The Last Arrow RH3 (32 page)

She twisted around but, with the glow of the sprawling camp full in her face, all she could see was the shape of a tall, broad-shouldered man who had a knife glinting in his fist and a curse hissing between his lips.

Griffyn cursed again. "You! What the devil are you doing out here? I would have thought you had learned your lesson this afternoon and not gone wandering off on your own again."

She swallowed hard to force her heart out of her throat and back down into her chest. "I ... could not sleep. I thought a walk might help. What are you doing here? I would have thought you would be up at the chateau feasting and wining and wenching along with the others."

"I am not one for feasting or wining on the eve of a tournament. In fact"—he paused while he resheathed his dagger—"I usually walk the night away myself. I have had enough close brushes with death to appreciate the importance of savoring a night like this, since it could well be the last I see." He glanced wryly at the isolated tents ahead.

"Tell me you are not come to ogle and swoon over the Prince of Darkness?"

"No. I am not. I was merely following the river, with no thought to where it led."

His face angled briefly into the light and she could see the skepticism on his lips. "Well, another twenty paces or so and it follows straight into a rocky gorge. Come, I will walk you back to your own camp."

"I do not need your company, sirrah. I can find my way on my own."

"Suit yourself." He started to walk away, then stopped. "To answer your question, I was just going to check on my horses. If you would care to come along, I would vouchsafe my best behavior."

She followed the direction of his nod and saw long, low rows of canvas stables strung out along the curving base of the slope.

"Horses? You have more than one destrier?"

"I would make for a pretty poor soldier of fortune if I did not." She let the comment pass without a rejoinder and he smiled again. "Fulgrin brought the others with him, along with the wagon and supplies."

"Fulgrin ... the squire with the mind of his own? I take it you found him without difficulty."

"He is always difficult, but refuses to go missing for very long. Come. I stole some excellent apples and would not want my efforts wasted."

She frowned at his broad back for a moment and, against her better judgment, fell into step beside him. The makeshift stables were lit by torchlight, filled with the warm, musky smell of horse. He walked to the far end of the row of divided stalls, startling a boy who was seated on the ground, dozing.

"Sire!" The lad scrambled to his feet, his face blanching white. "The beasts are fed and watered, sire. I groomed them myself and have let no one else near them."

"See that you do not. Go down to the river and douse yourself in cold water. I want you awake and alert all night."

The lad nodded, his neck stiff with terror. "I will be, sire. I swear it."

Brenna watched the boy stumble away and arched an eyebrow, recalling her opinion of Griffyn Renaud's tolerance for underlings. "You do seem to have a warming effect on people, do you not?"

He ignored her sarcasm and went into the first stall. The big gray destrier, Centaur, had swung his head around at the first sound of Renaud's voice and nickered softly now as he accepted a fat, juicy apple. He was a beautiful animal, fully eighteen hands high, and Brenna had admired him in the forest outside of Amboise. But the stallion that drew her attention now was tied in the next stall, taller even than the gray, a darker shade of coal ash with mottled black spots across the rump and hindquarters, with one snow-white cuff banding a foreleg. He was so thickly muscled across the withers and flanks, it prompted her to take a precautionary step back, uncertain the rope would hold him if he took to balking around strangers.

Griffyn noted her wariness and stepped around Centaur's rump into the next stall. "This is Centurion; Centaur's son.

His dignity is a little bruised from having only Fulgrin's company for the past few days."

He held out another apple, which was snorted at with disdain.

"Fine," said Griffyn, and took a bite. The stallion reared his noble head and stamped his forelegs, but his master did not even flinch. He calmly chewed and swallowed and took another bite before offering the remainder of the apple.

The snort was quieter, but the fruit was snatched between the huge white teeth before it could be withdrawn again.

Griffyn rubbed the velvety snout with obvious affection, then ran his hands along the neck, across the withers, and down the solid forelegs, checking every muscle and tendon for tenderness. He did the same to the hindquarters and back legs, ending his inspection with a robust pat on the rump.

He had two more apples tucked into the front of his sur-coat, which he fed to the pair of short, scruffy-haired rouncies stabled next in line that had watched the entire proceedings with rounded, eager eyes. Both neighed softly when he rubbed their snouts and gave them their treat, and one plucked gratefully at his sleeve when he stopped to frown over a sore on his flanks.

"If Fulgrin has been using leather on you again," he murmured, "I will ply it across his own worthless back."

Brenna was mildly taken aback by his gentleness, though she supposed a mercenary still had to show some consideration for his animals. A knight, even a poor excuse for a knight, would be helpless without a good horse beneath him. And a knight who came to a tournament with only one mount most definitely did not have high expectations.

Griffyn returned to the first stall and gave Centaur the same meticulous inspection he had given Centurion. Brenna moved closer and smoothed her hand along the stallion's flank, watching how carefully, how gently, yet how expertly Renaud probed and stroked and kneaded his way down one foreleg, then the other. She followed the movement of his right hand, the fingers long and tapered and so precise in their search, she felt her own skin responding to each careful, sliding stroke. Beneath the bulky layers of her surcoat she could feel her flesh prickling and tightening as she remembered how that same hand had shaped itself around her naked breast, chasing after every shiver and shudder.

Her gaze was drawn to the scarred left hand, and something else shuddered deep within her. It was not fear, nor pity, nor sympathy, for she had seen far more heinous wounds on men returning from war. It was something else that she could not quite identify.

"It is probably none of my affair to know, but... how did you burn your hand?"

He glanced at her, glanced at the hand, then returned to his inspection. "You are right. It is none of your affair."

She said nothing and after a moment, he sighed and straightened. "Forgive me. I am not accustomed to anyone showing any concern for my well-being."

"It was not concern," she said archly, refusing to admit it even to herself. "Merely curiosity."

He splayed the fingers of the scarred left hand and turned it over, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. "It is not a very pretty sight, is it?"

"It does not hamper you in any way?"

He flexed the strong fingers and rested them on Centaur's shoulder. "No. Were you hoping it did?"

"Of course not. Why would I hope such a thing?"

"Indeed, why would you? Your brother is not fighting tomorrow, his own injury is keeping him amongst the spectators. I would think you would be looking forward to the pleasure and the possibility of my getting spitted and spilled."

"I do not particularly relish seeing anyone get spitted." "Not even a ... what was it you called me? A low-bellied worm?"

She flushed. "I was angry when I said that."

"So you were," he mused. "And very, very beautiful with your face all flushed with indignation and your eyes snapping fire."

"It was dark," she said, swallowing. "How could you know how I looked?"

With his left hand still on the stallion's shoulder, he moved his right to the rump, effectively trapping Brenna between. Warmed by the heat of two formidable bodies, she could only stare at the cleft in Griffyn's chin, not daring to look any higher up or any lower down.

"I know how you looked in the forest," he murmured. "I know how you looked in the bath house. And I know how you look right now."

His lips came almost close enough to brush her temple, and she held her breath.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "Whether you believe it or not."

He straightened and she risked a glance up at his chin again. He had shaved recently, bathed too to judge by the clean, earthy scent of him. His hair gleamed like ebony under the torchlight, full and thick and silky. If anyone was beautiful...

"I ... I am plain and awkward," she stammered softly. "My hair is unruly and my nose has spots, and ... and ... I will never have soft hands or pale skin. Mother despairs of my ever behaving the way a proper lady should."

"Thank God for that," he said sincerely. "Proper ladies are nice to look at, but I for one prefer the company of someone who can stop a poacher dead in his tracks or rouse the curiosity of a man who is careful not to be curious about too many things—especially women. As for your spots, I find them charming. And your hair ..." The words trailed away on a frown as he plucked the cap off her head and cast It into the shadows. His strong fingers started to untangle the glossy braid, spreading the curly profusion around her shoulders, spreading ripples of sensation through her body and down into her limbs. When he was finished working his mischief, he waited for her to open her eyes, to raise them up to his and acknowledge the heat coursing through her veins. He waited, and when he saw it, he cradled one hand on either side of her neck and brought her mouth up to his, the kiss so deep and long and tender, the end of it was marked with a soft, shuddering sigh.

"I thought you said you would vouchsafe your behavior."

"I lied." He smiled rakishly enough to send a shiver shooting straight down to her toes. When he kissed her again, the tremors spread into her arms, to the very tips of her fingers where they curled into his surcoat.

She should have known, of course, coming with him to the stable, envying the motion of his hands, envying the way she had seen the other women staring at him earlier in the day, ruing the way she had pushed him away when he had kissed her in the alleyway ... she should have known this would happen.

And she supposed she did, for there was no thought of denying him. There was not even a modest attempt to refuse him as her hands crept up to his shoulders and her lips parted wider beneath his, inviting him into the warmth and wetness. Her eyes closed tight and she sighed again, the sound as soft and grateful as that from the rouncies. She kissed him back, not even caring that the front of the tent was open to whoever happened to walk past, or that the torchlight was bright, or that she was playing the fool for someone who must thrive on fools. Fools like Tansy who fainted three times in his arms. Fools like the women who followed his stark beauty with hungry eyes.

His tongue traced delicate patterns in and around her mouth, and she shivered helplessly beneath its seductive power. His body crowded her against Centaur and his hands raked deeper into her hair, angling her head this way and that so that her cheeks, her temples, her eyes, the tenderest stretches of her throat were exposed to his roving lips.

She leaned shamelessly into each caress and her hands crawled upward to his shoulders, to his neck, to the lush thickness of his hair. She sought the generous curves of his mouth and kissed him, knowing full well where it would lead this time. She knew and pressed eagerly against him, wanting to feel his heat on her body, between her thighs.

"There is an excellent patch of grass by the river," he whispered. "Soft and lush ... I would gladly take you there if you would let me."

Her body was pure liquid, flowing and silky and smooth, and she felt weightless, lightheaded, not caring that it was madness, sheer madness to agree. She tightened her hands, dragging his mouth back down to hers, and he took this as assent, picking her up in his arms and carrying her out into the darkness of the night.

He walked until the torchlight faded and the camp sounds dimmed, until they were knee deep, waist deep in the grasses by the river, and only then did he set her down. Only then did he release her and stand back, showing the smallest bit of uncertainty for the first time, as if he were afraid to acknowledge the strength of his own desire. This sudden glimpse of vulnerability brought Brenna forward, her whole body trembling with the brilliant madness.

"A thousand things you promised me," she whispered. "A thousand things that would have me begging for a thousand more. I intend to hold you to it, sirrah, unless it was all simple boasting."

She caught her breath as his arms went around her and his lips were hers again. His hands were everywhere at once, stripping away her tunic and padded surcoat, her belts and weapons and inhibitions. He lifted the hem of her shirt and drew it up over her head, leaving her standing in a shimmer of sheer silk, an abbreviated chemise laced in front with tiny ribbons and embroidered with clusters of ivy leaves and delicate blue flowers. The ribbons were torn without a thought and she stood like a pagan in front of him, bare from the waist up, with the night air puckering her breasts, chilling them so that when his mouth claimed the roseate nipples, she groaned and held him close, her fingers buried in his hair, her head bowed over his.

She watched him, on his knees now, peeling down her leggings, pushing them only as far as the tops of her boots before the hunger and impatience bade him press his mouth to her belly, to her thighs, to the soft thatch of tawny curls between. She held his shoulders and her knees buckled, and then she was lying in the grass and her arms were stretched flat on either side, and his lips were there. His mouth as there and she could not breathe or think or reason.

The eat and pleasure washed through her in long sweeping waves, deep and intense, and she clutched at fistfuls of grass, tearing it out by the root. There was more, and more, and more, and she opened her body wider, wider still, and she arched her back, arched her hips into the exquisite ravishment as the sweet, stinging rush of her first orgasm lifted her off the grass, pressed her into his mouth, and begged him to hold her there, his tongue and lips taking her to places she had never been before.