Once Upon a Knight

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Unbidden, Chrestien’s smile widened as she turned her back to Weston.

  Only weeks ago she would have scoffed at the idea of marriage—a fate worse than death, she would have said! And she would have avoided it at all costs.

  Now? Well, after having witnessed Adelaine’s beautiful wedding, she had had all manner of regrets over her own future. But of a sudden it was what she wanted most—children, a home of her own, the love of a good man.

  Nay, she wasn’t fool enough to believe Weston loved her as yet, but surely he did want her. Had he not shown her gentleness last eve? And guilty conscience or nay, he would not have needed to wed her over her lost maidenhead. Nay, but love would come with time, she decided. He’d held her tenderly in his arms for long hours and comforted her though their sinful embrace was as much her fault as it was his.

  As she drew the rose-colored bliaut over her head, her mind flew back to the intimate moments spent with him. She had shamefully enjoyed everything he had done to her, but somehow she’d felt so unfulfilled.

  Was that all there was to it? Confusion muddled her thoughts, until she could think on it no longer, and she waved her hand as though to swat away the pestering thoughts.

  When she came from behind the brush, Chrestien sensed he was pleased, although his face showed not a trace of emotion, save for the eyes—they were smoldering with open desire. Jesu, but his look was penetrating! She lowered her eyes to escape his knowing gaze, but could sense his scrutiny still.

  Without a word, he came to her suddenly, his arms coming around to enfold her. Chrestien's eyes flew open to meet his and this time, though she desperately wanted to turn away to hide her confused emotions, she kept her gaze affixed to his. Without warning his lips covered hers, and in that instant Chrestien knew she was his to do with as he would.

  Weston groaned deep in the back of this throat. She tasted sweet, like honey-spiced mead. His tongue flicked across the smoothness of her lips, willing them to part.

  She seemed uncertain what he wanted her to do, and initially confusion prompted her to tighten her lips, rousing a throaty chuckle from him. Her bewilderment pleased him, aroused him further, and the gentle pressure he exerted coaxed her lips to part softly. Immediately, his kiss deepened, his pleasure immense as he took the part of her she’d willingly given him.

  Drawing away, he watched the changing emotions that registered upon her face and felt a moment of gratitude that Henry had willed this after all.

  Suddenly, he could think of nothing more lovely than to return to her arms each night and he was in a hurry to have her speak the words that would bind her to him forever.

  Without warning, Chrestien found herself raised into the air as he lifted her nearly effortlessly. And for a moment, before he placed her into the saddle, she could feel the heat of his breath upon the back of her neck and it sent a chill down her spine.

  “You are mine,” he said huskily.

  Jesu! What did he do to her? It was as though every gaze, every touch sent her senses into turmoil. Her body betrayed her at his slightest touch—no matter how innocent the contact. And his words thrilled her to the core.

  Once they were both mounted, Weston encircled her waist with a sinewy arm, holding her firmly against his chest, and his whispered words in her ear made her shiver in his arms. “I will bind myself to you and keep you safe… always.” And once having imparted that, he placed a firm but gentle kiss upon the back of her head and moved to cradle his cheek upon her crown.

  God’s Bones, but how did this happen?

  Weston had been prepared to loathe her—or had he? He reflected back to the first time he’d truly seen her... in the tub. He’d left Lontaine in a rage—not because he was angry with her. If he could be honest with himself, his desire had confused him enough to make him flee. But while at Montagneaux, he could hardly keep from comparing the two sisters, and without having known Chrestien he’d felt a bond with her, despite that he did not know her. She was an angel sent to claim his heart.

  Had she truly done that?

  Aye, she had.

  Mayhap it happened when she’d floated into the hall last eve, dressed so prettily, coming into the room almost as though on gilded wings. Or mayhap it was in the garden when he could not see her... only feel her sweet presence... hear her daring spirit.

  He chuckled to himself as he thought of his lovesick knights at Lontaine. How many of them had asked themselves these very same questions of themselves?

  The obvious answer brought a frown, as a powerful wave of protectiveness came over him. In that instant he knew he would kill any man who dared to touch her. She was his, by God!

  In fact, he vowed he would keep her away from men altogether. Her effect on them was much too disconcerting. Had she not come close to turning him into a mindless, covetous fool? Aye, whether he was willing to own the truth of it or nay, she had... very nearly.

  He was startled to see her smoky eyes watching him so intently over her shoulder. “You have not said where we will live, my lord.”

  Mayhap because he did not know.

  The question brought an instant frown to his lips. Could she be happy with a landless knight? Suddenly the vision he had of coming home to his wife seemed muddled and uncertain.

  “Do you have holdings in Normandy?” she persisted.

  The furrow in Weston’s brow deepened. “Nay, I do not.”

  ‘Tell me about your home in England, my lord.”

  “’Tis not much to speak of,” he said, an almost bored tone to his voice. “’Tis wild terrain—not the place for a wellborn lady—cold and full of strife.”

  Her tone changed at once, as though suddenly he had pricked her temper. “Think you I have never dealt with cold, or that Normandy is free of strife? Nay, my lord. I am no stranger to aught you mention.”

  A smile curved his lips, and he decided that no matter where he lay his head at night, he could think of it as home if only she were near. And he would do everything within his power to be sure she never regretted laying beside him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The ceremony was over quickly, as there was little need to celebrate with but the two of them present. The priest spoke the holy words, witnessed by the monks, and then it was over and they were once again in the saddle.

  The sobriety of the occasion hung heavily in the air, mingling with the dark gray clouds overhead, their swollen bellies threatening to regurgitate their overflow. It was not long after they left Caen that those clouds made good on their threat, drenching both riders and animal in the tumultuous downpour.

  For Chrestien, the feeling of despair had begun immediately upon entering the cathedral of St. Etienne. Its enormous rib-vaulted ceiling made her feel minuscule, unimportant... a thorn in Weston’s side. She had no idea why she felt herself such a burden, but she worried now that he had wed her out of guilt—because he had taken her virginity. She didn't want him to have wed her for that reason.

  The rain went on for miles, sometimes slowing to a drizzle, but never ceasing, and Chrestien noted late in the afternoon that they were near the spot where Weston had first captured her on that horrible day.

  “There's a shelter nearby that should keep us from the rain,” he said and they made their way toward it, seeking refuge in the dense woodland.

  Reining in his destrier, Weston dismounted and aided Chrestien in doing the same. On foot, he led her through the thick underbrush and into a natural shelter of sorts—a canopy of trees that shielded the forest floor from the rain so well that very little light pierced the foliage. Upon entering the shelter, her eyes widened—like a sweet little girl—a complete contrast to the vixen he’d thought her to be when he'd first met her. Her hair hung in wet ringlets, and her cheeks were rosy against her ivory skin. But it was her wet gown that assured him she was no child. The sopping fabric hugged every curve of her body and he noted that her nipples stood proud and erect against the now faded bliaut. She was soaked to the bone but had complained not
once. His heart went out to her and it pained him that he had nothing finer to clothe her in. She deserved coffers of silk and velvet cloaks. As soon as he was able, he would dress her in the finery she deserved, but his task at this moment was to remove her sodden clothing and warm her bones. Taking the blanket from his saddlebag, he spread it upon the ground and dropped his mantle atop it. Then he motioned for Chrestien to come to him.

  Taking tiny rigid steps, she made her way toward him, teeth chattering.

  Weston frowned, knowing that if he did not take the wet gown from her chilled body soon, she could take ill. Impatient to see her dry, he swept her into his arms and dropped her beside the blanket. He helped her remove the dripping gown, and she sat nearly naked but for her chainse and her shoes upon the dry homespun coverlet he’d set out. Shivering, she pulled his mantle over her shoulders. Her kid-leather slippers were ruined, he noted as he bent to remove them from her feet. She was too numb to protest when he helped her off with her chainse as well.

  His breath caught as he set eyes upon her nude form. She was more lovely than he’d remembered, and he reasoned that the soapy bathwater had hidden her far better than he’d realized. Desire ignited within his loins, but he willed his mind to govern it and replaced his mantle about her shoulders.

  He would not touch her tonight, he swore. She was cold and miserable and he would wait until she could gift him with the fire she had shown him last eve.

  “Feel better?”

  Her teeth chattered away in protest of the cold, but she nodded her head.

  “Do you realize, Chrestien, this is the very spot we first met?”

  She had not.

  Raising her head, Chrestien took a long look about. Flashes of that day accosted her and a shiver of recollection swept through her. “Somehow it seems different,” she said finally, her teeth chattering still.

  “In fact, our blanket sits on the very spot where my tent was erected. I well and truly thought you a boy,” he confessed.

  Chrestien shivered. “You cannot know how frightened I was that you’d discover the truth.” She laughed softly. “I believed you a fate worse than death.”

  He lifted a brow. “That was not how you looked at me. In truth, I thought you a femme you ogled me so thoroughly. You are cold,” he said, when she shivered once more. “I mean to keep you warm.” Removing his own wet clothes, and placing his tunic, and gambeson onto a low-lying limb, he began to undo his laces and crossbands.

  Chrestien’s eyes widened suddenly as Weston's breeches fell to the ground, unhampered by the loosed cross-bands.

  Sweet Mary! She did not remember that!

  For the first time since last eve she wondered if in fact, she remained a virgin, because she most assuredly would have felt that monstrosity. Indeed, that was not how she recalled his manhood.

  A slow, arrogant smile turned Weston's lips as he watched her reaction.

  It was the response he’d hoped to gain from her, and he was certain now that she was completely innocent of all he had silently charged her with.

  She was his and his alone.

  Sitting again upon the blanket, he pulled the coverlet about their nude bodies, seeking the warmth their wet garb could no longer afford them. He pulled her gently into his arms, rubbing her tenderly with his hands, warming her.

  There was silence between them as he listened to her teeth chattering.

  Instinctively, she buried her face in his chest, and he pulled her against him to cradle her within his arms, whispering softly into her wet hair.

  “You are lovely,” he said and meant it.

  After awhile, her shivers abated a little. But darkness fell as he sat next to her, feeling her tremble through the blanket that covered them.

  Chrestien could not stop trembling, but she was cold no longer, in truth. She was afire with the feel of him beside her. The memory of his gentle touch lingered in her thoughts, and her body yearned for some unknown thing she knew instinctively only her husband could give her.

  Already her breasts were anticipating the caresses he’d given her last eve, and when he brought his warm fingers to the tips of them, she shivered in response. And yet no sooner did his fingertips alight there than her body craved his touch elsewhere.

  His lips took the place of his fingers, suckling and probing the hardened nubs, and it seemed he spent an eternity savoring one breast and then the other, until she nearly went mad from the intense pleasure it gave her. She wanted to scream—wanted to plead that he help her find a release from the torturous state he had put her in. She wanted him to stop... wanted him to go on... in truth, she didn’t know what she wanted.

  Was it possible to die from so much pleasure?

  His fingers glided across her skin, stopping to play in her forbidden region, and she thought to tell him to cease, but as his fingers danced their magic dance, her protests died in her throat, replaced instead by tiny pleading whimpers. She wasn’t certain what she wanted from him, only knew that she would have it. Whatever it was, by God, she would have it. God’s Mercy, she would have it. The fire that was growing in her belly was no longer exquisite, but agonizing instead. It grew so intense that she could barely endure it—tried to tell him so, but only his name rolled from her parched lips.

  Weston reveled in the sound of his name as it slid from her tongue. Never in his life had he been so thoroughly enchanted by the Norman accent. He knew he brought her desire to near madness, but the sweet torture was his to endure as well. He traced one nipple with his knowing tongue, then dipped to the valley between her breasts, coming finally to her lips again, his tongue following the outline of them, exerting the most gentle pressure, until she opened to his tender coaxing.

  He traced the shapes of her teeth, enjoying the feel of the tiny ridges against his tongue. When his tongue slid deeper into her softly parted mouth, she daringly brought her tongue to meet his, equaling his passion without temperance. He groaned his pleasure.

  The night air was cold, belying the sweat that beaded upon his brow. God, but he burned as though immersed in flames, and the sensual cries Chrestien rewarded him with increased his desire tenfold. But he was desperate to retain the control he would need to make her first time less painful. He had thought to leave her be, but he knew in his heart that he could not wait.

  Laying her down, and parting her thighs tenderly, his hands trembled as they fought the urge to take her with the force of his passion. His fingers reveled in the wetness that gave evidence to her desire.

  He continued his gentle assault, lips covering her breasts, kissing them druggedly, lavishing them with his seductive teasing, then trailed to the pale skin of her neck. He nibbled her lobe, causing a shiver to run throughout her body, and she took his hair into her hands, pulling him away from the sensitive spot... toward her mouth.

  Like a man starved, he thrust his tongue in a rhythm that he would soon mimic in nether regions, tasting and plundering with every frenzied stroke. Holding her close, he whispered huskily, “I need you, Chrestien... yield to me, my sweet.”

  He wanted her to want this as much as he did, wanted her to lay beneath him and welcome his body into her own. Shifting atop her, he covered her, reveling in the heat they created together.

  In answer, she took his tongue within her mouth, willing him to continue by moving her hips beneath him suggestively.

  Her eagerness nearly unmanned him on the spot. Sliding his hands down to cup her buttocks, he positioned himself between her thighs, intending to enter slowly, gently. But he was overcome by the warmth of her, and pushed himself into the silky depths of her body, fully sheathing himself, breaking through her maiden’s barrier in one fluid motion.

  Instinctively, he covered her mouth with his to absorb the cries of pain she could not contain. While he kissed her, he lay very still within her, allowing the pain to subside, watching for a sign that told him she was ready for his loving.

  He rocked her slowly, building the strength of his thrusts until Chrestien
could bear it no longer. Her body arched instinctively to accept all of him, her hand tugging at his hair. She moved beneath him feverishly, arching and undulating in turn, until finally it seemed something burst within. She cried out softly, loving the delicious sensations. He followed her cries with a guttural moan of his own, thrusting one last time, penetrating deeply and then stilling there within the depths of her body.

  It was long before Weston could find the strength to lift himself from his wife. He rolled to her side, and reveled in her sweet satisfied murmurs. The darkness was impenetrable now and he cursed himself that he could not see her once more before abandoning himself to sleep. Beside him, he could hear her breathing grow shallow and he knew sleep would come quickly. Warm and replete, she shivered no longer and he smiled. Pulling his mantle over her naked body, he buried his face in her hair, content just to breathe of her woman’s scent. “You are mine,” he whispered fiercely, and meant it from the core of his soul.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morning broke with a shower of sunshine. Golden rays pierced the foliage and stabbed the forest floor.

  Chrestien awoke to find herself alone. Grateful for a few minutes to see to her toiletry, she hurried to gather her displaced gown and chainse, and seeing the crumpled material sent a profusion of blushes to her cheeks as she recalled her first night with her lord husband. Now, the morning after, she realized there was no confusing the act of lovemaking—that she had thought herself deflowered before their vows were spoken now embarrassed her, for she had been quite mistaken.

  “My lord husband,” she said aloud to know the sound of it. “My lord husband,” she said again with a wistful sigh as she placed her gown over her head and tied the laces. “Weston,” she said, and smiled at the intimacy of it. “My lord husband... Weston,” she concluded happily.