For My Lady's Heart (34 page)

She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. “Nay—I will not
displease. I can maken myself pleasant to them. It is the easiest thing
possible. I cannot thank them for their injury to thee and thy rightful
estate, but I am thy wife, and n’would not have discord sown between us, for
it bodes not well in the house.” She took up the spoon again abruptly,
plunging it into the pottage. “And such is a humble speech as I am not
accustomed to making, in troth, but I love thee, even if I do not adore thy
churls.”

She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back
straight.

From the window he spoke hesitantly. “It is nought that ye will to go?”

She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she
said, “Wysse, ne do I languish for the back of a horse again soon.”

The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. “Haply
is rest and a soft bed you desire, my lady, after your meal.”

If some mannered gallant had said such to her, she would have known how
to understand it. But she heard naught beyond his careful courtesy in his
voice, though again he stood very near her as he took up a napkin and poured
hot ale from the hob. He set the kettle back.

“Thou hast not fulfilled thy own repose,” she said, watching steam rise
from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on
the wall.

“Nay,” he murmured, still close behind her. “Nay, lady.”

He offered no dalliance, and her court wit deserted her. All the words
that came into her head seemed green and foolish. He sat on his heels beside
her chair and served her a roasted apple. She ate a few bites. He did not
rise, but remained there like a man at ease.

She felt herself strangely daunted by him, overpowered by his greater
size, the black line of his legs, the heavy square links of the belt that
hung at his hips. He wore it as if it had no weight at all, though each
joint, ornate and thick, studded with the silvery sable of marcasite
crystals, would have balanced a cobblestone on the measuring scale. But in
his velvet he moved effortlessly. When she glanced at him, his eyes were on
her, his lashes showing very dark, his face somber, almost severe. As if he
had forgotten himself by kneeling there, he rose instantly, drawing away.

Melanthe was not certain of whether he had made an invitation to share
the bed or not. She ate slowly, delaying the end of her clear reason for
being there in his chamber. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a
miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. He said nothing to woo or
dismiss her. She did not know if he was angry with her still. In this mute
courtesy he could hide anything. She did not want to sleep alone, away from
him.

At last she set down the chalice. “I will leave thee respite then, to
take thy rest as thou art due.”

She rose. With her eyes downcast she went to him and put her hands upon
his shoulders. She reached on her toes and touched her lips to each cheek,
lightly, taking a mannerly leave as if he were an honored guest or close
kin. “Give thee good eve, sweet knight,” she murmured.

He stood still, only turning his face slightly, returning pressure in
response to each kiss. She let her hands slip down his arms. His palms
turned up; he caught her fingers for an instant—and then let them slide
through his.

She turned swiftly, taking up her cloak as she went to the door. At that
moment she would gladly have given up all of her noble estate and forgone
the cold and private luxury of the ladies’ chamber. At least she did not
intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels
for a fire and proper comfort, be they pleased by it or not. By hap she
could find a maid or two among the women, to make the bower clean without
moving any item from its sacred place, and then invite him there on the
morrow, when he might be—

“Melanthe.”

She halted with her hand on the door hasp. He had never before called her
by her name.

He stood, all black, his legs set apart as if someone might come at him
with a sword. “Art thou sore weary?” He made a trifling motion of his hand.
“I ne am nought one to sleepen in the light of day.”

Pleasure and relief soared through her. “Nay, how is this?” She crossed
the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. “Dost thou go sick? I
have seen thee snore with some success in daylight ere now.”

“I n’would nought have thee depart so soon, if it please thee.”

“Please me?” She let her hand slip down and sighed. “What—forfeit a cold
chimney and empty bower, only to suit thy liking? Verily, thou art a tyrant,
husband.”

He caught her waist, holding her between his hands. She had been wary of
mirrors, and compliments, but in his face as he looked down at her what she
saw was desire, open and vehement, unembellished.

“Wilt thou have me?” he asked softly.

Almost, he frightened her, in the lightness of his hands and the calmness
of his voice. He was like Gryngolet when she hunted, a silent rage, hushed
violence, riding currents beyond knowing.

“Yea,” she said. “Gladly.”

His hold tightened a little. “Then I would hear—how I can best please
you.”

She rested her hands on his arms uncertainly. “I am pleased with thee,”
she said.

His jaw was tense. “On hap I am nought gentle enow, or skilled enow,
or—what would delight thee.”

All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew naught
beyond kisses, and lying beneath him as she had done. There was more to it,
experience and skill, as he said, and a new fear sprang alive in her, that
he would expect her to know such things.

She made a small lift of her shoulders, feigning sport. “Thou moste guess
what delights me.”

He looked down upon her. He lifted his hand and drew his thumb across her
mouth. His green eyes showed a new light, a trace of amusement. “Then I
shall take experiment of thee, lady. Happens I haf made me a modest study of
wicked delectation.”

She murmured, “I thought thee chaste, monkish man.”

“Yea, I haf been.” He closed his eyes and bent to her, kissing the side
of her mouth. “But no monk am I in my head, God grant me pardon,” he
whispered. His body drew closer, velvet and taut elegance. “My confessor has
chastised me oft, and bade me study on my sins at length. And so, lady”—he
kissed her, the hunger in it sinking down through her like a comet
falling—“I have studied.”

Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. “And
what hast thou mastered in thy study, learned husband?”

He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. “My lady, it is all
nonsense. Better thou shouldst sayen me how to give thee pleasure. Ne am I
accomplished in luf wiles, truly.”

She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. “I would
hear what thou hast learned. For my pleasure.” With a light pluck she freed
the topmost golden buttons on his doublet.

He made a low unhappy laugh. “I know well that ye wields more skill in
this art than I.”

She stepped back. Standing in the half-light, he appeared no innocent,
but a man full in prime of carnal boldness, no more chaste than a stallion
might be chaste, being beautiful and strong and only what it was, a creature
made for life and union.

“But a child am I in the craft,” she said lightly. “Thou moste be my
master, or nill we proceed far.”

He made no move, but stood with his hands open, a signet gleaming on his
middle finger, the light sliding on his golden belt.

She lifted her eyebrows. “Or be thou courageous in war and coward in
chamber, knight, for shame?”

She had not expected such a crude hit to touch him, but he flushed at her
words, response so quick that she thought it a taunt he must have heard
before. The severity came into his face again, the hunting coldness. He
closed the space she had made between them and lifted his hands. Without
speaking, he began to unfasten her gown.

Melanthe stood still. The cotehardie was not an elaborate fashion, but
simple and warm for traveling, ermine-lined and buttoned. He pushed it off
her shoulders. The fur hem brushed over her hands, dropping to the carpet.

Her white damask kirtle laced beneath her arms, fitting to her body. He
loosened the cords. She felt the lace slip and knot in an eyelet. He worked
at it, looking down, his face close to hers. A line formed beside his mouth.
He gave the tie a tug, and then a jerk, breaking it, a force that made her
take a step backward for balance. Without even unlacing the other side, he
lifted the damask over her head and tossed it away.

Through her linen, she could feel the cool air. He opened his hands over
her, his palms against her hips with only her thin shirt between.

Melanthe closed her eyes. Abruptly she put her arms about his neck,
arching against him on tiptoe as she had done before, seeking that delicious
sensation he had given her at Torbec.

Velvet touched her breasts. She could feel his hard belt, and silk and
pressure against her belly—but somehow she could not come within reach of
the pleasure. With a small sound, of frustration, she fell back onto her
heels.

He pulled her closer. “Lady,” he whispered against her ear. “Lie you
down.”

His hands slid upward, lifting the linen with them. On the eastern carpet
before the chimney, he stripped her of her shirt, baring her of all but her
white hose and garters, drawing her down with him as he knelt.

She lifted her chin defiantly, resting back on her elbows, refusing to be
mortified by her nakedness like some fluttering novice nun given to visions
and starvation. Shameless, he had called her—so let him see.

But she was terrified, her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure he
must discern it. She wasn’t a delicate blonde beauty, frail and dainty—she
was dark-haired and white-skinned, and not a girl. Above the gaiters at her
knees, she had two bruises on one thigh from some encounter on their wild
travels, and another at her hip. He could not have spanned her waist with
his two hands, and her breasts were too full to be the high round
strawberries, or nuts, or even pears, sung of the ladies in romances.

He only looked at them for an instant, before he averted his face and
closed his eyes, sitting beside her with his weight on his hand.

She lost her rebellious nerve and curled upright, hugging her legs to
her. “Uncommon sour I am to beholden, then,” she said sullenly. “Iwysse, a
hag as old as thee!”

“What?” he said, in a distracted voice.

He looked strange and uneasy, frozen in place. For a moment she was in
fear that he was near a swoon or a fit.

“What passes?” she demanded, catching his arm.

He moistened his lips, pushing off her hand as if she offended him.

“Avoi!” she hissed. “Do not say me thou art praying now?” She let go and
plumped back upon a cushion. “Monk man!”

“I am counting,” he said tightly.

She stared at him. “Counting what?”

“The chimneys.”

“The chimneys!” she cried.

He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead over her. “The chimneys, the
doors—for God’s sake, ne do I hardly know what I count.” He drew a breath.
“I am—better now.”

He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in
her crumpled shirt. “Depardeu, I will cover myself, to spare thee this dire
distress.”

His hand landed firmly over hers. “Nay—lady. If you please.” He turned a
look full on her, his eyes near dark as the deep evergreens, the hidden life
of winter. Like a secret his faint smile touched his mouth. “In faith, is
nought affliction, but too great bliss.”

Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he
might say anything to maintain it. “In troth?”

He crossed himself, his face sober.

She asked suspiciously, “N’is not my body uncomely, thou think?”

With a sound low in his throat, he stretched out his legs and lay at his
length alongside her. He laid his hand between her breasts and drew his
knuckles downward, over her belly. His dark lashes lowered. He smoothed his
hand up to her knee and down her hose to her ankle, up again, then between
her legs, burying his fingers in her curls.

“My lady, thou art lickerous.” He smiled, pressing the heel of his hand
against her.

And there it was, the pleasure, the sensation she remembered. Her breath
caught. Her body seemed to stretch, to move outside of her mindful accord,
arching up to meet the touch.

“Ah,” she said, and strove to check her unsteady voice. “Ah, but this is
a riddle.” She took refuge in a mocking tone. “Lickerous to taste or
lickerous lustful?”

“The both,” he murmured, “an I prove fortunate.”

She gave him an arch look. “This is luftalking indeed. I will think me
I’m at court to hearen such.”

His thumb slipped downward, seeking. Melanthe gave a little start and
pressed her legs together to prevent him.

“Lady, thou art now at my court, where I rule.” He gently resisted her
effort, opening her knees. He stroked her, the inside of her thighs, her
quaint, up and down again, touching her openly, making her flinch each time
his fingers passed over that spot.

Her breasts and her body tingled. “Stop,” she said, with a sharp intake
of her breath.

“Nay, thou hatz bid me teach thee wicked delectation. This is the second
sin of lust, my lady. Unchaste touch.”

His thumb moved in a slow pulse. She swallowed. “That I can believe—is a
sin,” she said.

He shifted, moving up on his elbow. “And this is the first—” Without
ceasing the stroke of his thumb, he leaned over her mouth. “Unchaste
kissing.” He tasted her with his tongue, then invaded deep. His fingers slid
into her sheath, intruding, pressing, and stretching her. Melanthe whimpered
into the double commixtion, the velvet weight and the hard graze of his jaw.
Her heels slipped down the carpet; her legs strained as if she could have
more.

He drew away, brushing his lips against her temple. While Melanthe
searched for air, he bent to her breast. He kissed her there, at the same
time thrusting his fingers full to the very depth of her.

All air seemed to vanish; she panted to regain it as he caressed her with
his tongue, suckling her as if she were sweetmeat. Her body rose to him, to
his mouth and his hand— unchaste beyond any recognition or heed that virtue
might exist upon the earth.

“Unchaste kiss ... unchaste touch.” His breath was close to her skin,
brushing and warming her as he spoke. “The third sin of lust is fornication,
but we are wed, lady, so ne cannought I teach thee fornication. Ne also the
fourth, o’less thou art a virgin, that I may seduce thee from they purity.”

“Nay,” she whispered, curling her fingers in the thick silken nap of the
carpet. “Not a virgin.”

“I thought me nought so.” His lips moved over her shoulder, a gentle
searching. She could feel him smiling against her. “Ne can we adulter,
neither by single or double, ne commit sacrilege—lest thou art under a
religious vow?”

She gave a breathless laugh. “Look I to thee like a holy woman, knight?”

He lifted his head. “God shield,” he said, with a sudden fierceness.
“Nay, ye looks like my wife, fair and mortal—and no thing that we do between
us be sinning, by the word of Saint Albert.”

She lay against the cushion. In her life she had made certain that men
thought her iniquitous, lethal in her loves and passions. The Princess
Melanthe looked like no one’s fair and mortal wife. But she had never before
lain naked beside a man, uncovered, without shield or mask, reckless.

“Nothing?” She made a pout, stretching her arms overhead. “Alas, thou
wilt destroy all my wicked disport.”

He caught her chin, rubbing his thumb across her lips. “Does thou nought
drive me to inordinate desire, wench, which is deadly sin, wed or no.”

She brought her arms down about his shoulders. “And is thy desire now
ordinate, learned monk? Haply we will delay this loving then, and take us to
the chapel for a day and night of prayer and fasting, to prove thee.”

“Haply thou art the Arch-Fiend’s daughter, come to harry me until I be
undone body and soul.”

“Nay, only thy wife, fair and mortal,” she said virtuously. “Chaste, too,
so far this day.”

He leaned on his elbow, ungirding his golden belt. The linked bosses
dropped to the carpet with a rich chink. “Thou art uneasy in the state, I
trow.”

Agreeable it was to trade words and luftalk. But the turn of his broad
wrist, competent and brief, and the sound of the belt falling gave Melanthe
pause. She drew her knees up, uncertain if he would mount her and have
done—she did not object; she welcomed it, for that by God’s send she would
breed his child, but experience of four times, thrice with Ligurio and once
with him, taught her that it marked the swift conclusion to all love-liking.

She had been most delighted with this play and was not eager to see it
end so soon. As he leaned over her, she put her palm upon his chest. “What
study is this, learned monk? Yet lacks my instruction. The first and second
sins of lust only have I beheld.”

But he did not answer, only gave her a thorough demonstration of the
first again while he loosed the buttons on his doublet. She could feel the
force of his intent; he had grown impatient with disport and love-amour.
With a little dejection she let her hand relax, trailing it upward, sliding
her fingers idly in his hair as he lifted himself over her.

She spread her legs, yielding obedience to what she owed him. Her body
tensed slightly, anticipating the discomfort.

But he did not lie hard upon her; instead he held his weight up and
kissed her mouth, and her throat, and her breasts. She sighed, savoring,
drowning and pleasuring in the last moments.

The freed cloth of his shirt and his doublet brushed her skin. He drew
hard on her teat. The sensation shot through her, half pain and half
ecstasy. She clutched the loose velvet, pulled and arched, trying to bring
him down to her.

“Merci.”
She gasped, all her muscles contracting with each tug
and sweet spike of pain.
“Merci, merci.”

He made a wordless sound, moving away, downward, shaping her with his
hands. She wanted him back for more; she dragged at him, lacing her fingers
in his hair, but he was leaving her, pulling away in spite of it, dropping
kisses down her belly.

Just as she would have exclaimed in despair of his withdrawal, he pressed
his mouth to her quaint. He held her hips and touched her with his tongue.

The delicious bolt of feeling transfused her. She trembled beneath him,
drinking air, moaning between her teeth, her body twitching as if seized by
each lascivious stroke. She tilted her head back, lifting her breasts and
her spine and her hips, pressing up to him to take the waves of lust,
asking, begging—demanding with her flesh.

He rose above her. For the moment that they were separate, she whimpered
in anxiety: she wanted him to go on kissing her that way, but he sat back
and pulled off the doublet and shirt, baring shoulders muscled as fine and
thick as the destrier’s. He reached down to his hose and breeches that
showed his full tarse through linen, crammed heavily against the cloth.

She felt distraught. He would use her now, and it was over, and she was
near weeping for the feeling he had given her that still demanded more.

He released the lacing on his breeches. She lifted up her arms to embrace
him as he came over her. She did not flinch, though he was so much larger
than Ligurio; she lay herself open for him despite her thwarted yearning.

He rested on his hands, looking down into her face. “Lady,” he said, with
a quick grin, “in thy studies, that last that I taught thee—falls it within
the thirteenth sin, indecent manner of embrace.”

She made a faint wild laugh, a mindless answer, for he was lowering
himself on her, this time using his body as he had used his hands and his
tongue to urge that impossible pleasure. In surprise she felt it coming
again as his hard member pressed at her, parting her a little with each
push, until the head was inside her.

His arms trembled. He stared down at her, a blank distance in his look, a
blindness. He drew air in his chest, his grin going to a baring of his teeth
as he drove himself into her.