Silverhawk (28 page)

He wrapped her hand around him and demonstrated how to stroke. She liked the feel of the hard muscle, but his braies were in the way. With the resolve she used on every activity, Emelin untied the drawstrings and pulled down, careful of the bandage.

She inhaled as his magnificent shaft sprung free. It was long and thick, topped by a full, arrow-shaped head of incredible softness. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she began to explore but again was halted.

“Could you play another time, love? This is torture.” His hand closed over hers, showing her how to stroke, tighter, faster while his hips moved in counterpoint.

An ache filled Emelin; she could feel dampness at her center once more. Her breasts throbbed and her mouth went dry. Wild thoughts raced through her head. She wanted to taste this beautiful man. Leaning over, she brushed her tongue around the edge of the cap.

“My God!” His other hand clutched the back of her head, and he jerked her up just as a salty sweet flow bushed her lips. His shadowed eyes never left hers as he snatched the side of his shirt to whisk away the thick moisture. He dragged her up his body, and his lips seared hers. There was no gentleness in this kiss. He thrust in, brushed the sensitive roof of her mouth until she shivered, then sucked her tongue.

She returned the kiss with equal fierceness. Her hips moved restlessly against a deep ache. Then his hands were at the backs of her legs, parting them around his, dragging up her skirts, pulling them aside.

With a gasp, she felt him against her mound, rock hard again. No. Wrong place. She eased up—there. That’s where the ache throbbed. His arm anchored her in position as he took up the thrusting rhythm.

A soft cry rose from the back of her throat; her legs spread wide around his hips. She could feel the iron-soft head of his cock probe her opening. As she undulated against him, her knee rubbed fabric—the bandage.

His injury! How could she have been so thoughtless? He had suffered a terribly and look at her. She stilled. Shame warred with desire.

“What?” came a breathless rumble in her ear.

“Your wound. We must stop this before you’re hurt worse.”

“I’m fine.” He pulled her down but she resisted. “You are what I need to heal.”

His hands caressed her back; his lips nipped hers. “Tell me you need me, too.”

More than life, she needed this man, this moment. She nodded.

“Then all will be well. Perfection.” His teeth nipped the hollow of her throat. At her whimper, he murmured, “Stop me now if you don’t want this, before it’s too late.”

He left the decision to her. It was one she didn’t want to make. When she said nothing, he stilled. “All right,” he gasped, and lifted away his hands.

Her resistance crumbled.

“No,” she urged, her forehead against his neck, “don’t stop.” Whatever long days of duty the future brought, Emelin wanted this moment to cherish.

With a moan, he grasped her hips and thrust.

A stab of pain was replaced with a sensation of fullness. She raised her head and looked into his eyes as her hips surged forward.

****

Giles trembled. She was killing him. Her muscles tightened, wringing a deep groan from his throat. Heaven must feel like this. The tip of her tongue traced the underside of his upper lip. He’d never known such a responsive woman. Untutored though she was, Emelin caught the rhythm quickly as he guided her.

Her tremors began. He should pull out, but it was too late. How could he have been ready again so soon? Fingers gripped her hips as his seed pulsed deep into her. She fell forward onto his chest, enfolded in his arms. They lay like that for a long while, Giles rubbing her back in gentle circles.

The brush of eyelashes against his chest told him she was awake. Did she regret what had happened? Did he?

No. Their coming together had been inevitable. Giles wanted her from the beginning, ached as he lay beside her on the cold ground when they camped. Although he’d managed to control his desire then, he could not resist her today.

He should feel guilty for taking her maidenhead. That belonged to her husband. He shuddered at the thought of his lovely little warrior surrendering to Lord Osbert. Emelin looked up at his movement.

Her eyes widened in panic. “Your wound.”

He pressed her head to his chest. “Don’t worry so. It’s fine. No pain.” Not precisely the truth. Now that the numbing urgency of desire had waned, his body remembered the injury, but the nagging discomfort dulled. Perhaps love did cure all ills.

Did he love her? Giles wasn’t sure he knew what that emotion was. He’d been fond of other women. Lust, he’d felt on many occasions. Yet he’d never before felt such overwhelming need for a lady.

Damnation. Emelin was a lady. How could he forget? He wasn’t worthy of her, not with his past. If she knew what things he’d done, she would run in disgust.

He shifted uncomfortably at that thought. Emelin must have misunderstood the action, because she slid to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes wide.

“No, don’t go.” He reached for her wrist, but she turned away.

****

Emelin couldn’t speak, couldn’t look him in the eyes after the way she had behaved. He must think her the lowest kind of female. Oh, she could not face him.

Lifting his bandage, she feared what might be found. But no trace of blood stained the linen. Her eyes clenched shut in gratitude. Never would she forgive herself if fever set in again.

On the floor at the head of the pallet sat the bowl of stew she had brought, congealed now. She picked it up.

“I’ll get you more food.” She fled before he could speak.

Outside the chamber, she pressed against the wall, fist against her heart. In a moment of mindless passion, she had given him her honor. She should hang her head in shame.

Except shame was not what she felt. She felt wonder in a new world, alive at last. Her head fell back, and her mouth curved with the sweet memory of his touch. She marveled at his kiss, the magnificent sensation of his body in hers. An ache from their lovemaking lingered, a tenderness she treasured.

A shiver bubbled through her. So that’s what the mystery was all about. That’s how women came to be seduced. To be fair, Giles had not seduced her; she’d urged him to continue when he offered to stop.

How could she face a life at Langley, now that she knew what love could be? There must be a way to nullify her brother’s agreement with Osbert. She and Giles were meant to be together. Surely he could see that. He was a knight; he wouldn’t leave her. She pushed away from the wall, started down the passage. But he was a mercenary. Perhaps mercenaries were not bound by the same codes of knighthood. He sold his sword to the highest buyer. If a better offer came along, perhaps he would take it. Now that she had surrendered, would he abandon her? Move on?

Even if they wed, where would they live? He had no home, he said.

She would live anywhere, follow him anywhere. Even on campaigns.

He hadn’t said he loved her.

She covered her face with her free hand. Surely he would not take her maidenhead if he did not.

Remembering her brothers, she bit her lips. They bragged of the maidens they’d ruined, laughed when they described the way the women begged for marriage.

Giles wasn’t like that.

Emelin stopped, leaned against the wall again. She would never beg him to wed, even if guilt drove him to agree. He was not entirely to blame for what had happened. She’d wanted his touch. His love. How she had missed him since they arrived, his warmth at her back as they slept, the stroke of his magic hands.

She’d missed the sound of his voice, soft and smooth as warm honey, drifting into deep roughness when he was aroused or newly awakened.

The days since her abduction had been filled with escape plans, but in her secret heart, she never wanted to leave. Being with him just now had felt so right. As if she’d come home, to a place she’d only dreamed of.

The smell of him lingered, a salty masculine scent, the musk of release. Would everyone know what they’d shared? She needed a quick wash, her gown needed straightening and her hair smoothed. And she supposed her lips looked as tender as they felt. A touch confirmed they were swollen.

As she quickly put herself to rights in her chamber, she recalled his kisses, the sight of him stretched out beneath her. He. Was. Magnificent. A sigh slipped from between her still-puffy lips. Just a week ago, Lady Emelin of Compton was a resident of St. Ursula Convent. Today she lusted after a man’s body, felt it inside of hers, longed to feel it there again. Hands pressed to her face, she attempted to regain her composure before sailing down to the hall.

She had no more than gained the last step when Lady Clysta hailed her.

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Sir Daviess is determined to meet our guest. Tell me how his injuries fare this day.”

Summoning her nerve, Emelin met the lady’s gaze and smiled. “I believe he’s nearly recovered. He complains about being confined and insists upon leaving his bed.”

Sir Daviess beamed. “Glad to hear it. The boy has been through quite an ordeal.” He stepped aside and motioned the two ladies to precede him up the stairway. Lady Clysta brushed close to Emelin and whispered, “Perhaps you might like some of Sister Ressa’s ointment for the rash on your neck and chest.”

Emelin’s hand flew to her throat. Marks from Giles’ beard. Heat rushed her face as the older lady smiled and winked a roguish eye.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Sir Giles?” The sound of Emelin’s voice startled him as he tested his legs between the low table and the narrow pallet. He stopped the halting steps. She had been gone so long, he thought she wouldn’t return.

Her call was accompanied by a sharp knock on rock beside the opening. The door swung wide to reveal his beautiful torment carrying his pack in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Behind her stood a gray-haired couple. He had met the lady. The man must be her husband. Emelin set the steaming bowl on the table. He sniffed. More stew.

Lady Clysta was plump in a comfortable way that reflected in her sweet smile and the wreath of tiny wrinkles on her face. Were it not for her sharp eyes, she might be mistaken for the helpless grandmother she appeared.

Giles had seen her kind before. Those twinkling eyes hid a will of iron, a backbone of steel. That would be his Emelin in two score years. Still a force to be reckoned with.

The lady came forward and urged him back to the bed. “Rest now, Sir Knight. It was just yesterday that you fought a serious fever. We must not fall victim to the recovery after we survived the attack, must we?”

Giles found he couldn’t withstand this soft whirlwind that scarcely reached his shoulders. He sat. She continued to speak, but his attention swung to the tall, stoop-shouldered man who stood just inside the doorway.

Smoke gray eyes searched Giles’ face. The intent gaze dropped to his shoulders, then returned. A frown crumpled the old lord’s lined forehead. His gaze flew to his wife. “Mangan?”

Lady Clysta was at his side in an instant, her hand tucked into his elbow.

“No, my dear. This is the stranger who saved Lady Emelin. Do you not remember, you were there when Sister Ressa tended his injuries?”

An icy trail traveled Giles’ spine. Did Sir Daviess’ mind wander? If so, how would Giles gain the cooperation he needed?

The old man nodded, patted his lady’s hand. “Yes, yes, I recall now. That young squire who stopped here last year had the look of our son, as well. Hair as light as Mangan’s and his smile very like. Remember? And at Christmas, the traveling minstrel had eyes as clear and gray as a November morn.”

Emelin stepped forward. “This is Sir Giles of Cambrai, my lord.”

“Cambrai, Cambrai,” Sir Daviess muttered.

“A small town in Normandy, sir,” Giles added. The man reminded him of his own gran’père, dead these twenty years and more.

“Yes.” The other nodded, as if placing the name. “You are welcome here, Sir Giles.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed clear and cogent. Giles was relieved. “I must let my friend Lord Henry of Chauvere know I am here. Lady Emelin and I were traveling to his home when we were attacked.”

The heavy gray brows lifted. “Of course, one of the guards can go. I’ll send Sir Thomas to you. I gather you have a story to tell, you and this fine lady here.”

Pink touched Emelin’s cheeks. She became intent on Giles’ leather bag in her hands, the one Davy recovered.

Lady Clysta rose to the rescue. “Perhaps you will favor us with that tale later. For now, we will let you rest.”

Emelin glanced up to speak and fumbled the bag. She grabbed at it but caught the bottom, upending it. His pitifully few belongings plopped onto the floor. The medallion flew loose from the folded shirt with a clank.

Sir Daviess stooped to retrieve it. He held it up in front of his narrowed eyes. “This looks familiar. Where have I seen a design like this before?”

Lady Clysta took the object from his fingers to examine. “Ah, yes. This is from Langley. Lord Osbert’s device, you see.” She turned it over and squinted. “Oh, you’ve scratched it. What a shame.”

Not random scratches. Giles had never deciphered the markings on this one object that identified his father. The only thing the man had left Giles’ mother. Except for Giles.

Lady Clysta handed the piece to Emelin. “Here you are, my dear. I’m sure you will want to hold on to this.”