“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 what 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 re
trieving 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 continue… 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.
* * *
At first light, Weston propped himself upon an elbow to stare into Chrestien's sleeping face. With her eyes closed, her thick lashes were like strands of silk upon her rosy cheeks. Her mouth was so lush and ripe, and of a sudden he remembered that he had not even kissed her last night and it sickened him that he would have taken her maidenhead without a single show of tenderness.
He rarely kissed the women he slept with, preferring to keep the lovemaking simple and to the point. After all, it was naught but a means to satisfy his body, and never had he felt the urge to shower adoring kisses upon a lady friend. But... Chrestien was different.
He recalled having her pinned to her bed at Lontaine, and wanting so desperately to taste of her then—despite that he had thought her defiled—aye, he had wanted her even then.
Suddenly angry with himself, he rose and prepared the horse for the day’s ride.
When Chrestien awoke and readied herself, he placed her upon his destrier without a word, taking great care not to look into those smoky eyes of hers, for fear that he would see the loathing there.
Chrestien chewed her lip.
Something had happened last night—something either very terrible or very beautiful.
She watched him prepare the horses for the ride, wanting desperately for him to say anything that would tell her he cared for her—if only a little—but he said naught and kept his eyes averted.
Did he think her a wanton?
Once he finished securing the saddlebags, he finally glanced at her, but Chrestien turned her face as though seared by his gaze. She could not bear to look at him now and have him know what was in her heart. His power over her was frightening, and she’d never been so deeply affected by a man in all her life.
An hour from the monastery, Weston stopped in the shelter of the woods and dismounted. Retrieving a pile of m
aterial from the burlap sack he’d placed within his saddlebags, he unfolded it to reveal a modest sendal bliaut—the muted rose color was accentuated by a border of ivory thread. He handed it to Chrestien.
She looked at him in confusion. “For me? How?”
His voice was full of remorse. “I bought it at the inn. It belonged to the innkeeper’s wife. Do you like it?”
It was the plainest gown she had ever seen—certainly nothing like the new gowns Adelaine wore—but in that instant it could have been the lushest velvet in her hands. “Aye, my lord! ’Tis lovely!”
Weston’s guilt was eased by her radiant smile. “I’d not have you taking your nuptials in your undergarment,” he said, deciding it was best to tell her of Henry’s mandate. It would neither be fair nor kind to let her discover it at the altar.
Her brow furrowed and her smile faded. “I do not understand... you were to take me to Caen?”
“And I shall, but not to cloister you at La Trinite, Chrestien. We go instead to St. Etienne, where I will wed you myself.”
He thought he saw a hint of a smile in her eyes, but her lips did not follow suit. Still, she did not protest, so he decided not to tell her it had been Henry’s mandate, for she was obviously not displeased, albeit a little bewildered.
“You would wed me, my lord?”
Her surprise amused him and he chuckled low. “Aye, Chrestien, I would wed you. Now go put on the gown,” he said gently.
A tentative smile returned to her lips and his blue eyes danced with a sudden merriment as she nodded her head in acquiescence and slipped into the brush.
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