The Warrior's Game (12 page)

Michel jerked in surprise as Ami touched her mouth to his. He arched back from her, still holding her against the landing’s wall. Jesu, but he’d been ready to beat her for the wrong she did him and she wanted to kiss him?

Although night had crept up the stairs, cloaking the landing in dimness, the hall fire threw enough light into this small space that he could see her. Her head scarf was gone. Loosened by their struggle, tantalizing wisps of brown hair now escaped her plait to cling to the curve of her cheeks and trail in seductive promise along the slender length of her neck. Shadows marked the gentle slope of her cheeks and outlined her flushed lips.

It was the promise in her eyes that stirred him. Her ever-present hunger fair pulsed from her, enveloping him in a cloud of her desire. She’d lied in the courtyard, even if she wouldn’t admit it. He was the one to whom she’d give herself.

But Michel couldn’t afford to accept what she offered, no matter what he'd just told Mistress Hughette. That damned band. In order to soothe his hostess over what he'd done Michel had had to confide to her that he'd asked in secret for Amicia's hand.

Aye, he had asked. But John's and Sir Enguerran’s greed had seen to it that Amicia would never be his wife.

Marrying meant giving up his mercenary life and the coins and wealth in spoils it earned him. Once he traded his oath of loyalty to John for a wife's estates he was bound, body and soul, to England. But to accept Amicia and her estates as they were now would be disastrous. It would take every future coin he might earn in those financial ventures with his father and his brother for years to come to restore her estates to what John had portrayed them to be. Rather than advance himself and his potential children, Michel might find himself in the same position as his grandsire, needing to sell a daughter to a rich merchant in order to meet his obligations.

Given that there could be no marriage between them now, accepting Amicia’s offer tonight could well mean Michel might forfeit his life for using the king's ward.

Amicia made a tiny, forlorn sound. With her shoulders yet trapped against the wall, she reached out to rest her hands upon his hips. Even with the fabric of his shirt between her fingers and his skin, the heat of her hands seared him. Need thrust like a sword through his belly.

Michel breathed out in acceptance. Every man had to die someday and he'd be damned if he went without having first tasted her passion for him. He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.

She sighed. Her lips were warm and soft beneath his. The scents of rain and Winchester radiated from her skin, but beneath it all clung that faint scent of roses. One of those wisps of hair trailed across his cheekbone. That woke Michel’s desire to see her hair loosened about her. Releasing her mouth, he straightened and freed her arms.

“Nay,” she pleaded as she clutched his waist.

Although soft, her protest echoed in the silence of the landing. It was a worthy warning. One cry and they’d bring the whole house out here to see what they did.

“Hush,” Michel breathed, touching a finger to her lips to silence her, then drew the back of his digit down the slope of her cheek. Her skin was wondrously soft against his.

Her eyes closed. She leaned her head into his caress. Michel’s shaft stirred.

Cupping his hand beneath her chin, he traced her lower lip with the ball of his thumb. She relaxed against the wall, her posture saying she was content to let him touch her as he would.

Michel drew a sharp breath at that promise, then stroked a hand down the length of her plait. At its end was a single leather thong. Slipping it off, he used his fingers to open her braid until her hair fell in smooth waves to past her waist. Gathering her tresses in his hands, he savored the way the thick strands curled about his wrists and trailed down his arms, then again combed his fingers through her hair. If the gossips were to be believed, he was only the second man to touch her this way.

She shivered at his play, her eyes opening. Her irises were dark with pleasure, but the tiny crease between her brows said she was coming to her senses. In another moment she’d recognize the wrong they did here, especially for her. When she did she would deny them both.

Ah, but this was one game Michel was no longer willing to lose. Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth against her, again and again, one light caress after another. It taunted them both, stirring his own needs as she gasped lightly and once more relaxed against the wall. Her hands came to rest upon his arms, her fingers curling into his shirt-sleeves.

A moment later she tried to claim his mouth with hers. When he denied her, retreating just a little, she arched upward, trying to press her body to his. That made Michel smile against her lips. He’d won. She had forgotten all propriety in her need for him.

Stroking his fingers down the curve of her throat, something that teased another shiver from her, he trailed his hand downward until he cupped her breast. She cried out against his mouth. Through both her gowns he felt her nipple harden. Michel caught a sharp breath then kissed her with all the need that now burned in him.

As Michel’s mouth slashed atop hers, Ami lost herself in a storm of pleasure and held on to him for dear life. His clean-shaven cheek was cool against hers. His beard was both rough and soft in one glorious instant. The sweet taste of the wine he’d been drinking yet clung to his lips.

A moment later he tore his mouth from hers to press his lips to her ear, nipping, sucking, teasing. Arching against him in mindless parody of what she so wanted, Ami cried out only to be startled by the echo of her own voice. The mists of delight parted far enough that she could see the goldsmith’s hall over Michel’s shoulder.

Jesus God, but she was letting the king’s mercenary futter her on the goldsmith’s landing!

“Quietly, sweet,” Michel murmured against her ear, then rubbed his palm over her breast as he again nipped at her earlobe.

Even as Ami gasped, a joyous shudder dancing down her spine, she released Michel to brace her hands upon his shoulders, meaning to push him back from her. This had gone too far already. He left off kissing her ear to press a line of kisses down the curve of her neck. The most marvelous sensation shot through Ami. The strength left her arms.

He moved his free hand from her waist to her hip, then drew her against him. Their thighs touched. All that separated them were her gowns and his shirt. That wasn’t thickness enough to prevent Ami from feeling his shaft against her belly.

His lips had reached her shoulder. She tilted her head, begging him to kiss her nape. When he did, she melted.

She needed to feel his skin against hers. Sliding her hands around him, she caught the back of his shirt in her hands and wrenched it up until she could lay her palms against his bare waist. His flesh was warm and smooth against hers. Yet shuddering and gasping at his play, she drew her fingertips up the column of his spine to his shoulders. Then, slowly, she used her palms to map every inch of his back as if claiming the territory as her own.

How could his muscles be so hard yet his skin be so soft? Again she stroked his back, savoring the sensation against her palms. Both hands descended toward his waist.

Michel straightened to look down into her face. For the moment his expression was unguarded. The gray of his eyes was warm, made so by his passion for her.

At his waist she traced the cord that held up his chausses. With a sigh Ami let her hands follow that line until she found the points of his stockings, the narrowed bits of fabric that fastened each leg to the waist cord. There she stopped her hands, letting them rest upon his bare hips.

His eyes closing, Michel leaned forward with a sigh and rested his brow on hers. “Your hands,” he breathed in wonder, his voice so low that Ami almost didn’t hear him. “There is such possession in your touch.”

Then, before she had time to comprehend what he’d said, he reclaimed her mouth with his. This time, his lips moved across hers in deadly earnest as he demanded she yield all to him. All on their own accord Ami’s hips lifted until they pressed to his. When she found fabric yet stood between her body and what she now needed more than breath itself, she cried out and brought her hands forward around his hips.

Michel gasped against her mouth, his senses afire. After his swift bath this evening, he’d donned only the minimal number of garments needed to be decent. There was nothing between Amicia’s searching hands and his shaft.

As she’d done with his back, she explored his shaft’s engorged length with her fingers, tracing it, circling its head, making it hers, until Michel forgot about kissing her and drowned in a sea of sensation. It was intolerable that she could touch his body when he couldn’t feel her flesh. He needed her now, stripped bare and sprawled upon his bed.

Amicia closed her fingers around his shaft and stroked. Pleasure crashed over him, eating up common sense. His bed was too far away.

Bringing his hands to her hips, Michel gathered up the fabric of her gowns until her hems were lifted to her waist. Then, holding them out of the way, he again took her mouth with his as he stroked his free hand across her bare belly.

Her skin felt impossibly soft against his fingers. At his caress she released his shaft and panted against his lips. He found the curls that covered her nether lips. Then, doing as she had done to him, he slipped a finger between them to explore her, only to groan at the warmth and wetness that he discovered. As his finger entered her, she arched against his caress, flooding his hand with her need.

“Michel--” she pleaded against his lips, only to free another breathless moan as he stroked her again.

Michel needed no more invitation than that. Cupping his hands beneath her hips, he lifted her until he could press himself between her legs, then brace her back against the wall behind her.

Amicia gave a startled squeak at this shift of position. “Nay,” she gasped out, catching her hands about his waist as if to push back from him.

Michel’s eyes narrowed. She wouldn’t refuse him. He was the one she’d chosen. He shifted, his shaft finding the entry to her womb, then made her one with him.

Ami stiffened, overwhelmed by sensations. His body’s heat, his smell, his mouth moving on hers, the feel of his legs against hers, the way his fingers dug into her hips, the inferno that was his shaft inside her, it all seemed too much to take at once. She tore her mouth from his and turned her head to one side.

She expected him to force her lips to once more meet his. Instead, he touched his lips to her brow, her cheek, her chin, then nuzzled her ear. At the same time he slid deeper into her. Ami’s whole body wept with relief and pleasure.

This was what she needed, and nothing had ever been more welcome. All that mattered was that he should move within her and drive them both into joy. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she tightened her legs around his hips. That brought him even more deeply within her.

He groaned softly against her ear, his pleasure feeding her own. When he again moved within her, she arched against him. Ecstasy welled, the promise of ultimate joy close enough that she cried out, straining to achieve what she so desired.