Knight of Love (13 page)

She was tired of fear and shame and cruelty between a man and a woman. She knew more was possible. Could she have it, at least this once, with this strange knight errant of hers?

“Are you well?” she suddenly thought to ask. “You were feverish only yesterday. When I left you this morning, you were barely recovered from a nasty shoulder wound. And the cuts on your arm and scalp haven't finished healing yet either.”

“Stop fussing, I'm fine.”

“You shouldn't be out of bed.”

His wicked smile deepened. “I am delighted to return to bed, lady—if you will come with me.”

That smile was impossible to resist. She felt herself pulled in by its promise and her hesitations melted away. “You are mine to command, you say?”

“Aye, lady.” His eyes shone brighter.

What chivalric courtesy . . . she decided to test its limits. She rose to stand in the middle of the room. “Come to me, then.” She pointed to the floor in front of her. “Here, on your knees.”

He stalked toward her, his eyes gleaming in the firelight with their own fierce blue flame. The game was a dangerous one, but suddenly so delicious she dared take it on.

Dared take
him
on.

She drew in a shaky breath as he sank to both knees in front of her.

“Don't stop now, my lady wife. I am here to serve your pleasure. My sword is yours to command.”

Her lips twitched. “None of your naughtiness, knight.” But his wordplay gave her courage. She dropped the silk dressing gown into a pool at her feet and watched his eyes go dark. He was right about the corset: it did such interesting things for one's cleavage.

His hands clenched. She could tell that he wanted to touch her. It seemed an excellent idea. On his knees in front of her, his mouth—that amazing, lush mouth of his—lined up perfectly with her breasts. And she found she liked having the advantage of height over him for once.

She trailed her own fingertips across the tops of her breasts, exposed by the low-cut corset almost to her dark-pink areoles. “You may touch me”—she slipped a finger into the tight cups to hitch up her breasts enough to pull the nipples free of the boned and embroidered silk—“with your lips.”

With a growl, he set hands to her cinched waist and pulled her toward him. Fire splashed across her flesh as his mouth brushed her skin. She caught hold of his shoulders and gasped.

What was this game they played? The rules of it were quite beyond her, and she knew herself to be dangerously out of her depth. But she trusted this man—there was the rub. Despite the revolution consuming the countryside and the threats at every turn, she felt safe—here, in this room, with this man, in his arms.

Although he'd forced her into marriage and bedded her against her protests, she knew his blasted honor would keep her safe.

It made no sense; indeed, it made her question her better judgment. But she could tell that his vows, unlike the ones Kurt had stood ready to make, formed a sacred bond to him—pledging his life to hers.

And now he knelt in front of her, laving hot pleasure across her bosom. Along with her absurd sense of trust bloomed growing sparks of desire for this man. She could take him to her bed. It could be her choice this time, on her terms, here in this room of hers. She could control the play.

To be sure, she asked a question. “And if I say stop?”

He seemed to have no trouble following the train of her thought. He lifted his mouth off her puckered nipple. “I would stop. What I did before was for your safety, to give me the right to protect you, when danger rode all around you. I would not have otherwise taken away your choice as I did, and I will not do so again.”

“If we proceed very far, and I only say stop at the end?” It was a test, and maybe a bluff. She wasn't ready to forgive him for what he'd done, nor absolve him for his actions. Nor was she ready to act quite as boldly as she wished on the feelings stirring within.

“I am at your command, lady. I am no boy, prey to my lust. You can trust me to control my passion—although you are, by far, the most splendid and glorious vision of womanhood I've ever beheld in my life.” He blew gently on her nipple before giving it another lick. “But are you sure you'll want me to stop?”

His wicked grin was far too arrogant, but the man had a point. Stopping him would prove her control but end her pleasure. No one could foretell the future, especially now, with Europe in flames. Her reputation was unlikely to survive this fiasco. A quiet spinster's life in the household of one of her brothers seemed her most likely fate.

But here, now, was her very own knight, sworn to her cause, devoting himself to her pleasure. He might even be her husband, in the eyes of God and state. Why not take pleasure in and with him?

She made her decision. “You may proceed, my knight errant.”

“Nay, not errant, lady. I wander no more. I am bound to your side, to your fate, come what may. No matter what happens after tomorrow, Lenora, know that I meant every vow I made to you. The marriage contract will hold. The rights it gives you are yours. I am your knight of love, lady.”

Later, she realized that the strange urgency of his tone should have warned her. But he was rubbing his roughened thumb pads across the tips of her breasts as he spoke. She had no room left for thought, doubt, plotting, or intrigue. She was done with politics and misery. She wanted to
feel
.

“Love me well, then, my Black Knight.” And she pulled him to her.

He feasted upon her, alternating his attentions from breast to breast. His large hands cupped her buttocks and kneaded in time to the pull of his mouth on her nipples. As he pressed kisses across her breasts, he tugged free her corset laces.

God bless a clever man.

She dropped her head back and moaned. His bulk anchored her, warmed her to the core.

“More.” The word slipped from her, entreaty or command.

“As you wish, lady.” With a growl, he surged to his feet, shed her corset and shift, and picked her up in his arms.

The sheets cooled her flushed skin as he laid her down on the bed.
A real bed—imagine!

Most of his own clothing followed, willy-nilly. And when he lay down beside her, she was cool no more. Heat radiated from him. He was so big, twice the bulk of her own form. When he reached for her, the memory of fear prickled at her. The feel of his power made her stop him.

“Wait.” Another command. She found she liked the sound of it on her tongue. “No, my knight,” she said, sitting up. “It is I who am taking the fences tonight. You jump at my command.”

He grinned, clearly amused. “You may hold the reins as tight as you wish, lady. You will find me a well-behaved and responsive mount. Most smooth in the saddle, I assure you.”

“I believe I would like to inspect my mount further.” She plucked at the band of his trousers, his last remaining clothing. “Remove these, if you please.”

The breeches—and his smalls with them—hit the floor with most gratifying alacrity.

“Now lie down, here.” She pointed to the middle of the huge be-pillowed bed, shifting back on her heels.

He lay flat on his back, one arm tucked akimbo behind his head and legs splayed open. His other arm sported a fresh bandage wrapping the shoulder, but the skin looked healthy and he moved the arm with relative ease. A quick healer, this Black Knight of hers. The bedchamber candles flickered across his nude form: long limbs, thick corded muscle, a dusting of dark hair over gold-lit flesh.

“Shameless man”—she slapped lightly at his thigh—“have you no modesty?”

He gave her a roguish smile. “Our flesh has become one. I have nothing to hide from you. This body is yours now, lady, to do with as you please.”

This thought was a new one. She turned it over in her head. “Mine?”

“Yes, lady.” Those blue eyes shined. “Quite entirely all yours.”

She trailed a hand lightly down the center of his chest. She could take her time. Satisfy her curiosity. About
that
part of him, for example.

It rose up from his groin, thick, throbbing with a little pulse as it lay on his belly. He grinned at the direction of her gaze. “It points toward my heart.”

Despite herself, she laughed. Did all men spout such nonsense? “Do you think me the village milkmaid, to be taken in by such drivel?”

“I speak the truth, lady. My passion is for you, my love, my wife.”

She stroked across his unwounded shoulder and down his arm. Such muscles! She remembered him fencing, bare chested, one day last week in the camp's makeshift practice yard. She hadn't realized a man could be so graceful and so quick-footed when his frame carried such rock-hard musculature. So different from a woman's soft smoothness. But that skin on the throbbing part of him lower down—it looked soft, even silky. She glanced at it through downcast eyes.

Just how bold was she prepared to be?

“Have you had many lovers?” she asked. The question seemed a good place to start. Besides, she knew so little about this man.

“Not really. None as beautiful, as brave, or as special as you.
Et mulierem ignoro, et virgo non sum
.
”

She frowned, puzzling it out. “ ‘I
have never known a woman, and yet I am no virgin'? Some early Church father, I presume?”

He nodded. “Basil of Caesarea. Until you, Lenora—I have never known a woman until you.”

“I'm not so beautiful.” She regretted the unguarded words as they slipped out.
Fishing for compliments, Lenora?
The man slipped under her guard somehow. What did she care what he thought of her? But somehow she found herself curious and caring, indeed. She liked him thinking her beautiful and special. As the eldest daughter of a wealthy duke, she'd been complimented from the moment of her coming out. The endless, empty flattery long ago convinced her that the opposite must be true.

“You can't see yourself as I do.” He reached for a strand of her hair. “Sable tresses, so lively with these curls; they reflect your energy. Such flashing green eyes”—he stroked fingertips along her brows—“like a forest dryad.” He matched caresses to his words: “This strong chin and high cheekbones—no wilting wallflower, you. Skin everywhere like the finest Chinese silk”—he stroked lower, to neck, shoulder, belly, and hip, before returning to trace shivers along the rim of her mouth—“and truly divine lips that haunt my dreams.”

Blushing at his praise, she laid her head on his belly to better inspect this lower part of him. His smell was intoxicating. Clean, but musky, strong. And very compelling. She breathed deeply, then raised her head to look at him. “May I . . . ”

His eyes darkened as he caught her intent. “Whatever you wish, lady. My body is yours. Whatever gives us pleasure is good between us.”

But the shadow of Kurt cast its gloom into the chamber. “What if one of us insists on something that the other finds unacceptable?” She pushed back at the memories.

“Then that would be wrong,” he answered, smoothing a big hand along her back. “You must tell me immediately if anything I ever do makes you uncomfortable. I will stop. You, however, may do to me as you wish.” His wide mouth crooked up at the corners. “I find it hard to imagine any desire of yours would be unacceptable to me.”

“What if I wanted to—”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I don't know . . . to order you about in some way.”

His smile widened into a curve of lips and lift of an eyebrow. “It seems only fair, doesn't it, given how men have been ordering you about? I hope you believe now that Kurt and I are of a very different sort, but fate has made your destiny subject to both our wills. I don't blame you for wanting to be in control instead. I put myself in your hands, in any way you choose.”

She thought about it, absently petting his furred chest. What, exactly, would she choose? Knowledge and pleasure and control all seemed fine choices. She wanted to know how a man's body worked—a good man's body. Males were so very intriguingly different from her own person. She wanted—she was willing to admit it to herself, cocooned in the velvet hangings of the bed—more of the pleasure she'd experienced with this particular man before, but without the fear and rage that had marred their so-called wedding night. And she wanted this time to be in control of it all, setting the stage and the pace.

“Stay,” she said. She pushed down on his chest for leverage as she swung her legs to the floor.
Where are those linen undergarments the countess sent this afternoon with the maid?
She riffled through the garderobe in the flickering candlelight. There—two linen shifts, sturdy enough for the task she had in mind.

She climbed back into the bed.

He raised an eyebrow again. “Am I to dress in a lady's clothing? I'm not sure they'll fit.”

He surprised a laugh from her. She hadn't thought of laughter as part of lovemaking. Nor that this man would amuse her or provoke such . . . interesting ideas in her head.

“I do mean to test this fine stitching against your blacksmith's bulk, but not that way.” She scooted up to the mass of pillows and bolsters at the head of the bed and pulled one wrist from behind his head. The head groom at Sherbrooke had taught her about knots as well as throwing knives. “Do you mind?” she asked. She strived for a worldly tone, as if tying a man to the bedposts were an everyday task, although her heart beat a fast staccato in her ears.

He grinned broadly. “Not at all, lady. Go ahead. And a little tighter, if you please.” He flexed those impressive arm muscles. “I wouldn't want the binding to come loose and spoil your plans.”

Gracious! Her stomach fluttered. She couldn't span his upper arm even with both hands. “I don't want to hurt you,” she murmured, suddenly rather abashed over what she was about.

“Lady, you wound my pride!” He raised his head off the pillow. “Do you honestly think that a transparent shift—quite a delightful garment, by the way, although I do miss the breeches—is going to hurt me?”