes to you. I’ve done all I can to show you, now you tell me it isn’t enough. Since you give me no choice, I’ll make you feel it.’

  ‘How, when I look like this? How, when I thought no one else would?’

  ‘I could not want a woman more. No, I could not want you more.’

  ‘But what side of me?’

  He padded her gowns, lifted and laid her down. ‘There are no sides to you. Is that all you see when you look at yourself? If so, you could do the same things with me... Find parts unpleasing.’

  He laid on his side beside her. There could be no parts unpleasing about him. He was perfect. Everything about him was perfect.

  ‘I have scars and bruises,’ he said, splaying his fingers and, pushing up the sleeves of his tunic.

  Nicks, cuts, healed over by golden skin. ‘But they aren’t...you.’

  ‘Are your scars you?’

  He didn’t know of her cowardice. ‘Mine are deep. Sometimes I feel as though they’ve gouged my soul.’

  His breath escaped. ‘Your soul is pure, Helissent. So pure, my blackened deeds and tainted heart shouldn’t be here. But your words demand I show you, that I to
uch you more.’ Sitting up, he shucked off his tunic. Not an ounce of hair covering him like she’d seen with others. Just more of that golden skin and lean muscles. Each line so symmetrically formed, she could level cakes with them.

  ‘You laugh?’ he said.

  Was she laughing? ‘I was thinking of baking.’

  ‘Baking.’ His voice was deadpan.

  She knew she had to explain. ‘I often think of baking when I look at you.’

  He glanced down at his bare chest. ‘I should be insulted if you think I look like a cake. If Nicholas ever knew, I’d never hear the end of it.’

  She did laugh then. ‘It’s your coloring. I can’t help it. Your hair is the color of lavender honey in spring. Your eyes the color of a winter’s batch carved from the beeswax.’

  His body eased beside her, his head resting on his hand, his eyes warm. ‘Coming from you, these are compliments. Anything else inspire you?’

  She wished she could blush then. ‘The texture of your hair.’ She could still feel it between her fingers.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It’s like the coarsest of rye flours sifted with the richest of butters. And your skin...’ she swallowed ‘...it’s golden like—’

  ‘Your honey cakes?’ His lips twitched. ‘If you compare me to your honey cakes, I may just boast to my men what you think of me.’

  She nodded, both embarrassed and elated he understood, but more than that, he seemed...pleased by her clumsy words.

  His eyes darted over her shoulder and his throat moved as he swallowed. As if he had clumsy words to say as well. ‘Then inspect me as you would a cake. Look closer, can you see my flaws?’

  Not clumsy words at all, but heated ones. Inspect him? She could barely lie beside him. She vehemently shook her head.

  ‘Then let me inspect you.’ He traced along her thigh, his fingers almost fitting into the grooves caused by the ceiling pieces that had trapped her sister.

  She often did what Rhain was doing. When the muscles underneath felt raw or fatigued. But it wasn’t the same now. In fascination, she watched his fingers skim her leg.

  When she looked to his expression, he looked equally fascinated. When his darkened gaze returned to hers, she saw his questions, his innate curiosity.

  ‘You can’t feel here, can you?’

  He could tell? She shook her head.

  ‘How about here?’ He skimmed his fingers along where her scars looked like broken spiders’ webs.

  ‘Some,’ she whispered, intent on watching him, his expressions, his look of wonder. Watched his hand which trailed over her hip and along her torso. She felt the slight brush of his knuckles against her inner arm, but along that side just under her breasts. Nothing.

  ‘Not there.’ The scars were too deep. She remembered the pain of those well.

  His brow furrowed as if puzzled. So she watched his fingers to determine what piqued his curiosity as he traced from skin that could feel to places that felt nothing. Back and forth.

  ‘How about here?’ He traced one finger along the jagged bits of her, the softened, flattened scars before the smoothness of her natural skin. There wasn’t a perfect line from where she could feel and where she could not, but he seemed to want to know the parts.

  ‘I can’t feel. Not everywhere.’

  He looked up then, his amber eyes lit as if by fire. ‘I can’t understand it.’

  His tone was baffled. His expression fixed on the gentle swipe of his fingers as if he tried to figure out some complex recipe. As if there was something wrong with her.

  Restless, she moved to sit up. He grabbed her hip and pulled her back down. ‘Don’t think that.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘That I’m some sort of aberra—’

  A kiss, forceful and brief. ‘Wait.’ Swirling amber. Raspy whispered words. ‘Watch me.’

  He skimmed his caresses along the twisted skin, over her hip and down her thigh.

  There she felt the caresses as inadvertently some of his fingers slid against less scar tissue.

  With his hand now on the inside of her calf, he trailed along her unscarred leg and over her hip. Where she could feel, she felt hot. Where she couldn’t, she watched the mesmerizing strokes of his palms, the arcs of his fingers and the heat flared more.

  ‘Are you looking?’ he said.

  She felt and watched and noticed everything. The intimacy of the cold, damp room. The hardness of the floor made soft with their clothes. The room lit by the lone torchlight mounted by the door behind them. How the light highlighted his hair, illuminated the golden tone of his shoulders, encased the flexing muscles of his torso.

  He shimmered and comforted her like honey, but he was so much more than that. She wanted to tip the balance of the scales, but these scales were vast, all encompassing. They held so much more than she could ever dream.

  ‘Helissent,’ he said, his voice holding some taut amusement. ‘Are you thinking of baking again or are you watching?’

  Unable to tell him all the words she wanted to say, she answered, ‘Both’.

  He let out a soft breath. ‘It’s not you I find I cannot understand. It’s me. I don’t understand because when I touch you, I feel everything. Like here.’ He pressed his hand against the faintly puckered and twisted part of her. The part that was most pieced together. ‘And here.’ His hand low on her belly, where there were no scars. His warm palm radiating heat, his spread fingers creating an insistent pressure inside her.

  ‘I feel everything. Everywhere.’

  She shook her head. His fingers weren’t scarred. Why wouldn’t he feel everything?

  ‘Now it’s your turn not to understand. Let me show you.’

  He did it again to her, now watching her eyes, watching her reactions. His hand trailing the same path, but fingers widening, pressing more as if he couldn’t help it.

  ‘I feel the soft textures of your skin under my fingertips, your tremors vibrating against my palms. I see your flushing along your chest, your neck. How it contrasts with the colors along here.’ He traced with a fingertip between her breasts to her navel. ‘How your scars changed your color to this soft violet that reminds me of the dawn. But I feel your skin elsewhere, too. Watch me.’

  He shifted, and knelt between her legs. With both hands he caressed from her ankles to her inner knee and around the outside of her thighs. He rested his hands against her hips, feathered his fingers along her waist.

  Then he did it again. This time watching her, this time, she saw his gaze heat, then heat again. His lips curve, the look of wonder darkening. Darkening again until she could only sense the amber in his eyes like a fire behind that lit her.

  She shivered.

  His lips curved like he saw something more that pleased him. ‘You felt it elsewhere, yes? Not just from my hands, not just from your skin. But here in the thumping of your heart, in the flutters just under your skin, in the hitch of your breath.’

  She did feel those things and more. She was being touched after years and years of nothing, and now it was almost too much.

  ‘I understand,’ she whispered, as his eyes searched hers, and he gave a rueful look.

  ‘Yes, but not nearly enough,’ he answered as his hands swept stronger lingering strokes.

  Until she felt a want far past the sweep of his hands on her thighs and hips. Beyond the glide of his fingertips on her belly.

  She quivered. ‘I understand,’ she said more forcibly.

  ‘Not yet.’

  When he lowered his head, when he cupped an ankle and drew it to his mouth for his kisses, for his tongue. She wasn’t prepared for the flare of heat, like being speared with pleasure.

  ‘No, no, stay,’ he coaxed when she tried to
escape. ‘You have unsurpassed legs, Helissent. Is this what baking gave you? This strength, these lines?’ He kissed her calves, caressed along her thighs. His kisses trailing higher the way his hands went.

  Her left leg suffused with pleasure, he began on the other. ‘Do you have any idea how many times I imagine your bare legs? Your height against mine?’

  He kept kissing and stroking until she ached with need. She couldn’t stand it when he gave the first delicate swipe of his tongue behind her knee, when he wedged himself between her legs to caress further, to kiss higher...

  ‘Rhain!’

  He gave a humorless laugh. ‘Do you know how often I’ve imagined this?’ he murmured against her skin. ‘It’s my turn to make demands, to give you no choice.’ His fingers fluttered to the very core of her.

  Images of him with the pommel of his dagger, the caressing strokes of his palm. All of it she felt now against her skin.

  ‘So sweet,’ he whispered. ‘So ready for my touch, for my tongue. To taste you now...’

  She gasped, her back arching. His hands at her hips anchoring her as pleasure overcame her.

  * * *

  Rhain knelt between Helissent’s legs and knew he’d never be the same. None of it was pretend. All of it real.

  So beautiful. Her body gathering in her breath, her neck and cheeks flushed with desire. A sheen to her skin that he brought there. Her eyes closed, her neck still arched.

  The flames had taken away her modesty, and he’d reveled in her open responses. Every kiss, every touch, every taste glorious. Responsive as no woman had ever been.

  Soon she would open her eyes and see what she had brought him, too. His body shaking, his breeches pulled taut. The sharp pain welcomed now because he could focus on it instead of her softness.

  She humbled him, but now, all too acutely, cold reality crept in. He was unworthy of her. Unworthy in every way, both inside and out. He should have been a knight, noble, who didn’t cave to his needs. He should have left her alone in the cellar.

  So weak when it came to her, but he must find whatever strength he had left and walk away.

  Surely, she would know now her capability of bringing a man to his knees. That she was worthy of love and desire, surely now she would let him leave.