“I owe you a favor,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear it.
Her innocent words shot a thrill of excitement through him. He could ask anything of her, anything at all, and she’d be honor-bound to comply. Swallowing hard, he reminded himself that she had spent the past four days and five nights nursing him back to health. It would ill repay her kindness to take advantage of her. He therefore resolved only to ask the favor he’d originally intended.
Raising his hand to her veil, he fingered the heavy linen. “Take this off.”
If the command surprised her, she gave no hint of it. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached up, unfastened the head covering, and pulled it off, tossing it onto the chair, then shook her head. His breath caught in his throat as her hair, freed from its confinement, spilled onto his bare chest, a cool, heavy mass of gleaming silk.
Her scent—sweet woodruff and lavender, warm skin and sunshine—blossomed into the air, enveloping him, overwhelming his senses. He brought a fistful of hair to his face and inhaled, breathing in her essence. She leaned over him, her hands braced on either side of his head, her face very close, her eyes fixed on his. Her hair enclosed them like a perfumed satin tent—a luxurious hiding place for just the two of them. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being completely surrounded by her, warm and golden, fragrant and mysterious. His mind reeled; his heart galloped in his chest until it pained him just to breathe.
Thorne couldn’t keep from touching her, regardless of his good intentions. He brought his hand up and cupped her cheek. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if trying to resist him; but in the end, with a sigh of capitulation, she turned her head and pressed her warm lips to his palm. “Martine,” he rasped, curving his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer, closer...
She paused briefly just before her lips touched his, and he saw the apprehension in her eyes. But then she closed them and kissed him, really kissed him, with a passion and intensity that drew an ecstatic moan from his throat. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gripped her head harder than he knew he should, deepening the kiss, reveling in her taste, her warmth.
Unable to stop himself, he trailed his hand down her throat and covered one soft breast through the wool of her tunic, thrilling at the little whimper of pleasure that escaped her. His body responded instantly. He’d never grown so hard so fast.
“Lie next to me,” he whispered gruffly.
She kicked off her slippers and lay half on top of him, her mouth seeking his again, her hands in his hair, on his chest, stroking, caressing... With a mindless urgency born of fierce arousal, he tugged at her skirt, yanking it up and gliding his hand between her soft thighs. He lightly stroked her with his fingertips, then found her tight entrance and probed deep.
She gasped. She was wet. She wanted him, was ready for him. He explored her with a sense of awe, enthralled by the narrowness of her passage, its slick, inviting heat. Withdrawing his finger, he slid it upward until it grazed her most sensitive flesh. She quivered. “Oh! Oh, God!”
She buried her face in the crook of his neck as he touched her; he kissed the top of her head, nuzzled her hair. “Yes,” he whispered as her hips began to move to the rhythm of his caress. Her breath grew quick and shallow, her entire body tensed, and then she trembled all over, her fingers digging into his chest, her soft cries muffled by the pillow.
He held her until her breathing steadied, and then took her hand and guided it down over the sheet, shaping it to his aching need.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
“You’ll have to be on top.”
Martine’s eyes widened, but then she nodded, seeming to comprehend. She shifted position, glanced around to make sure the curtains were drawn, and then lowered the sheet to expose him.
“I’ll be quiet,” he promised—a promise he broke almost instantly, crying out in agony when she tried to position herself astride him. Her knee barely nudged his splinted leg, but it was enough to send a bolt of fire along every nerve in his body.
“Oh, my God—Thorne!” Martine knelt beside him on the bed, cradling him helplessly as he panted like a wolf caught in a trap. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s not your fault,” he managed between clenched teeth.
She stroked his hair, leaned over to kiss his temple. ‘Twas foolish of us to try to... We can’t do this. ‘Twill hurt you.”
He chuckled breathlessly. “Some things are worth a bit of pain. But perhaps... well, perhaps not quite that much pain.” He listened carefully to the quiet, rhythmic breathing from beyond the curtain. “I didn’t wake the others, but they won’t be able to sleep through much more of that.”
She glanced down at him. “Won’t you be... frustrated?”
Thorne smiled. “I have no intention of being frustrated.” He took her hand and closed it over his throbbing shaft. “There are other ways.”
She watched for a few moments as he guided her fist up and down, and then he released his hand she continued the caress on her own. “Is this what you want?” she asked. “I mean, is this all, or is there—” her hand stilled and she glanced up at him a bit timidly, “something else?”
His gaze strayed to her mouth, to her lush lips the color of crushed berries. There was something else, of course, but he was loath to ask it of her. It was a service only whores had performed for him, and for extra payment, at that. Despite her intellectual sophistication, Martine was, he reminded himself, very much an innocent. Such an act might disgust her, make her feel defiled.
She had evidently noticed the direction of his gaze. Her tongue flicked out to moisten those tempting lips, a charmingly unconscious, but nonetheless provocative gesture; Thorne closed his eyes, praying for self-control.
“Last summer,” she began, “at the river, when we... when we were together, you... kissed me.” He knew without elaboration what kind of kiss she meant. “Is that something that a woman could do for a man?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
She glanced down at her hand resting on his erection, and then looked him in the eye. “Would you like me to do it for you?”
She seemed so sweetly sincere that he couldn’t repress a smile. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
“Show me,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
He trailed his fingertips down her face and tenderly brushed them across her lips. “Just... I don’t know. Do whatever you think I’d like. You could hardly go wrong.”
Looking decidedly unsure of that, she lowered her head, her incredible sweep of hair blanketing him like a silken cape, obscuring his view of her—possibly, he thought, a deliberate ploy on her part to protect her modesty. He closed his eyes, and after what seemed an eternity, felt the first light touch of her mouth on his tormented, straining flesh.
Thorne bit his lip, struggling for composure. He felt the whisper-soft pressure of her lips, and presently the hot, wet tip of her tongue. The tentative nature of her efforts only intensified the stimulation. “Oh, God,” he whispered shakily, his fist closing around a handful of her hair.
He’d told her she could hardly go wrong, and she didn’t. The most practiced courtesan could have done no better. What she lacked in experience, she more than made up for in her touching desire to please him. Her generosity in doing this for him moved him profoundly, and he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps, deep in her heart, she still harbored some real affection for him.
When she finally took him full in her mouth, he growled deep in his throat and shoved his hand through her hair. “Martine... oh, God. Yes!”
His climax approached swiftly. He released his grip on her head. “Martine, I’m... close.” She didn’t understand, and made no move to substitute her hand for her mouth. Given her inexperience, he thought it best if she did. “Martine,” he gasped, taking her by her shoulder and pulling her up.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay.” He wrapped his arm around her, urging her to lie beside him. “Just
touch me... like that. Yes... yes...” His heart seemed to swell in his chest until he couldn’t bear it for another second. He clutched at her, his head back, groaning.
“Yes. Oh!” Spasms of pleasure rocked him. He erupted in her hand, losing all conscious thought, all sense of time and space. Nothing existed but this moment, this blinding burst of sensation.
Nothing existed but Martine and him.
* * *
Martine raced past the chapter house and refectory, around the cloister, and through the passageway to the outer courtyard. She held her skirts up off the snow with one hand and gripped her veil with the other, her hair fluttering wildly with every frigid gust of wind.
It was almost first light. The brothers would be up soon to file into church for lauds, and she had promised to avoid direct contact with them. Since the infirmary was in their private area of the monastery—an area normally off limits to her—this meant she had to time her comings and goings in keeping with their observation of the holy offices.
She saw not a soul as she entered the prior’s lodge and sprinted up the stairs, but in the doorway of the central hall she stopped short, biting back the oath that rose to her lips.
Brother Matthew sat at the little table in the middle of the room, reading the Bible by candlelight. He looked up at her as she paused breathlessly in the doorway. His calmly assessing gaze took in the veil clutched in her fist, the loose hair that hung to her hips in a wind-whipped tangle, and, she had no doubt, the quick, scalding heat that stung her cheeks.
He nodded. “Good morning, my lady.”
She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Brother.”
She turned and swiftly ducked into her chamber, then collapsed on her bed, struggling to catch her breath and speculating miserably on how much Brother Matthew had surmised from her disheveled appearance—and her all-too-telling blush.
“Lady Martine,” he said from the other side of the curtain. “May I have a word with you?”
Damn. She covered her face with her hands and sucked in a deep, pacifying breath, then sat up, swiftly tidying her hair and tunic. “Yes, Brother. Come in.”
He crossed to her and crouched down next to the bed, taking her hands in his. For some reason—perhaps exhaustion, perhaps relief at his obvious intent to make this as easy on her as possible—her eyes began to burn with impending tears.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Martine,” he said gently. “I have the greatest respect for Thorne—and for you, for that matter. I view you both as friends—very good friends.”
She nodded, her throat too constricted to speak.
He drew a thoughtful breath. “And I’m not without compassion. Just because I renounced the pleasures of the flesh when I took my vows doesn’t mean I don’t understand them, even appreciate them. Such pleasures are a part of God’s plan, after all.”
He gave her hands a firm squeeze and released them. “It’s not my place to pass judgment on your relations with Sir Thorne. But it is my place to govern what transpires in this monastery.”
“None of the brothers saw me. I ran—”
“My concern is not for the brothers. My concern is for you.”
“M-me?”
Furrows formed on his brow. “Your involvement with Thorne is far more dangerous for you than it is for him—you must realize that. You’re a married woman, Martine, regardless of what you may or may not feel in your heart. When the abbot agreed to allow you to live here, it was with the understanding that you would behave with the greatest circumspection.”
She nodded again, his image wavering through the hot tears that welled in her eyes.
“If he suspects, even for a moment, that you’ve violated that understanding, he’ll order me to expel you from St. Dunstan’s, and I’ll have no choice but to obey. You’ll be homeless then, and completely without protection. God knows how Bernard would choose to exploit such a situation.”
She closed her eyes and tears trailed down her cheeks. He’s right, she thought forlornly. God, I wish he weren’t, but he is.
“Martine, are you in love with Thorne?”
Her eyes flew open. “I...” She shook her head. “No, I...” She choked back a helpless sob and dropped her gaze to her hands. “I don’t know.”
He closed his hand over her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to look into his dark, perceptive eyes. “Has he told you he loves you?”
She shook her head. “He—he’s incapable of love.”
Matthew smiled and raised an eyebrow. “No one’s incapable of love, my dear, even Thorne Falconer. But whatever his feelings may or may not be, he’s done you a disservice by encouraging you to... His gaze swept over her snarled hair.
She felt absurdly obliged to leap to his defense. “‘Twas as much my fault as his.”
“Well...”
“It was. I’m weak. Just like my mother—” She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. After a moment, Matthew awkwardly guided her head onto his shoulder and patted her back.
“There, there,” he soothed. Martine reflected that he probably would have made a wonderful father. It was a pity monks couldn’t marry. When she stopped crying, he dried her tears with her discarded veil. “You’re not weak, you’re just human. And Thorne is... well, he’s accustomed to having his way with women. Some men are remarkably skilled at bending women to their will, and Thorne Falconer is one of those men.”
“Oh, God,” she groaned. “I know. I’m so—”
“Nay. You mustn’t judge yourself so harshly, my lady. But, for your own good, you also mustn’t continue these sorts of relations with Thorne. In truth, it’s dreadfully unfair of him to expect it of you. The risk to him is minimal, but to you—”
“I know,” she said, her voice rusty from crying. She did know; Thorne had used her again, and again she had let him. “You’re right. ‘Twas foolish of me to have taken that risk. I won’t take it again.”
“Frankly, my lady, I don’t intend to give you the chance.” He stood and added quietly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to forbid you to return to the infirmary.”
Martine rose as well, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, summoning all the poise she could muster. “But Thorne needs my medicines. Perhaps just once a day, just to—”
“Nay, my lady. Brother Paul and Brother Luke will tend to him. You may send whatever medicines and instructions you wish, but you may not go back there.”
She crossed her arms and stared at the floor. “Thorne will wonder why I don’t come,” she said, sounding a good deal more sullen than she would have liked.
“I’ll explain things to him.”
“He won’t like it.”
“He’ll be furious,” Matthew said easily. “He’ll tell me the whole affair is none of my business and that he means you no harm. He doesn’t, of course. But the harm will come just the same—to you, not to him.” He shrugged. “In the end, he has no choice in the matter. He’s confined to his bed, is he not?”
Martine nodded.
Matthew closed a hand on her arm. “My dear, surely you see this is for the best.”
“I do, but... it’s hard.”
He nodded sagely. “You must try to be strong and do the right thing. You must put Thorne out of your mind. It’s what Rainulf would want.”
That was true enough. Rainulf, as always, would counsel discretion. Not for the first time since he’d left, she found herself missing him painfully. Again she felt the sting of tears in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Thinking of Rainulf always made her feel like crying, but she’d cried enough for one morning.
She raised her chin and looked Brother Matthew in the eye. “You’re a wise man, Brother. And I know you’re right about this. I do. I’ll try, I really will.”
She filled her lungs with air and let it out slowly. “From now on, I’ll put Thorne Falconer out of my mind.”
* * *
“Thorne has made excellent progress,” Brother Matthew told Martine as they walked to
church. The first mass of the day was celebrated at prime, and it was this mass that Martine attended, along with the servants and lay brothers.
“Yes, I understand he’s on his feet,” she said, her chilly words hanging in the air between them as vaporous clouds. In the three weeks since she’d been forbidden to visit Thorne, she’d received only sporadic and cursory reports on his condition. Although she’d endeavored, as promised, to exile the Saxon from her thoughts, to hear so little of his recovery after having worked so hard to heal him galled her greatly.
Matthew nodded. “Yes, he’s up and about. Brother Paul tells me he’s never seen anyone so determined to walk again. Thorne insisted on getting out of bed long before they thought he should. At first all he did was fall down, but he kept at it. No one could believe he was willing to put up with that kind of pain.” He shook his head. “Thorne can be very stubborn about things.” He smiled. “Like you.”
“Then he can walk now?”
“Short distances, with a crutch. Paul says he can make it from one end of the infirmary to the other, and back again. Not bad, considering he almost lost that leg.”
She nodded. “Thank you for telling me this, Brother.”
He smiled and patted her arm. “Let’s not be late for mass.”
She followed him into church, taking a seat between Felda and Cleva, Brother Matthew’s cook. Although Martine found mass tiresome, she liked this particular church very much. Its whitewashed walls and pillars reflected what little light came in through the narrow windows above the altar, and the sanctuary was decorated, from ceiling beams to floor, with brightly painted frescoes depicting events in the life of Saint Dunstan.
“Good morning,” came a familiar voice from behind her—Thorne’s voice! She and her companions turned to find the Saxon edging awkwardly onto the bench behind them. He nodded toward the three women. “My lady. Felda... Cleva.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 164
