She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. "No—I won't displease. I can make myself pleasant to them. It's the easiest thing possible. I can't thank them for their injury to you and your rightful estate, but I'm your wife, and would not have discord sown between us." She took up the spoon again abruptly, plunging it into the pottage. "And such is a humble speech as I'm not accustomed to making, in truth, but I love you, even if I don't adore your churls."
She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back straight.
From the window he spoke hesitantly. "It's not that you will to go?"
She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she said, "Indeed, I don't pine for the back of a horse again soon."
The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. "Perhaps it's 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 nothing 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.
"You've not taken your own repose," she said, watching steam rise from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on the wall.
"No," he murmured, still close behind her. "No, 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 didn't 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 wasn't certain of whether he had made an invitation to share the bed or not. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. 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'll leave you then, to take your rest as you're 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 you 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 didn't intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels for a fire and proper comfort. Perhaps 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. "Are you sorely weary?" He made a trifling motion of his hand. "I'm not one to sleep in the light of day."
Pleasure and relief soared through her. "No, how is this?" She crossed the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. "Do you go sick? I've seen you snore with some success in daylight before now."
"I wouldn't have you depart so soon, if it please you."
"Please me?" She let her hand slip down and sighed. "What—forfeit a cold chimney and empty bower, only to suit your liking? Verily, you're 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.
"Will you 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.
"Yes," 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 you," she said.
His jaw was tense. "Perhaps I'm not gentle enough, or skilled enough, or—what would delight you."
All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew nothing 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. "You must 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'll take experiment of you, lady. Happens I've made me a modest study of wicked delectation."
She murmured, "I thought you chaste, monkish man."
"Aye, I have 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 often, 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've studied."
SEVENTEEN
Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. "And what have you mastered in your study, learned husband?"
He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. "My lady, it's all nonsense. Better you should say me how to give you pleasure. I'm not accomplished in love wiles, truly."
She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. "I'd hear what you've 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 you wield 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.
"I'm but a child in the craft," she said lightly. "You must be my master, or we won't 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 you 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 cote-hardie wasn't 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 ot
her 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, 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 garters 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 behold, then," she said sullenly. "Indeed, a hag as old as you!"
"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.
"Faith!" she hissed. "Don't tell me you're 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, I hardly know what I count." He drew a breath. "I'm—better now."
He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in her crumpled shirt. "Sweet Mary, I'll cover myself, to spare you this dire distress."
His hand landed firmly over hers. "No—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. "It's not affliction, but too great bliss."
Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he might say anything to maintain it. "In truth?"
He crossed himself, his face sober. She asked suspiciously, "My body is not uncomely, you 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, you're delicious." 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. "Delicious to taste or delicious lustful?"
"The both," he murmured, "if I prove fortunate."
She gave him an arch look. "This is love-talking indeed. I'll think me I'm at court to hear such."
His thumb slipped downward, seeking. Melanthe gave a little start and pressed her legs together to prevent him.
"Lady, you're now at my court, where I rule." He gently resisted her effort, opening her knees. He stroked her, the inside of her thighs, her private parts, 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.
"No, you've bid me teach you 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 touch, 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're wed, lady, so I can't teach you fornication. Or the fourth, unless you're a virgin, that I may seduce you from your purity."
"No," she whispered, curling her fingers in the thick silken nap of the carpet. "Not a virgin."
"I thought me not so." His lips moved over her shoulder, a gentle searching. She could feel him smiling against her. "Nor can we adulter, either by single or double, or commit sacrilege—unless you're under a religious vow?"
She gave a breathless laugh. "Do I look to you like a holy woman, knight?"
He lifted his head. "God shield," he said, with a sudden fierceness. "No, you look like my wife, fair and mortal—and nothing that we do between us be sinning, by the word of Saint Albert."
She lay against the cushion. In her life she'd 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'd never before lain naked beside a man, uncovered, without shield or mask, reckless.
"Nothing?" She made a pout, stretching her arms overhead. "Alas, you'll destroy all my wicked sport."
He caught her chin, rubbing his thumb across her lips. "If you don't drive me to inordinate desire, wench, which is deadly sin, wed or no."
She brought her arms down about his shoulders. "And is your desire now ordinate, learned monk? Perhaps we'll delay this loving then, and take us to the chapel for a day and night of prayer and fasting, to prove you."
"Perhaps you're the Arch-Fiend's daughter, come to harry me until I'm undone body and soul."
"Only your 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. "You're uneasy in the state, I see."
Agreeable it was to trade words and love-talk. 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 didn't object; she welcomed it, hoping that by God's gift 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.
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br /> She'd been most delighted with this play and wasn't 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? Still lacks my instruction. The first and second sins of lust only have I beheld."
But he didn't 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'd 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 privy part. 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 member through linen, crammed heavily against the cloth.
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