To Touch The Knight Page 15

  “So expressive.” He took her face between his hands. Why hide this? his dark eyes seemed to ask as his lips found hers and he kissed her deeply.

  She was, quite simply, bewitching. Even by moonlight she was beautiful—he had known she would be beautiful ever since he had kissed her, ever since he had traced her exquisite features. “Peerless,” he murmured, breaking their latest embrace and leaning back to look at her. It was a delight to look at her.

  Her eyes were still closed, her lush mouth slightly open. She had thrown herself into their kiss and was still not quite returned within herself—it was that honesty in her response, that vulnerable openness, that compelled him to be slow, to take the care she deserved. For now, in a lost moment of perfect stillness, when the rest of the world seemed far below them, he looked at her.

  Her face was oval, with narrow, delicate features. A nose that was almost too long, strong dark brows, darkly lashed eyes, a sensual mouth, a dimple in the middle of her chin. He tried to recall a childish rhyme about dimples and chins, gave up, and feasted his eyes on her afresh. Hers was a face to notice in a mob, a face of light and life with expressive eyes haunted—as they all were these days—by loss. There was a Greek woman said to be beautiful, but she could not be as lovely as Edith.

  He pushed the loosened headdress back from her hair and the great tumbling mass spilled onto his hands, brown, soft, and rich as good tilled earth. He brought a streamer to his lips and kissed it, smelling lilies.

  “Your perfume,” he began, but she interpreted his start as a question, not the compliment he had intended, and answered that instead.

  “I made perfumes as a sideline to the forge work. Lilies is so strong ’tis memorable.”

  “A scent worthy of a princess.” He tugged away her headdress and dropped it down onto the bundle of bedding he had brought back. He was tempted to light the lantern at once, tease her to undress by it, but he thought she might be shy.

  Deferring that pleasure, he drew her back into his arms and kissed her beguiling face anew, murmuring, “I would be your washing water, my lady.”

  He flicked her ear with his tongue and she trembled like a young sapling. Her eyes were closed again and her face was warmly blushing beneath his fingers. “Adorable Edith of the East.”

  She swallowed, as if about to speak, to confess, then thought better of it.

  “I was named for the brother of my grandfather, a great-uncle. Were you named for anyone?”

  “My grandmother.” Her whisper was hazy and slow, as if she was drugged.

  “Then, old dame, will you go to the river and bring us back some fresh water?”

  Her eyes flew open, indignation making them wide and bright. He pointed to the bundle, where the neck of a water bottle peeped out. “I will make all ready here,” he said, straight-faced. Teasing her now that she was unveiled was a new delight.

  She glowered at him suspiciously and he ran his thumb across her lips, a gentle touch with a promise of more. He saw the promise and her need to make a smart answer war in her faintly pouting mouth and then, quick as a wood-mouse, she dived out of his embrace and strutted off with the water bottle. Watching her go, head high, hair bobbing, breasts wobbling, hips dipping and rolling, made him long for full day to see the spectacle, and he laughed. He was still chuckling as he undid the bundle.

  Chapter 22

  When she returned with a full water flask, Edith wondered for an instant if he had abandoned her. The little stand of trees seemed deserted.

  “Here.” A rough cloth flap was opened and she saw a small “cave” within, lit by a lantern.

  She crawled inside, surprised and pleased by what she found. Ranulf had draped cloths about the branches and spread cloths and bedding on the ground, making them a nest that was warm and snug.

  “This useful trick I learned from a shepherd.” He settled cross-legged on a bare but dry patch of earth beside the bedding. “We need no fire tonight, I think, or do you feel our English cold?”

  Still on hands and knees, she shook her head and rose onto her knees.

  He smiled. “You have no idea what to do next.”

  She almost disagreed, but that might mean she would have to back her words with action. She warmed her hands by the small, flickering lantern, and began to plait her hair for something to do.

  Inspiration struck. “I am a little thirsty. Have we any ale, please?” She knew the river water was for washing; no one drank water in a camp unless they were fools.

  “We have better than ale.” Ranulf lifted a cloth to display cups and a flagon, and small baskets filled with dried apple, fresh raspberries, sugared orange, plums in cinnamon and honey, cherry bread. The spicy scent of wine filled the space and, had she not been so nervous, her mouth would have watered.

  He poured her a cup of wine and placed it carefully on the ground before her. “Fruit?”

  He filled her plate. All sweets, she noticed, and felt pleased and flattered, but more shy. No other man had taken such trouble to please her, not when they knew her as simply Edith.

  As she reached for a piece of apple, Ranulf lifted the lantern. He was not crass enough to shine it directly into her eyes, but he was looking at her again.

  “I asked one of my men, who has an interest in words and meanings, about your name. ‘Edith’ matches you. It means ‘royal warrior.’ Apt for a princess, would you not say?”

  She had not known. “What is the meaning of your name?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “I did not ask that. I was not interested.”

  The bars of the lantern made shadow lines across his face, like scars. She touched them, feeling him shiver.

  “What now, Princess Royal Warrior?” he asked, but he was already sweeping forward in a blaze of lantern light and heat, and he answered his own question by kissing her.

  She had never felt royal until now. Ranulf’s kiss cherished and exalted her so that she felt to be part of a warm, glowing wave. She put her hands into his soft russet-to-fair hair, feeling his skull and the hard tendons of his neck, relishing the weight of his head, the heavy weight of him. Always and most intimately, his lips pleasured hers while her mouth answered his kiss for kiss.

  She gave him a gentle, experimental push. At once, he sank back into the bedding like a golden shadow, in a whiff of lavender-scented cloths, and held out his arms.

  She entered them without thought, sprawling over him, delighting at his tough long legs, firm belly, the knotted muscles that he made “dance” along his arms. She could feel his chest and stomach hairs tickling her bare navel and giggled, feeling like a young girl again.

  “Princess Prize.” He stroked the small of her back with the tips of his fingers. She wriggled, wishing he would stroke lower, aching to touch him.

  “Do what you will with me.” He tugged softly at her hair plait, murmuring, “You make me a youth again, all wonder and thumbs.”

  He would not scold or strap her if she did anything he did not like. The difference between Ranulf, Adam, and Peter awed her, while deep in her heart she understood. This was love.

  Slowly—many of the fastenings were laced in ways strange to her—she untied his green and gold tunic and leggings. He was as sun-bronzed and obedient as a child, lifting his shoulders and hips for her to undress him, but he was very much a man. Seeing him stripped, she clutched at the leggings in her fist, feeling heat burning up her throat and face.

  Will it hurt?

  She did not know she had spoken until he answered gently, “Only a brute hurts a woman. We have all night to learn about each other.” He swallowed, and his soaring manhood joggled, too, a detail that made her smile. “Do you wish to touch me?”

  He was blushing as well, she realized, and possibly also shy, while holding himself within an iron restraint. She wanted to smother the lantern and plunge them into a safe darkness, while at the same time she longed to look and kiss and caress.

  “May I touch you?” he asked.

  “Later?” A
nd, as he grinned and thrust out his tongue in mocking protest, she repeated firmly, “Later.”

  She glided her hands over his legs and feet, across his arms and shoulders. He was warm and strong to her touch, strong as a smith, and more beautifully formed, with his calves and thighs as sinewy as his forearms. She kissed his ears and forehead, his stomach, and the shadows in the crooks of his elbows. His skin tasted of salt and musk and beneath those a sweetness that inspired her to kiss his mouth. He embraced her fiercely in return, clamping his arms about her tightly and squeezing until she cried, “Too much!”

  At once he let her go and in response she daringly lowered her head and licked his navel, teasing the golden hairs that swirled there. He stifled an exclamation and reached for her anew.

  “Patience, knight.” She nipped his arm and he chuckled, flicking his foot against hers, then snaking a long, lean leg over her bottom and trapping her against him. Her arousal was hard and obvious against her flimsy silk.

  “Shall we offer each other terms, lady?” He cupped her behind with his hands.

  “Or favors,” she gasped, rocking against him, stiffening as the space between her thighs sweetly itched and ached. “I have one for you.”

  She wanted to please him. As a wife she had pleasured Adam with her hands often, but she was shy of showing her reddened, burned fingers with Ranulf. “Close your eyes,” she coaxed.

  “After, my lady, it will be you,” he said, then he did as she asked.

  He looked like a glorious sleeping statue come to life, she thought, as the lantern cast its soft light over them. Her hands looked very rough and coarse beside the tender white and pink flesh of his manhood, but he sighed as she caressed him, blowing her a kiss.

  She stroked him softly, then firmly, running her thumbs over the tip of his sex, cradling his balls. He grew even harder and thicker, his breath sounding harsh against her ear as she quickened her fingers. His hips jerked on the bedding and his face reddened and even as she was thrilled by his strong response, he spilled his seed with a great shout.

  “Forgive me,” he said, shamefacedly, when he had caught a breath. “You are so giving, so loving. I could not stop myself—”

  She kissed him into silence. “It is wonderful to me, Ranulf.” Her loins still felt moist and open, but she did not care overmuch. Neither of the other men she had known had been so swift, so ardent, and so touchingly grateful. Already she knew there would be other times when they would join in truth and then she expected to be well-sated.

  She snuggled down beside him, expecting him to roll over and sleep. Instead he took her hands and lifted them to the light.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said as she cringed a little at his examination. “You kissed the scars on my flanks and arms. These, too, are honorable wounds.” He pressed his lips to a long red scar on her smallest finger and then sucked a mark in the middle of her palm, the remains of an old burn. “Lady of lilies and fire,” he muttered, sucking each fingertip in turn, kissing her reddened knuckles. “Hands of a maker.”

  He took her hands in one of his, saying, “What dainty wrists,” as he trailed his other hand from her breasts to her belly. Kissing and tonguing her breasts through the silk, he deftly parted and lifted her skirts and slipped his fingers between her legs.

  The intimate contact made her buck and whimper as the sense of pressure and need for more overwhelmed her. Always with men before she had savored their pleasure and sometimes gained some sweetness for herself. This time she felt so giddy she was afraid she might faint.

  “I—I—”

  “Enjoy,” he whispered, kissing her lips. “Come to me, sweeting.”

  His coaxing released her. A bright, sweet comet of pleasure exploded in her hips, breasts, mouth—even her toes. On and on she rode the wave, her hips jerking, reaching upward as Ranulf quickened and slowed and quickened his caresses, extending her pleasure, kissing her tautened throat and chin.

  The piercing moment was gone and she glowed in the aftermath, feeling joyful yet close to tears. She had sought to give herself, the true gift she had, yet had she brought him such happiness?

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She felt awed.

  He hugged her and began to slide the silk from her shoulders. “Forgive me, Edith, for not doing this earlier. A lady does not expect to be tumbled clothed into her bed.”

  “I could not have waited longer.”

  He smiled.

  What fools had lain with her, that she should be so unknowing of her own desires? The base part of him exulted that he would be the one to teach her, that she would learn such joys and tenderness with him. Yet overwhelming his sense of triumph was a surprising feeling: pity.

  Am I going soft?

  “You were finally tender with me, Rannie,” said Olwen in his mind.

  Surely I was not as bad with you as these fools were with her.

  “You know you were not, merely youth-hasty. But now you have another chance to share that gentle unguardedness with another, and from the start. Take it.”

  I heed you. In life he had done so too little, sometimes too late. These days he did not make that mistake.

  Thoughts are swift, and he had only drawn the strange halter top from Edith’s arms. Now he looked at her and all thought was gone.

  As if tugged by invisible strings, his fingers stretched out. “May I?” His voice was a croak.

  She nodded and he traced the start of her blush by her throat and then swept his hands lower. He cupped her naked breasts and they both sighed.

  “Kneel up,” he whispered. He wanted to see her more by the lantern light and feel those delicious soft curves jouncing slightly in his hands.

  She did so and he rose with her. Her breasts were rounder and more pert than apples, with lovely dark nipples that reminded him of the half-opened roses in his mother’s garden. He gloried in running his hands over each breast, feeling a fresh surge of passion and tenderness as she leaned into his fingers and kissed him wherever she could reach.

  They knelt together and he fed her raspberries and dried apple, washed down by wine. She drank eagerly.

  “I cannot understand why I am so dry-mouthed,” she remarked, a complaint that amused him although he said nothing, focusing on her smooth navel and gently flaring hips.

  He had touched her there but now he was greedy. He must see and taste. Savoring the moment, he eased her skirts down over her bottom, letting the mass drop away.

  His first glimpse of that dark triangle made him go hard again. Reluctant to relinquish the paradise of her bosom, he bent his head and kissed her nipples as his hands quickly explored her tiny waist before dipping to her freshly exposed behind.

  Outside, incongruously, a donkey began to bray in the darkness, and a man cursed it. Ranulf heard the rustle of the river and Edith’s skirts as she wriggled against his fingers. He pulled her toward him, and she surprised him by pitching forward onto her hands and knees and lowering her head.

  Her backside was another paradise: round, unblemished, glistening in the lantern light. An inviting prospect.

  He kissed her nicely presented bottom, loving how round yet firm she was, how smooth. He wrapped his hands across each raised cheek, fondling her bottom and her thighs. Her forearms were rigid, he noticed.

  “Rest on me,” he instructed softly, scooping an arm about her tender, tiny waist, pillowing her navel on his brawny, hairy forearm. He circled her raised nether cheeks with his other hand, marking how she pushed back against his roving fingers.

  He kissed and softly nipped the back of her neck where her hair plait had lately lain. Recalling her wide, anxious eyes at his own size and her clear arousal in this position, he whispered, “Do you like making love this way?”

  “The single time it was done to me, yes.” She groaned, laying her head on the sheets and closing her eyes as he caressed her over her haunches and between her thighs.

  Once only and she had no choice? Her previous menfolk were worse than pigs!

>   “It will be excellent with me, sweeting,” he promised.

  He began a long, slow, trailing fondle, round her bottom and down to her sweet intimacies. He took his time and his pleasure from her response, reaching with his other hand to caress her bush from the front, too.

  Olwen had been warm and slow and steady to please. Edith was hotter in nature, or more starved; in a few more strokes her face crimsoned and she stiffened in rapture. He embraced and caressed her as she blossomed in her release, ready to stop and cuddle if it should prove too intense, if she was well-satisfied.

  “You!” she managed to gasp, trying to roll over and embrace him, but he kept her hung over his arm.

  “Edith.” She was close again, making small endearing squeaks that he might tease her about one day, but not tonight.

  “You are as snug as your gloves,” he praised, deepening his caresses. She reveled in the attention, her mouth open in a long gasp of wonder.

  But he could wait no longer. Withdrawing his fingers, he piled the cloths beneath her so she was curved nicely over them. Cupping her full breasts with one hand, he guided himself into her.

  Her parts embraced him in warmth and silken, pliant strength: she welcomed him. Wanting to plunge and plunge, he steeled himself to take care, experiencing sensations he had never encountered before as he slowly sank his full length into her. Then they were sheathed together.

  “Lord!” he heard her breathe. “Lord, Lord.”

  “Too much?” He began to shift back, but she backed up with him.

  “More!”

  Her plea released him and he reared and bucked within her, accelerating as she screamed her satisfaction. On and on they moved as one, and his yielding powered and stormed within him. Then, as he felt her strong young muscles clamping about him as she spiraled again into further desire and release, he too was flying.

  He bellowed her name, tumbling against her, drawing her with him as they sprawled on the bedding, together and content at last.