Once a Knight (12 page)

This wasn't like the first kiss, all hunger and fire and sweeping resolution. This kiss gave comfort and reassurance. It frustrated her that she
did
need comfort and reassurance, that she liked this closeness, and the way he
delicately tasted her. Yet she was a woman, too, who'd been given a sip of heady passion and wanted another.

Working her arms free, she put her hands on either side of his face and held him until he opened his eyes. “You're not doing it right.”

He mocked her gently. “You would know.”

“I know more than you think.” Her own bravado shocked her. How could she imagine that she knew anything?

But he nodded amiably. “In sooth, you know more of what pleasures you than I.”

“Women like—” she thought, then finished, “—different things.”

“What do you like?”

Now
that
was an inquiry, asked by the devil for his own purposes. To discover what she liked, she would have to experiment, and no one in George's Cross was available for experiment—except David.

She should be dubious. She should know he did this to further his ridiculous suit of marriage, to gain custody of her twelve sacks of wool and all that went with it. But just moments ago she'd convinced herself he'd forgotten all about that, and the nurturing seemed so real. The comfort she drew from it
was
real, and her need now—that, too, was real.

Too many questions, and no answers she could accept.

Looking at him, his mouth pulled suspiciously straight, his brow set quizzically, she wondered what he thought and wondered why she cared.

Then his arms tightened and he took a short breath. “Too much control isn't good for a man.”

Thinking that he meant her, that she suffered from too much control and that he displayed none whatsoever, she tried to correct him. But his hands ranged lower, onto her bottom, and he pulled her tighter
against him and rubbed himself against her. She liked being rubbed, and she rubbed him back, undulating against him to increase sensation. From his low groan and the golden flames that lit his brown eyes, she supposed he enjoyed it, too.

He picked her up without respect for her person or status. Knocking her account book off, he deposited her on the table, and when she tried to object, he kissed her—correctly, this time. He took advantage of her open mouth and thrust his tongue inside, then pulled it out. She tried to speak again, and he did it again and again, until she comprehended.

He didn't want her to talk. He did want to kiss her, and possibly he wanted more. Her whole self rested along the length of the table, and he slid her along the smooth finish, then lowered her back until her head rested on the boards. “You can't get away now,” he said, and she heard distinct satisfaction in his tone.

She felt sure she still had control. After all, she had only to shout and the serving women in the solar would come running. Still, the hard table chafed her back and David leaned over her, using his arms to trap her between them. And he kissed her with more than his mouth, teeth, and tongue now. Somehow his fervency had brought the weight of desire to bear. Her legs moved restlessly, the keys rattled on her hip, and he noticed. To placate her, he sank onto the table himself and laid his body against hers. One of his legs separated hers, and one of his hands stroked her thigh, creeping close to the place she really wanted stroked, then moving away.

His ignorance angered her—after all, he was the one with experience—and she freed herself from the kiss, grabbed his hand and put it where she wanted it. “There!” She glared into his eyes. “Do I have to do
everything
?”

His lids narrowed. He smiled. Not one of his pleasant, merry smiles, but more like the smile of a big, bad wolf about to eat an innocent girl.

Worse, that smile thrilled her. Thrilled her and frightened her, all at the same time. “David?”

“A man could revel in you.”

She wanted to answer in a snap, but he pressed his palm firmly against the fork of her thighs, then released it, then pressed again. She grabbed his shoulders and arched her hips up, seeking more, and he obliged her. Her breasts ached, her stomach jumped, her breath quickened. She closed her eyes, then opened them, then closed them again. He kissed her mouth, not deeply this time, and whispered, “Who's doing this to you?”

Her hands clenched him, echoing his rhythm.

He removed his expert hand. “Who?”

“David!”

“That's right.” He kissed her again, caressed her again, and she subdued a moan, fighting to keep it behind clenched lips. “By the saints, you're hot and sweet as honey on a firestone.”

His free hand pushed her wimple off, she heard him say, “Saint Michael be praised,” but words meant nothing to her. She comprehended only his body as it spoke to hers. The press of his chest against hers, the press of his groin against her hip, the tug of his hand in the hair on her head all promoted this sense of struggle within herself. Something in her fought to get out. Something not proper. Something wild and indiscriminate. It smacked headlong into her propriety and battered at it, using her body as a battleground.

Worse, she was on the wild thing's side. She wanted to allow it freedom, but she just couldn't.

He must have sensed her struggle, for he murmured, “Virgin.” Taking his hand from between her legs, he
replaced it with his body. He would have crushed her against the wood, but he held himself on his elbows and knees and made contact in only the important parts. The parts which, when placed together, could make a whole. She had to work to force her eyelids to lift so she could look at him, and when she did, she was sorry.

He appeared to be violent. His face was red, mottled where he had shaved it, and drawn into a scowl. But through lips that scarcely moved, he whispered, “You're my dream.”

And she didn't believe, not even for a moment, that he was talking about her lands.

Her clothes itched. His clothes covered too much. If she had control of her hands, she would have removed every stitch, but he began to thrust and she forgot everything but the wild thing he'd discovered inside her. As she concentrated on the sensations, she moved restlessly. She tried to lift her legs, but he rested on her skirt and they were caught. She tossed her head and ran her hand through her own hair, clenching it in her fist, trying to find ease.

Her upraised elbow struck his leather bag, and she distinctly heard a mew, followed by a scratching. The two on the table tried to ignore it, but the creature, whatever it was, grew frantic. Both of them lifted their heads and stared at the sack. Irritated enough to scream, she demanded, “What's in there?”

He laid his hand on the bag, and the pressure seemed to placate the inhabitant. With a sigh of what sounded like relief, he asked, “Do you really want to talk about it now?”

“Nay, but I…nay.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again. “Later.”

But he didn't kiss her, although she clearly invited him. Instead he lifted his head. “Listen.”

Booted footsteps crossed the floor of her solar, and
in a rush she remembered—she'd asked Sir Walter to come and consult with David. She'd thought it appropriate to try and unite the men in their common cause, and then, frivolous as any maiden, she had forgotten.

She had lost control.

“Blessed Mother!” She tried to slide back; David obligingly let her go. Snatching her wimple off the table, she grabbed a handful of flyaway hair. She couldn't subdue it, not easily, anyway, and David tried to help her. But they couldn't move fast enough, and when Sir Walter stepped into the doorway, they remained tangled on the table like guilty lovers.

Which they might have been if not for Sir Walter's interruption.

Taking a deep breath, she decided she could handle this situation. After all, she'd been in worse. Right now, she couldn't remember when, but surely she'd been in worse. Sitting up, she smoothed expression from her face and became the lady of George's Cross, impervious to criticism.

Then David said loudly, “Is the louse out of your hair now?”

Alisoun froze in horror. Was he mad?

He got to his knees on the table and efficiently finished wrapping her hair in the wimple, then nodded judiciously. “You'll have no more trouble, I'm sure.” Turning to Sir Walter, he said, “She had a louse in her hair. I removed it.” Climbing over her, he slid off the table and onto his stool, angelic expression in place.

The jiggling brought another “mew” from the leather bag on the table, but Alisoun had no attention to spare. A louse? He'd said she had a louse in her hair? She, who had never had vermin on her in her life, supposedly had picked one up in her own castle? She didn't believe it.

Sir Walter didn't believe it, either. He just watched,
stone-faced. No doubt he thought she taunted him, or worse, that she couldn't control her wayward passions.

And could she? She'd forgotten her schedule for David.

She glanced at him and realized it was possible to be peeved at a man and lust for him at the same time. No matter what David had said, she wished she'd ordered Sir Walter chained in the dungeon so she could have finished pursuing that odd, wild pleasure she found in David's arms.

Sir Walter cleared his throat. She still sat on a table in her accounting room with her skirts thrashed and her lips red from the impact of such fine kissing, and both men observed her to avoid looking at each other.

Early in her life, she'd discovered that her imperious lady-face could be undermined by a hint of color in her cheeks, and she'd learned to ignore the emotions that caused her to blush. But this embarrassment was apparently not subject to her authority, and she blushed so brightly she feared to light the room. With a distinct lack of grace, she scrambled off the table. The keys jangled; a bright, cheerful sound that seemed to illumine her mortification. Sitting on the stool, she leaned over to pick up her tumbled account book and found that her fingers trembled. Hastily, she placed the parchments on the table before her and folded her hands to conceal her agitation. In a reasonable voice, she asked, “Sir Walter, would you explain to Sir David what you wish from him?”

Sir Walter bowed, a jerky, graceless obeisance. “You and Sir David should discuss it between yourselves. The two of you obviously have a superior understanding.”

His boots thudded, each step louder than the other until he left the solar with a slam of the door. Then she turned on David. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

Mimicking him, she said, “
Is that louse out of your hair now?
Do you think he's a fool? I don't have lice. You condemned us with your playacting.”

“Pardon, my lady. I presumed you wanted him to remain in ignorance of our…”

He hesitated, and she asked frostily, “Aye?”

“Our growing acquaintance.”

His tactful reply infuriated her, and for the first time since she was a child, she spoke without thinking. “I'm the lady. Whatever I do, must be right.”

The breath he took expanded his chest. Then it collapsed as he said, “Ah.”

She wanted to cover her face. Arrogance. When had she ever shown such arrogance? But the way he sucked in his cheeks, as if he suppressed a smile, made it impossible for her to apologize. She snapped, “Don't ever try to dissemble for me again. You're no good at it.”

His concealed amusement vanished, and he snapped back, “A man needs a moment to calm himself, my lady. I've already shown Sir Walter the shape of my passion once. I doubt he wanted to see it again.”

When she understood, one of those discerning blushes began again, starting from her toenails and working up. She wanted to ask if he'd calmed himself so rapidly and what it portended if he had not. But she couldn't bear to reveal her ignorance, so she asked, “Well? Will you do it?”

“Do?”

“As Sir Walter desires.”

Leaning back against the stone wall, he crossed his arms across his chest and leveled a stare at her. “Where did you learn that trick?”

“I don't know what you mean.” But she did.

He explained anyway. “The trick of pretending noth
ing happened when almost everything that could happen, did.”

“On the table, you mean?”

“As delectable a meal as I ever enjoyed.”

“We had our clothes on.” She'd wanted them off, but that had been a momentary aberration.

“I could have had you, clothes on and all.” He pointed at her, interrupting her before she could say anything. “It wasn't my plan, but nothing I did in here was part of my plan. Remember that when you think of our time together, my lady of the frustrations.”

How could she reply to him? She knew only the proper forms of address. She didn't know how to quarrel, for no one ever quarreled with her. She'd never learned spontaneous repartee. Most especially, she'd never mastered the art of a lover's frankness, for no one had ever wanted her for a lover. She wanted to think about how David seemed to sincerely desire her, and she needed to understand that wild part of her and what had spawned it.

He waited for her to gather some semblance of order, then asked, “What does the estimable Sir Walter wish from me?”

“Ah.” She fiddled with the book of accounts to avoid any eye-to-eye contact. “He suggested that since you have little to occupy your time, you might take over the training of our squires. They respect you a great deal and would receive instruction gratefully.”

Now she waited, and when he didn't reply, she looked up. His mouth had dropped open, and he just stared.

“Will you train the squires?”

“Nay!”

His explosion startled her. She knocked the book off the table again and it landed with a thud.

He didn't care. Pointing his thumb to his chest, he
said, “I'm Sir David of Radcliffe. I'm a legendary knight. I don't train mere squires.”