A Perfect Knight (Knights of Passion Series 2) (3 page)

When her fingers brushed against his cock, hugely swollen within his breeches, he almost jumped off the bed. “Simon,” she whispered, and he looked down into her flushed face, eyes half closed and sleepy with passion, her mouth swollen from his kisses. “Let me.
Your quest deserves a prize.”

“Your freedom is the prize,” he said gallantly, but his chest was already rising and falling heavily from her touch.

“But in the meantime I will reward you in my own way.”

Now
her fingers were more purposeful, reaching to unlace him, holding him when his cock sprang out eagerly. She bent over him, her mouth covering the tip, her hands stroking the length of him. He felt her tongue tasting him, exploring him, and lay back with a groan, giving himself over to her will.

Her hot mouth, wet tongue, her hands. He
arched toward her, willing her not to stop. She leaned over him, and there was a look on her face that told him this was not forced. Lady Yolanda was enjoying having a man as her willing slave.

“I will not be able to stop myself,” he said shakily. “My lady, are you prepared?”

“For your seed?” she said, looking up at him. “I am ready, Simon.”

When he erupted, hips pumping against her mouth, she seemed to
relish the experience of bringing a man to climax. He drew her up into his arms, holding her half naked body against him, wishing that he could take her fully, as a man takes a woman.

“There is no room,” she said practically, when he asked her. “
Not for a man to lie between my thighs and place his cock inside me. There is room for my hand, so that I can wash myself and perform the necessary tasks a woman must perform.”

Simon knelt on the bed and drew up her skirts again, examining the contraption. There was a slit between her thighs, for her to perform those necessary tasks, and there was a gap where the metal
band wrapped around her hips, just big enough for a hand to slip down inside.

A small hand, he discovered, when he tried it.

Still he persisted, rubbing his own skin off, until his fingertips brushed the hair on her mound, and with a grunt he forced them further, wriggling inside her outer lips. He felt the hard bead then, suffused with passion, and touched it gently with his finger. Yolanda, who had been lying tense, clearly uncomfortable as his hand down the front of the belt caused it to dig into her back, gasped with excitement.

“Please,” she
begged, rising her hips toward him. “Simon, please.”

He took that to mean she wanted more, and proceeded to roll the bead with his finger, applying some pressure as well. Moisture seeped from between her legs
and she moaned softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she focussed on the sensations he was causing. He leaned over her, mouth covering hers, pretending it was his cock against her rather than his finger, imagining how it would be to thrust his body deep inside her, her soft thighs clamped about him, the ripples of passion stroking him to greater and greater heights.

Yolanda cried out, lifting her
metal clad hips from the bed, arms tight about him. He felt the tremble of her climax. The sweet brush of her breath against his lips as she sighed out her pleasure. Carefully he withdrew his hand, and she watched him as he licked his fingers and smiled.

“There is still pleasure to be had, despite the lack of a key,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She reached to stroke his cheek, her movements languid. “But I wish you could lay with me like a lover, Simon.”

“We are lovers,” he said stubbornly. “It is the love that matters, not the act itself.”

An eyebrow arched. “That isn’t what you said before.”

“I was a fool then. I
am happy to lie down beside you and simply look at you.”

“
But that would be cruel,” she said softly, “and I would not be cruel to you, Simon.”

His heart trembled
with fear. Would she send him away? He reached down again but she caught his hand, drew it up to her heart and held it there. “Lady? We are not done yet. I have some things more to try. The quest is not over.”

He watched the doubt in her face turn
once more to hope.

“I love you, Simon,” she whispered
.

“I love you, Yolanda. I will set off in the morning but I will be back soon, I swear it.”

“Yes.” Her hand was stroking him again and he knew his cock was already as hard as granite with wanting her. “But before you go . . .” she whispered, her eyes gleaming between her lashes, and with a groan he lay back and gave himself up to her mouth.

***

This time Simon was gone for weeks. The snows were thick on the ground and travel was difficult, and Yolanda wondered whether he would be back before spring. The pleasure he had given her only made the abstinence worse, and she could not settle to anything. She tried to touch herself but the belt was so tight, tighter it seemed than before, and besides, she wanted Simon’s hands upon her.

She’d grown to want his kisses and his taste
, and his hot words in her ear promising her so much.

Then one day one of her ladies came running to s
ay two riders were approaching the gate and Yolanda hurried up to the tower to see. One of them was Simon, his fair hair bright against the snow clinging to the dark, leafless trees. The other she did not recognise. Hurrying down again, she met them in the bailey.

Simon caught her hands in his and bowed. “My lady,” he said, and although he looked tired he was smiling in triumph. “My quest has met with success.” He turned, waving an arm toward his companion. “This is
Ulfred.”

The man w
as short and stout, with a bald pate beneath his hood, and black eyes like currents. “My lady,” he said, his accent so strong she could barely understand him.

Simon stepped closer to her, his eyes on hers. “Ulfred is a lock-pick, my lady. The best there is. I searched far and wide for him.”

Understanding lit up her face and she was smiling, reaching to tug at Simon’s hand. “Come, come and eat and drink. You must be tired and cold.” And as they walked toward the great hall, she swayed against his side and murmured, “I missed you.”

He squeezed her hand almost painfully. “And I you.”

***

Yolanda insisted they eat their fill and rest afterwards. Simon was grateful. They had ridden hard to get here through the foul weather, in places the snow so deep they had to dismount and lead the horses through the drifts. Little Ulfred had been doubtful about accompanying a stranger into the depths of the English countryside. But Simon had explained the problem, and perhaps something of his own agony and that of Yolanda had come through
in his pleading words, because eventually Ulfred had agreed.

“There is no lock I cannot unlock,” he declared
proudly. “Your lady will be unlocked in the shake of a lamb’s tail, you will see,” he’d said, with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

It was late when Yolanda sent for them. In her private chamber the candles were lit, giving the bright fabrics and comfortable furnishings a warm glow. Yolanda sat upon a low stool by the fireplace, her hands outstretched
to the flames, wearing her silken robe, her hair in a plait at her back.

“My lady.” The two of them bowed, and
Simon saw that she was anxious. “Ulfred is married with five children,” he added. “He is used to women.”

“Five girls,” Ulfred said, with a roll of his eyes. “There is nothing you have, lady, that will surprise me.”

Yolanda smiled, and she lay upon the bed as requested, untying her robe and disclosing the horrible metal cage about her hips and pelvis.

Ulfred stood a moment, observing it, and then he moved closer and ran his fingers over the metal casing. “
This is something special, lady. I have only once before seen its like.” He looked up at her suddenly. “You say you have tried to open it. Has it been tighter since then?”

Yolanda swallowed. “Yes. I think it is tighter since,” she glanced at Simon. “It is a little tighter.”

Ulfred nodded wisely. He moved to peer at the lock, and then beckoned for Simon to bring over a candle and hold it so that the light fell just so. For a long time he examined the mechanism, watched anxiously by Yolanda and Simon.

And then he sighed.

“As I said, I have only seen one such as this,” he said regretfully, “but I have heard of others. I fear it may not be tampered with.”

“No!” Simon burst out, the candle shaking in his hand so that some wax dripped on to Yolanda
’s skin. She gasped.

“My friend,” Ulfred turned to him with a gloomy expression. “If I were to try to trip this lock there is a mechanism inside it that will cause the belt to tighten. I think it has already done so.
When you tried to find a key to fit, you accidently brought such a change into play. How much tighter can it get?” And he turned to look down at Yolanda, who was straightening her robe and pushing herself up. Simon could see her hands trembling and longed to hold her in his arms.

“But surely it would be worth it. If you trip the lock and it opens, then tightness does not matter, Ulfred!”   

“But if I do not trip the lock and it grows so tight that it cuts into the lady’s flesh? Her bones, eh? It squeezes her to death, my friend, what then? No,” he shook his head decisively, “it is not worth the risk. I have heard of such a thing happening and the woman died in agony.”

Yolanda gave a sob.

“You said you had seen one other like it,” Simon said angrily. “What happened to that woman? Did she die too?”

Ulfred shook his head. “She accepted her fate and went into a nunnery.” He
reached to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry, my lady. I thought there was nothing I could not open but I was arrogant and wrong. This is the lock of a master. Your husband chose only the best for you. He must have loved you very much, I think.”

Simon glared at him but Yolanda shook her head when he would have berated the little man.

“Please, no. He is right. There is nothing to be done. Sir Edward planned this. He wanted no other man to touch me, and if he died in the Holy Land he wanted me to die too.”

Ulfred
shrugged regretfully. “You must find the man who fashioned it, my lady. Find this man and beg him to set you free.” And then he left them alone.

Simon sat down on the stool by the fire and bowed his head. “I thought . . . I hoped . . .”

“I know, my love. It is not your fault.”

“Perhaps I chose the wrong man,” he looked up, suddenly hopeful. “He was supposed to be the best, everyone said he was, but perhaps he wasn’t. I must look further. There must be someone—”

Yolanda shook her head.

She came and knelt beside him, wincing at the
scrape of the metal girdle. “You have done everything you can, Simon.”

“No, I haven’t!
There is still Taskill. The blacksmith said he was in Scotland. I will go there,” he said with certainty. “I will find Taskill.”

“Sing me a song on your lute,” she said softly.
“Soothe me with your tales of perfect love, Simon.”

So he did, and she closed her eyes and listened to him, and he pretended not to see her tears.

***

Taskill was not in Scotland but it was close enough.

It took Simon so long to find him that he almost gave up, and then someone in an alehouse made mention of him, and the next thing Simon was standing in an upstairs room in Taskill’s narrow house.

The room was dark despite the candles flickering in the draft from the door. Simon edged closer but didn’t feel he could speak until the tall, thin man in his long tunic actually looked up at him.

He was stooped over some parchments, and his lips were moving silently as he read, straggly grey hair falling forward around his narrow, lined face.

So this was Taskill, the warlock, the man who had made Yolanda’s girdle. Simon eyed him suspiciously, wondering what sort of man would do such a thing to a woman. He didn’t have long to wait.

Taskill sat back and looked up, turning his head slowly until his gaze was fixed on Simon. His eyes were so dark they looked like holes in his head and even the candlelight did not reflect in them.

“You are here to ask me about Sir Edward Arbuthnot,” he said, his voice oddly light for such an intimidating man.

“I am here on behalf of his wife, Lady Yolanda
—Sir.”

The man smiled faintly, not really a smile at all.

Simon straightened his back and lifted his chin. “Now that her husband is dead she wants to be free. She asks you for your help, Taskill. She asks you for the key.”

Taskill shook his head, as if Simon was a naughty child to be scolded. “There is only one key and Sir Edward kept it. There is only ever
one
key.”

“But surely . . . you must make provision for the woman if the husband dies?”

“Why?” Taskill said, and now he sounded bored. “I am paid for my work. I am no one’s conscience. What happens afterwards is not my business.”