A Knight’s Enchantment (13 page)

He looked at her hands, noticing for the first time that they were ringless and glad that they were.

“Have you ever seen bees dance?” he asked.

“They do not!”

“Yes, they do. Look into a hive on a sunny day and you will see.”

“Only you could do that without being stung.”

“Perhaps.” Hugh neglected to mention that the old bee-keeper had been with him when he saw this, and Edward had opened the wicker hive so skillfully that none of the bees had been disturbed. He wanted to intrigue Joanna and entice her a little, not discuss bee stings. “I could mime their dance for you.”

“Sway your hips for me? Would that not dent your dignity with your people?”

“Do you see me undermined today, Joanna?”

She waved his question aside as he held open the gate for her through to the bee hives. “Where is Beowulf? And the horse?”

He smiled, knowing her nervousness over horses. “Both safe in the care of the priest, so you need not fret.” He did not ask if she wanted to know so that she might better plot her escape: the subject was a raw grief to them both, so why speak of it?

“Has your father blamed you all your life?”

So much for not speaking, Hugh thought, but then Joanna must still be on edge, still choosing how this encounter would go. He knew now that it was vital he gave her the choice, and he went along with the abrupt change of subject. “I did kill his lady wife, my mother.”

“And your father faults you, instead of himself.”

He was sure his puzzlement showed on his face and indeed she went on quickly, “A birth is no small thing, Hugh, and for your mother to have no midwife by her bedside from the start was unwise. But then it is easy to look back and see what might have been.”

“As you say.” He had known nothing of this. Realization was a shock and then a swift wave of anguish swept through him in a cold, numbing tide. After sorrow burst a blaze of anger: he found himself wishing that his father was here in the bee garden. He wanted to berate Sir Yves; he wanted to strike him to the ground and go on hitting….

Tasting black bile, Hugh turned his head so that Joanna would not think him furious with her.

Why did you raise the matter of his mother? Where are your wits?
Joanna scolded herself, astonished at her own folly. But then she had wanted to say something to Hugh for days, ever since she had learned the sorry circumstances of his birth. She did not want him to blame himself anymore.

In truth, she was finding it hard to blame Hugh for anything, including her captivity. She could understand it. Was she not also striving to free her father by whatever means she could?

Seduce Hugh, then, tonight. Escape while he sleeps.

Solomon’s wry, bony, trusting face lodged in her mind, so clear she could count the number of his teeth. Not to do her utmost for him would be a betrayal. Why should she not use the looks God had gifted her? Hugh thought her pretty, so why not exploit it?

Guilt is a luxury: indulge it later, when you are free,
she warned herself, wishing, as she smiled, that there was some other way. To lie with a man again, even Hugh, was no easy matter.

She looked back at the towerless, tiny church, memories of the last occasion a man had been with her bleeding out into her mind from her memory, wounding her afresh. What if this time was the same?

“Joanna, what is it? You sounded then as if you were suffocating.”

Hugh had stopped and taken her in his arms.

Tell him the whole truth about your father! Tell him what happened to your mother! Tell him you are useless in a man’s bed!

She opened her mouth, but Hugh spoke first.

“You are all pink and bright in the sunset.”

His lips brushed against her forehead. His tongue flicked the tip of her nose and he lifted her slightly in his arms.

“Quicksilver little squirrel.”

He kissed her left cheek. His left hand brushed the side of her neck: a thrill of lightning in her veins. He kissed her right cheek. His right hand circled her back and she stood straighter and on the tips of her toes so she could meet his dancing fingers.

“Precious as salt.”

He kissed her mouth. Joanna felt as if she were dissolving into his kiss: only their lips seemed real.

“Sweeter than honey.”

He kissed her mouth a second time and she wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him closer still.

“Dance me this bee dance,” she breathed. “Dance it on me.” Her senses hummed as they trembled together, she amazed that so strong a warrior could shake like gold leaf.

“I dread to harm you, sweeting,” he murmured. “So small and trim.”

He lowered his head and tongued her nipples through the cloth of her gown. “Do I do right?” he whispered, nuzzling between the shallow curve of her breasts.

In answer she touched him
there,
in the core of his manhood, tracing him through his jutting tunic. The knives and keys on his belt jangled as his hips jerked toward her hand. As his head jerked up, she caught and nipped his earlobe between her teeth, whispering, “You are my champion. You.”

They bore each other down to the ground, scrambling backward on their hips and heels to be in the shadow and shelter of a stone wall. The night was warm, or it seemed warm to Joanna: when Hugh muttered of the need to make a fire she shook her head. “Our cloaks will be enough,” she said, draping hers across his legs, ignoring his snort of laughter when he saw how little of him her cloak covered.

“We will need to bundle close later,” he warned.

“Show me this dance, my knight,” Joanna reminded him. She knew what would happen between them and she wanted to go on now, before she lost her nerve.

“What is it?” she stammered, as he seemed to hesitate. Was he listening? The villagers all seemed busy with dancing again. Did he fear being spied on? This place was private, surrounded by walls, bordered by bee hives—an onlooker would need to see through stone and wicker to see them. There were no trees overhead where a child could climb and stare.

“We have no haste, my lady.” He kissed her deeply. “We have the night. None will disturb us here.” He touched the lacings of her sleeves. “I will give you an array of sleeves to wear. What colors will you have? Gold, of course.”

“Blue, please,” Joanna whispered, staring into his eyes. Even his light caress on her shoulders made her almost forget the grassless, dusty patch of ground they were settled on.

“Red, too. You favor rich, deep shades. Tasseled belts.” He flicked the long ends of her belt, his hand resting between her thighs. He ran his fingers up, over her loins and belly and breasts; a light, sweet touch.

“There are wicker stands by the wall behind the hives. They will be easier to rest on than bare earth.”

He rolled her away from him, lightly smacked her rump, and walked—in an awkward crouch—to the row of wicker hurdles. In moments he had made them a rough couch, topped with his cloak and a blanket.

Joanna squeezed a corner of it between her hands, sending a look of silent inquiry to Hugh.

“Saddlecloth,” he said, freely admitting, “I carried it here with me. Did you not notice?”

“I was watching the sunset,” Joanna lied, conscious that she had been watching him and flustered by her lack of attention. How had she missed such a ploy, such presumption? Why was she not angry now?

“It is for comfort, no more,” Hugh said gently. “You are queen tonight.”

I am safe,
Joanna thought, and a tension relaxed within her. She settled onto the wicker “cradle,” finding it surprisingly springy, and beckoned to Hugh. “Will you unlace my shoes? They pinch a little after our dancing.”

She was nervous. Not afraid as she had been—tension no longer strung her up like a bow close to snapping point—but she was still wary. Hugh moved very slowly and spoke in a low, slow voice, as if she were a mare to be gentled.

She has known no pleasure in her mating with the bishop,
he thought, and he was sorry for that, but relieved, too. Bishop Thomas was no seductive rival for him to worry about.

“Bees are fluffy, did you know?”

The question diverted her: her fingers stopped clawing at the saddlecloth. “How do you know that?”

“They must be, to collect pollen on their legs as they do. And they love the sun.”

She smiled. “Who does not?” She lay down on top of the blanket, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. He saw the dark, inviting hollow of her breasts and felt his manhood twitch afresh. “What else, my knight? This is ancient news on bees.”

She was a naughty tease. For two finger snaps he was tempted to straddle her, hoick up her skirts, and spank her, but instead he laughed.

“New, eh?” He sat cross-legged beside her, walking his fingers up and down her spine. “Bees flavor their honey.”

“How so?”

“They love the red and white clover and love to gather from those; the honey they make is sweet but not over-flavored. They take from borage and the honey they make is clear and pale. If they fly to dandelions, their honey is yellow.”

“How do you know so much?”

Hugh smiled. “I have a liking for sweet things, remember?” He felt about his belt and found the small flask he had been given earlier that day by the village elder. “I have some honey here, the liquid, and honeycomb, too.” Unless it had melted into his linen undershirt, which was quite possible, given the heat he was feeling. “Will you taste?”

She nodded and held out her hand but he shook his head. “Allow me.” He leaned closer, his heartbeat racing as she did not draw back. “Close your eyes.”

He almost whooped with triumph when she did so but fought it back down his throat and dribbled a small portion of honey onto his personal eating spoon. As he held it up, the setting sun flared along its metal edge in a burst of light: a lucky sign, he hoped.

“Mmm, it tastes quite smoky. Is this the dandelion honey?”

“Yes,” Hugh said, though in truth he neither knew nor cared. She still had her eyes closed and he could stare at her without restraint. Her tongue was small and pink and she lapped like a little cat. He wanted her tongue to lap him, to taste and suck and kiss, and his tongue do the same to her in return.

“Bees feed each other honey,” he said, and now he lied, quite shamelessly. “They smear it on their bodies and let their hive fellows taste. Look you now: like this.”

He unlaced his tunic drawstrings, tugged off his tunic and undershirt. Her eyes were open again and as wide as milk pails as he took a generous dab of the bronze, fragrant honey and drew the sign of the cross on his breastbone.

For an instant he lay still, feeling the wicker pricking through the blanket and cloak, listening to a cheeping of sparrows and a low buzz of bees.
What do you expect her to do, fool!
his conscience goaded, but then she lowered her head and her body and kissed him lightly, over his heart. A spasm of delight jerked through him, threatening to undo him altogether.

She smiled, the little evil elf, and licked his chest, first one nipple and then, passing a finger over the drizzle of honey in the middle of his torso, brushing the honey drop onto his left nipple and gently sucking.

“You taste of sweetness and salt.” Gently she nipped his swirl of chest hair between her teeth. “You are hairier than a bear, Hugo.”

“More randy, too,” Hugh growled under his breath, praying then she did not hear. She could drown him in honey if she kept on kissing.

Lower her tongue worked, tasting and licking. When she reached his navel, Hugh raised his hips slightly, wishing he was naked and at the same time longing for Joanna to strip off and for him to do the same to her.

Back she came, her hands now joining in the caresses; up and across his belly, over his ribs, up to his shoulders. With his eyes still closed he sensed her hovering above him, sensed her shy and tender anxiety. He smoothed his own hands down her narrow face and along the slender column of her throat, cupping her small, perfect breasts, then gliding to her softly flaring hips.

He heard her breath catch and opened his eyes.

“You are grinning at me!” she protested.

“Smiling, my lady.” Surely he was smiling? His whole body was a smile. “Eager to serve.” He kissed her on the mouth, slipping his hands about her flanks and rolling so she was beneath him. “Joanna.” Her name was sweeter to him than the honey. “Truly you are a grace of God.”

She colored but did not look away, her eyes calm and trusting, with specks of fire in their depths that he would kindle more, if he could.

“I did not know you were so glib with words, Hugo.”

He let the jibe go: it was a feint, nothing more.

“I have used honey on grazes,” she added, now cooperating with him, the contrary madam. “Have you?”

“Many times.” He dipped his finger into the small jar and touched the corner of her mouth. “You have a small cut here.”

Her face glowed at the contact and she turned her head and sucked his finger. Looking at him, she looked above him and now she raised her arm. “How lovely.”

A little aggrieved she did not mean him, Hugh turned and saw the low brilliant star, winking in the southwest above the dark blue twilight, textured as a starling’s wing.

“What star is it?” he asked, although he thought he knew.

“Venus,” she confirmed. “The goddess of honey and copper.” She rubbed at her elbow. “I think I have a graze here.”

Hugh kept his face straight. “Let me see.”

He dabbed her flawless elbow and then tugged at his leggings, exposing a small, scabbing wound on his calf. At once she bent to it, her hair spilling from its golden net as he “accidentally” pushed the net free of its pins.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly, but she only smiled and pooled a drop of honey on his leg, smoothing it slowly, as if it was the rarest and most costly of unguents.

“By all that is holy—!” He craved more of her touch, her scent, her skin. In moments they were tearing off their clothes and pitching into each other’s arms, fitting together as close and tight as a key into a lock.

“You are burning!” she exclaimed, and he laughed, kissing her naked breasts, glorying in their dark, pert nipples.

“Grace, such grace,” he murmured, shivering as her hands skimmed down his back. He brushed her dark bush between her sleek, taut thighs, delighted, as she ran her hands over his buttocks. She moaned and opened her thighs and he fingered her intimate softness, her own sweet honey-spot.

“Come to me, come!” she urged, clawing at his shoulders, but he wanted her to have pleasure first, see the rapture on her pretty face. He kissed her mouth and breasts again, all the while tickling and stroking her, running his fingers through her dark intimate curls and her glossy fleshy folds, hearing her breath quicken and watching her begin to soar.

He quickened his fingering, darting his hand across her womanhood, placing one finger and then two within her, turning her so he could have her lie on his thigh and he might caress her bottom.

She began to plunge and rear like a frisking filly and then she stiffened and shuddered, a word he did not know breaking from her lips, a cry of exultation. He cuddled her, reveling in her open responsiveness, sensing the moment was new to her, seeing the wonder on her face.

“I—I…” A tear spilled from her eye and he kissed it away.

“Be at peace, we have all night,” he whispered, ignoring the urgent ache in his loins. He was no callow youth, to grab what he wanted: women were gentle, soft creatures, his Joanna most of all.

But she opened her thighs again and now drew him inside her, hissing in his ear, “Come now, please: I am lonely without you.”

She was snug in his arms and snug about him, and her heat and sweetness and passion were too much. He pounded into her, losing himself in a great rush of blazing feeling, knowing a desire and need he had never known before and a roaring sea of pleasure he had never experienced.

She nipped his earlobe, and the taut, tingling pain sent him over the edge. Rearing, he bucked and gave himself, shouting out his release.