Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

  His mouth returned where it had left off. Nipping and nibbling.

  She pushed her palm between them. “Was anyone there?”

  He cupped her hand, weaving their fingers together until they touched the core between her legs.

  “Please.” Her body betrayed her once again with little tremors. “I mean . . .”

  “Shh. Trust that we are safe. ’Twas a wee rabbit. Nothing more.” He nuzzled her neck and then, in one fluid motion, he rose and carried her to the pool. The crash of water over the stones brought the sensation of their flooding passion. It threatened to overtake Brigitte and wash her over the edge. Sanity slowly returned when he set her on a rock by the waterfall.

  Drem used his toes to remove his boots one by one. “Sweeting, cast off your shoes.”

  Brigitte wrinkled her nose. “Someone should stand watch.”

  He moved closer and knelt beside her. Lifting her foot, he peeled off her shoe and hose. Long, graceful fingers caressed her feet and calves. Something akin to a kitten’s mewling escaped her firmly pressed lips.

  “Join me.” Picking her up as if she weighed no more than an empty purse, he waded into the water. “’Twould feel so good.” He cradled her in his arms and sank until the water touched their chins. When she tried to drift away, he clamped a hand on her thigh to keep her settled on his lap. “To be clean again,” he whispered.

  Brigitte shivered despite her efforts to remain aloof. There was so much man touching . . . everywhere. “Drem, I . . .”

  His lips came down, slow, like rain in the last days of autumn. A steady drizzle. Then a downpour rushed over her.

  * * *

  He let go of her leg to reposition his hand on her waist. She floated up, skirts swelling, sailing like a cloud over a cerulean blue sky.

  “Sweeting.” He cupped her jaw and pressed his forehead to hers.

  The laces holding the front of her bodice drooped, slipping from their moorings. He caught the lace with his teeth and drew it down until it let loose her treasures. Her breasts bobbed in the water near his mouth.

  “My sweet caru.” He leaned forward and caught the nipple. Suckling, he swirled his tongue over the succulent flesh.

  Moaning, she grabbed the back of his head, raking her fingers through his hair. “Oh, oui.”

  With one hand, he untied his leggings. Stripping them off, he lay bare his pride and brought her down. Her skirt swelled, lifting over his legs. Dipping his hand, he palmed her mons. Its luscious folds unfurled like an exotic flower. Swirling his fingers over her nub, he felt the tip begin to grow.

  He tested her opening with his finger. The eager walls contracted. His shaft nodded, throbbing with need. Mindful of their bruised bodies, he balanced her on his thighs. The water lifted her slight weight and allowed him to settle her on his cock. The tip nudged the opening. She wrapped her arms around his neck bringing her breasts to his mouth. He sought one and then the other nipple, lapping, nuzzling. “Please,” she moaned.

  Gripping her bottom, he lifted and then brought her cheeks home to meet his stones. Her walls sheathed him, tight. Like a new sword going into a scabbard. Unyielding. Virginal.

  Brigitte gasped and froze. Her mewling quieted. Her passionate embrace around his shoulders loosened.

  Shite!

  He slid a strand of jet hair from her slender neck. His scarred hand trembled next to her perfect flesh. “My caru. Tell me you are not a virgin.”

  Her dark mane hid her face as she shook her head. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders. “I can’t.” She took a shuddering breath. “’Twould be a lie.”

  He swallowed the dry patch that formed on his tongue. A virginal thief? Did they exist? “Then I shall stop.” He cleared his throat. “I shall do your bidding, my lady. My caru.”

  He shifted. The movement made her bob over his sword, still alert and ready. His bollocks screamed against his arse. They wanted release as badly as he did. More so, he wanted her. This Robin Hood in skirts drove him to distraction. A floral scent lifted from the misting water. It was as if he could taste her in every droplet.

  “What does that mean? Caru?” She slid her hands over his chest. “I like the sound when you say it.”

  His nipples pebbled. He swirled his fingers over her hips, the roundness of her bottom. He said that? He searched his fuzzy brain. “’Tis Welsh.” Rattled, he swallowed. “For love.”

  “Love,” she mouthed against his lips.

  Her hands slipped under the water. She began her exploration at his belly, running her palm over his ribs, smoothing over his hip, down his thighs and back again. Soothing and exciting. He throbbed, bouncing, nudging her palm until she complied, like a quick learner, and wrapped her fingers around him. He found her nub again, swirling until she let out a breathy, “Oui.”

  He gritted his teeth, praying to the Almighty that he would not spill his seed before seeing to her pleasure. Her newly found passion matched his, surpassing all he could imagine. A wave of desire swept over him, tumbling him in the seas, dragging him down until he could no longer breathe. He held on to the last threads of control, waiting for her release. And then she crashed with him, rising up out of the pool she called heaven.

  They sucked air into their lungs like drowning souls cast from the sea. Aye, sweet caru, she was right. He had found heaven.

  “Mine,” he claimed into her neck. “Mine.”

  The first drops of rain splashed the tops of their heads, shaking them from the dream spun from the threads of passion. They had taken a chance, betting against discovery. ’Twas only a matter of time before someone came looking for them.

  “We must hasten before our absence is noted.” Drem sighed, reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. He assisted with the bodice, helping her put it back together. His hands shook, fumbling with the ties until she stilled his efforts and took over. Water glistened on her breasts. Like morning dew on a rose.

  “I still have to see to the burns.” Waves lapped at the edge of the pool as she waded to shore. She shook her skirt, wringing out the water. Her unplaited hair clung to her shoulders. The jet strands grazed her hips as she bent over.

  “They are of no consequence.” Drem took in a breath, already feeling the loss of her touch. “In truth, you have a healing way about you. ’Tis a worthy talent to have.”

  Gasping, Brigitte turned away. Her stiffened back walled him off, keeping him from reading her emotions. Her eyes on the ground, she searched behind the heavy foliage. “Merde,” she muttered. “Think you that it means so little?

  She paused in her muttering to cast a glance over her shoulder. Drem was certain she hoped it would shrivel his bullocks.

  “Fils de chien!” Spinning around, eyes snapping, hands on her hips, she shouted at him as if to help him translate. “Son of a dog.”

  “What did I say?” He lifted the wet leggings from the boulder. Hopping on one foot, he thrust his legs in and gave chase. “What did I do?”

  Her dark eyes glittered over rosy cheeks. Never had he felt so outmatched with an opponent as he did in that very moment. He searched her hands for weapons.

  “Brigitte. I . . .” Would that he could repair what was damaged in moments of passion. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. I took her virginity. His loins tightened. Aye, I still want her. But what did he have to give her for something that could never be replaced?

  “How dare you?” She wiped sweat and tears from her cheeks. “I’m not like Maman. I’ll never be a putain.” She shook her fist. “Not for Master Alexandre. Not for you!”

  Drem dodged her fists and grabbed her arms, trapping them by her sides. “Putain?” Understanding began to seep into his passion-sated brain. “A whore?”

  She hissed another curse. Her fingers flexed like a cat preparing to strike.

  “No, caru. I meant no such a thing. Never.”

  Taking his life and those of his future children in his hands, he drew her in, wrapping his arms around her tense shoulders. Soothing her the best way he
knew, he pressed his lips to her neck. He traveled to the sensitive spot he had found earlier behind her ear. Threading his fingers through her hair, he stroked her scalp until she sighed against his lips. The tension left her shoulders and back.

  She tilted her chin. The depths of her eyes were bottomless and filled with heartache. Her mouth trembled as she searched for words. “Merci. I . . . forgive me. I thought . . .”

  Drem kissed the back of her hand. He wished for more but restrained himself. There would be time for more, he promised himself. For now, he would be content to relieve her mind of any confusion. “You’re mine because I care for you, Brigitte. I vow to protect you and never intend to harm you.” His thumb slid over her lower lip. Before they returned to the madness of the siege camp, he had to sip at her sweetness once more. His mouth hovered over hers, waiting for her leave to steal another kiss. “Do you believe me?”

  Grabbing the back of his head, she drew him to her waiting, parted lips.

  * * *

  Brigitte leaned over Drem’s bare back. Their time in the cool water had taken some of the swelling out of his burns. She ached to place a kiss next to the scars. Lick the salt from his skin. Would he let her?

  The words he had whispered still rang in her ears. Mine. What did he mean? She was not the same as her maman. She would not fall in love and be hurt when he abandoned her. But in the meantime . . .

  She traced the white scars. The wedge of muscle, steely hard from so many hours of training. Even though chausses now covered his body like a second skin, she recalled the shape of his buttocks. They fit so well in her hands. She felt her core twitch deep inside her mons.

  He flinched as she licked the drops of water from his shoulder. “You must be still,” she ordered.

  He took her hands, prying open her fingers. “What is this?”

  “’Tis a snail.” The creature’s slime oozed over her palm. “For your burns.” The look of horror turned this strong man into a frightened little boy. She could not contain a giggle. “Now, let me tend you.” Her laughter ripped through the grotto as he pulled her into his lap. “As your king ordered.”

  Sighing dramatically, he unclasped his arms and set her free. Picking up his sword, he braced it across his thighs. The planes of his shoulders bunched and flexed as he cleaned the blade. “As you insist,” he grumbled. “I assure you, my king would not order snails.”

  She kissed his ear, rimming the pink shell with her tongue as she spread the natural salve over his wounds. “And what of the other part of our day?”

  “Aye,” the male voice shouted from the trees. “What would your king say about that?”

  Chapter 14

  Brigitte recognized that voice. She almost did not believe it was him. His fashionable attire was gone. In its place was a padded gambeson and helmet. When she saw the cane, she knew it was the master of the Nest. Outrage beat a drum against her chest. She rose, emptying her palm of the snails.

  “Alexandre, what are you doing on this side of Harfleur’s walls? Have you betrayed the townspeople the same way you did me?”

  Drem shoved her behind him. “Stay back,” he hissed.

  He stood, one palm braced against his well-formed hip, the other settled where his scabbard hung. “My lady Brigitte asked you a question. What do you want?”

  “Bee,” Alexandre said, “you cut me deep. I never meant you harm.”

  “Oui. You did and you will again.” She pushed past the wall created by Drem’s body. “Because that is who you are.” She started up the hill, only to be stopped by a tug on her arm. “Where is Maman’s necklace?”

  “You speak nonsense. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alexandre’s knuckles whitened against his cane. His beloved weapon twirled in his hands. He came to stand beside an elder tree. “Is this how you repay my kindness?”

  Drem drew his sword. The steel sang. It reflected the sun, catching the master of The Nest by surprise.

  A destrier charged over the wall of bushes protecting the grotto. Its powerful chest drove into Alexandre, making him stumble. He pushed himself up from the ground, the limp more pronounced than usual. The piercing glare quickly shuttered behind a beguiling smile. The cane twirled. Brigitte tensed. She knew what followed would bring pain.

  Sir Nathan sat astride the chestnut war horse. The unsheathed broadsword rested over the pommel of the saddle. He shook his head. “Don’t think you want to make that choice. Now do you?” He shifted the horse’s head in Drem and Brigitte’s direction. “Feel well enough to handle this one? Or shall I do it for you?”

  The twirling slowed. “You can’t harm me. I’m here for a parley with the king.”

  Leather creaked as Nathan leaned his forearm on his thigh. “’Tis so?” He scratched his jaw. “Then ’tis odd that you’re here and those you wish to bargain with are down there.” The sword whipped down, stopping at the jugular. “How many are with you?”

  “A handful.” Alexandre waved in the direction of the camp. “No doubt everyone is waiting for my return. I came for the wench.” He drew himself up, back straight with forced outrage. “That soldier kidnapped her. No doubt used her.” He snapped the cuffs of his jupon. “She is my fledgling and even if she is damaged, I want her back.”

  “Is that so?” Shock widened Nathan’s eyes. A corner of his mouth ticked, jerking against a smile, until he smoothed it with a gloved hand.

  “No,” Drem said. He put his arm around Brigitte’s waist.

  “Good to see you’re yourself again.” Nathan motioned, and the hillside filled with foot soldiers. Archers moved out from the shadows of tree trunks and into position. “I believe we have an appointment with a siege party.”

  He shifted the reins. The foot soldiers moved closer, their swords drawn.

  Drem pricked Alexandre’s neck with his blade. “We’re happy to grant you an escort.”

  “You expect me to walk all the way?”

  “Aye, I do,” Drem said.

  Sir Nathan grinned. Leaning over, he held out his palm for Brigitte. “My lady?”

  Brigitte looked at the great horse towering over her. To be up so high? She glanced at Drem.

  “Save your feet. Go with Sir Nathan.” He waved over a soldier to keep Alexandre in place. His long fingers wrapped around her waist and lifted her up. “Step on his boot. ’Tis why they are so large.”

  “That and other things,” Nathan said.

  Terrified of the height, Brigitte clung to his broad back.

  “Never ridden before?”

  “Oui, just not one so monstrous.”

  “Aye.” Nathan chuckled. He smoothed a palm over the horse’s mane. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  “Move,” Drem growled from the formation of soldiers. He kept his prisoner in the center, guarded at all flanks.

  Alexandre sputtered at the prodding of Drem’s sword. Brigitte squinted, trying to see the boy she once trusted. ’Twas impossible. That boy had been replaced by a heartless thief. Master Alexandre was up to something. His plans served no one but himself and his pockets. She would make certain that this time he did not succeed. And she would take what was hers.

  Sir Nathan directed the horse to gallop ahead of the small army of men. Brigitte gripped with her thighs and prayed to the saints that she would not fall to her death. Her prayers were answered when he slowed their pace to a walk. She let loose the breath she hadn’t realized she held and began to melt into the steed’s gait.

  “What does Master Alexandre want with you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Brigitte uncurled her cramped fingers from Sir Nathan’s gambeson. “All I have ever been to him is someone who had a way with stealing.”

  “Ah, so you do not come from Harfleur?”

  “No.”

  He ran a soothing palm over the mare’s shoulders. “You wish to return to him?”

  “No.” Brigitte did not like the direction of his questions. She searched the horizon. Did he think she still worked with Al
exandre?

  “And how is it you came to this little harbor town?”

  Did he test the strength of her allegiance? The towering knight would be surprised to learn she did not know the answer to that question either. She cared for the townspeople. The children of the Nest. But Master Alexandre? She now saw the darkness of his soul. No matter his plans, he would not take her down so easily.

  “I was brought here by three men. After Maman died. I was to go to Calais, but they said Harfleur was a better place for me. They laughed at their little joke as their fancy carriage rolled through the gates.” Brigitte dug her nails into the saddle. “Master Alexandre found me on the street the second night. I had thought him my friend, but that is no more.”

  She shifted to tap on his shoulder. “Sir Knight, do not trust anything he says.”

  “’Tis sound advice.” He narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  * * *

  Drem watched Nathan ride off with his woman. She is mine!

  He marched toward camp. Their guest for the parley hobbled in front of him. Sweat dripped down his spine. Drem tested his back, twisting and turning. No amount of stretching made the burns scream with irritation. He would never admit it to Brigitte, but the treatment of snail slime had worked.

  Master Alexandre complained the whole way down the hill. Drem knew the man was capable of base acts. Twice he’d witnessed Alexandre’s attempts on Brigitte’s life. Drem was ready to run the bastard through with his sword.

  He found it interesting that as they neared the encampment, his need for his cane increased. The man was also a charlatan.

  A group of archers headed up the hill. They carried axes along with their bows and arrows. Armed soldiers marched beside them, escorting the men to the wooded glen. Sir Darrick brought his mount up and waited.

  “Don’t take your eyes off him,” Drem said to the soldiers. “I’ll catch up with you shortly.”

  Sir Darrick nudged the animal forward. “Have you seen signs of the French?”

  “Only the man they call Master Alexandre.”

  “Odd that he should go in the opposite direction, don’t you think?” He shifted in the saddle, bracing a gauntlet-clad forearm on the pommel. “The archers are ordered to find timber to make posts for the trenches. I’ll be on my way as soon as they are settled.”