by Lynn Kurland
The morrow…
Would there be another morrow for them? Was it possible the second rockslide had brought them closer to escape? Or did God mock them by doubly sealing their fate?
He had to find out.
He discovered at once, cracking the back of his head as he stood up, that the ground above the place he'd been digging had collapsed, lowering the ceiling considerably. He had to sidle halfway around the cavern before he could stand aright. And rather than opening the passage above, it seemed a fresh spill of earth and pebbles had filled in every possible crevice. Considering the wealth of debris and the fact he'd been standing directly under the slide, he was lucky indeed to be alive. He ran blistered fingers over the rubble and pricked his thumb on a long sliver of wood.
Her harp. Or what was left of it.
The thing lay in splinters, smashed beneath a great boulder… He frowned. What was it she'd said? A rock had knocked him senseless, and she'd used her harp to pry…
Dear God—she'd levered this enormous rock off of him. He shuddered as he realized by the size of the boulder how close he'd come to getting his skull crushed. But, however she'd managed it, Hilaire had sacrificed her most precious possession to save him. And a new longing swelled in him, a desire he'd little hope of realizing, a desire to cherish her.
Which made it all the much harder to admit the truth: The fresh slide had successfully blocked their most likely avenue of escape.
seven
She would not cry. She would not. He'd done everything in his power to save them. She'd not demean his efforts with tears. But he'd circled the chamber thrice now, and she knew he only stalled at telling her the inevitable bad news.
"I've heard," she said, swallowing hard, forcing her voice to remain steady, " 'tis not an unpleasant way to die." The last word cracked, and her eyes filled with moisture, but she bit her lip to halt its quivering.
"What's this?" he said, and she could hear the forced levity. "Have you given up on me so soon?"
She groped forward and contacted his upper arm. It was a good arm, a strong arm, warm now without its steel plate. It was an arm a wife could have depended upon.
"Kind sir, I pray you won't think me too selfish," she said, summoning up all the dignity and grace her station had taught her, "but I'd rather have you here when I draw my last breath than dead from exhaustion hours before."
"My lady, I…"
"You've worn your fingers ragged."
"I would gladly wear them to the bone for you," he answered, startling her with his fierce promise.
Nonetheless, she squeezed his arm. "Nay. Stay with me. Please." She hoped she didn't sound as desperate as she felt. "I cannot bear the thought of dying alone."
He said naught, but when he cleared his throat a moment later, she could tell he'd taken her words to heart.
"Forsooth," he murmured at last, " 'tis said to be no more fearsome than drifting off to sleep."
Tears brimmed in her eyes. Though she'd known the truth, hearing it from his lips gave it brutal substance.
"And one so young and sweet," he added, "shall doubtless be conveyed to heaven ere your flesh feels the chill of death."
"And you'll come with me, won't you?" She clasped his arm tightly now, afraid to let go.
"I?" His chuckle was melancholy. "I fear not, my lady. A man such as I was not made to dwell amongst angels."
"Nay! Say not so!" she cried, stepping close to him. "You are a good man!" She clenched her fists upon his gambeson, over his heart. "You gave me comfort in the dark. You told me about the sea and… and bandaged my hand. You bloodied your fingers digging at the wall for me. And not once did you lift your voice in scorn, though you knew I fled my betrothed. God's truth, you've been as virtuous as… as a saint!"
He laughed in sincere amusement this time, which only fueled her righteous rage.
"Sirrah, I will drag you to heaven if I have to," she insisted, "else I will join you in hell."
He seized her wrists lightly in his battered hands, and she could feel the bittersweet warmth of his smile.
"I believe you would," he said.
He ran his thumb along the palm of her good hand, and she marveled at the way such a well-muscled fighter could gentle his warrior touch. Perhaps it was as her maid said, that a woman brought out the mildness in a man.
But she would never know. For she would never marry.
And that realization, more than any other, planted the seed of yearning brutally in her throat and opened the floodgates for her tears, tears she shamefully spilled all over the fabric of his gambeson.
Ryance melted at the sound of her weeping. Taking Hilaire in his arms was as natural as gathering his cloak about him on a winter's eve. She fit into his embrace as if she were forged for it. Her head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder, and he could smell the womanly scent of her upon the soft cloud of hair beneath his chin. She felt so tiny, so fragile within his brawny arms that he feared to crush her, and yet she cleaved to him with amazing strength. Her body hitched as she tried to cease her sobbing, but when he brushed the back of his finger across the delicate line of her jaw, it came away wet.
She thought him a hero. The idea was dizzying. He'd done naught to help her. Forsooth, by his very name, he'd sentenced her to this fate. And yet she looked to him for comfort.
Would God he could save her! But what meager hopes they'd had of escaping were dashed now by the avalanche. More digging would only increase the risk of a deadly slide. Running out of air was a merciful passing, but to be crushed under a deluge of rock… Nay, the best he could do was to try to make her last moments on Earth as painless as possible.
He slowly traced her backbone with his palm. She was slender, this betrothed of his, with the subtle curves of a young woman. It was a travesty she'd not see the other side of twenty.
He gathered her hair in his other hand, brushing it back from her damp cheek. It was soft as rose petals, thick and possessed of a sleek curl that was wont to curve about his hand. How odd, he thought—he'd no notion of its color.
"I'm sorry." She said it so quietly he thought he imagined the words. "For my weeping."
He cradled the back of her head. "No need to be."
She sniffled against his chest. "I don't mean to be such a burden."
"Nay." He gave her a little shake. "Think naught of it."
" 'Tis only that there were so… so many things I'd yet to do… and now…" She stifled her sobs as best she could against the thick padding of his gambeson.
He tried to remember what it was like to be so young, like an arrow nocked for the firing, to have a lifetime of adventure stretching out its hand and the bright blue promise of the open sky above. Sir Ryance had had his adventure. The Black Gryphon had fought for his King, traveled abroad, won a castle, wed not once, but thrice, served his fellow man as best he could, and if he lacked that one elusive hallmark of achievement, an heir to carry on his title, still it couldn't be said he would die before he'd tasted life. But Hilaire…
He enfolded his arms more tightly about her, enveloping her in all the solace he could extend. She didn't deserve to die. Curse Fate—she didn't deserve this.
Hilaire rested her head against him. His arms felt wonderful around her. Which made her all the more miserable.
Without chain mail, his embrace this time was far more intimate. She felt the flex of his muscles as he tautened his hold, the warmth of his skin where her forehead touched his collarbone. He smelled like iron and sweat and leather and spice, utterly masculine and irresistibly intriguing.
She closed her eyes, soaking in the scent of him, the feel of him, memorizing his essence, longing to carry the impressions with her into eternity. For it was all she'd ever have of him, all she'd ever know of any man.
She wept anew, but silently this time. His knuckles grazed her cheek, collecting her tears, and yet he neither shrank from nor hushed her. How noble he was, she thought, how chivalrous and honorable and kind. She rubb
ed her cheek against his hand. His fingers were ragged but warm with life, and on impulse, she turned her head to rest her open lips against them. Without thought, without invitation, she kissed the back of his hand, closing her lips tenderly over each skinned knuckle. A curious addiction came over her, and she found, like dining on sweetmeats, she could not stop. Again and again she pressed her mouth to his flesh, until she heard him groan.
Sweet Mary—she hadn't meant to injure him.
He didn't pull away. But he turned his hand over and stopped her, crossing his palm over her parted mouth.
"Did I hurt you?" she whispered against his hand.
He sighed. "Nay." His low chuckle confused her. "Nay. Not with those soft lips." He brushed his thumb across her mouth, and she felt a peculiar tingling go through her body, as if he'd touched her soul.
It left her feeling reckless and brazen and strangely giddy.
There was naught left now, she realized, no one to answer to, no one to judge her. Why not cast caution to the wind?
"Kiss me," she murmured.
"What?"
"Kiss me." Even the heat that rose in her cheeks couldn't prevent her rash plea. "I've never been kissed. Please… kiss me."
His breath collapsed out of him, blowing tendrils of her hair back. "You want me to… you want me to…"
"Aye, kiss me." He was stone silent, and a shiver of worry rocked her. "Unless you find the thought distastef—"
His hand slipped aside, replaced so quickly by his mouth she hadn't time to draw breath. And suddenly she floated on a wave of sensation the like she'd never felt before.
His chin was rough and foreign to the tender skin of her face, but so distracted was she by the startling softness of his mouth, she scarcely noticed. He tasted of earth and ale and desire, and the way his lips clung to hers, tugging, drawing, calling to her, she cared for naught but responding in kind. It was heaven, this kissing, and she wished it would never end.
Then he opened her lips with his, and the liquid heat of his tongue teased at the edges of her mouth before sliding in to brand her own tongue. As if she bore his scorching mark, she writhed against him, and a hot bolt of lust shot through her, sizzling her very bones.
His hands cupped her face then, steadying her, thank God, for she feared she might well collapse under his onslaught. He tasted like fiery nectar, and she longed to drink and drink until she grew besotted upon his kiss.
Her ears were still thrumming, her body vibrating like a harp string, her heart racing when he slowed his kisses and drew gradually away from her.
She should have been sated. She knew that. He'd given her what she'd asked. Why then did she hunger for more? Why did she crave him as keenly as a starving man craved meat? Why did every nerve in her body sing with current, as if the west wind whipped up a storm in her soul?
She had no answer, nor was it her intent to wonder long. Casting off modesty like a stifling cloak, she snagged her fingers in his gambeson and hauled him back to her.
She behaved like a wanton. She knew she did. But it didn't matter. It was her last day on Earth. Her last chance for love. And she refused to succumb to death's sleep until she'd wrung every last drop she could from life.
He'd never felt so clumsy in all his years. It wasn't the dark that crippled him, but rather the maelstrom of emotions coursing through his mind. Here he was, buried under tons of earth, both feet in the grave, no hope in sight, his miserable life near its end. Yet his spirit soared with ecstasy.
Blood long tepid now simmered and pulsed through his veins. Desires long dormant awakened. His mouth still tingled from her kiss, the kiss he'd found nearly impossible to end. But he'd let her go, the way a falconer must let his prize tiercel fly. And, miraculous as it seemed, she'd returned to him. Now his senses centered on the delicate woman who seized him with all the strength of a knight reining in his warhorse.
She kissed him fiercely, hungrily, and the pressure of her sweet lips sent a frisson of desire straight to his loins. Lord,she knew not in what perilous sport she engaged. It had been months since he'd lain with a woman. With the slightest bit of encouragement, he might burst like a keg of overripe ale. But the way she urged him on him now—it was akin to hefting a battle-ax at the barrel.
Still, somewhere within his lust-fuddled brain he remembered he was a knight, a gentleman, a noble sworn to protect ladies, not seduce them. And if it killed him, he'd not violate this woman's trust.
She explored his face now, sliding a fingertip along the crest of his brow, sweeping the bristled hollow of his cheek with her thumb, smoothing the flesh across his jaw, then plunging her hands into the curls at the base of his neck. She sighed against his lips, and her breath was the breath of life, of spring, of sunlight in the dark.
She couldn't know how exalted she made him feel. In the blinding black, she embraced him, accepted him as if he were that man he'd thought lost so long ago. She neither shrank from him in horror nor shook her head in pity, and for once, he reveled in blessed anonymity.
Her fingers coursed along the strained cords of his neck, over the vein pulsing madly in his throat, and he swallowed hard beneath her touch. She nuzzled his ear, her lips nibbling at the lobe, her breath tickling the whiskers along his jaw, and he sucked a tight breath between his teeth.
He wanted her. Urgently. Needed her. He hardened like a molten sword plunged into snow. Surely she felt him stiffen against her, felt the blatant proof of his desire. And yet she didn't retreat. Nay, she pressed even closer, torturing him with her tender woman's shape, letting her hands roam at will over his shoulders, his arms, his chest, so close to his heart.
Hilaire knew not this brazen woman inside her. She was wanton, wild, and unbridled, like a mare quartered with a rutting stallion. She knew no shame, only greed. For what, she was uncertain. But she couldn't keep her hands from roving over the masculine curves and hollows before her. And if lips followed where hands led, it was with an overwhelming thirst that found no quenching.
He swiftly hardened against her belly like a dagger, and though her cheeks burned at the sensation, for she knew well the significance of his swelling, she felt no desire to withdraw. In truth, she longed to press even nearer his man's body, to lose herself in his arms, in his lust, in his power.
A vibration sang along her spine like the sounding of a harp string, humming in her ears, reverberating low in her belly, until it emerged on a moan from her throat.
He answered at once, a groan edged with animal heat, and her passion flared like dry boughs tossed onto flame, turning her to a burning pillar of longing. She needed… needed…
Him. His arms. His mouth. Closer.
With a stranger's hands, she clawed at his garments, willing them gone, whimpering against his mourn when they'd not obey her.
And then he caught her fists against his heaving chest, halting them, gasping as he grunted a warning. "Nay… you must not."
"But I want… I need…"
His hot breath seared her fingers. "Go now. Get away. Before I forget I am a gentleman."
But she was beyond caring. "Nay. I want… I want…" She knew what she wanted, but mere words could not express her desire. So she pulled her hands from his and rapidly began loosening the laces of her kirtle. It was a wicked thing, displaying her lust like a common tart, and yet no pang of regret afflicted her. When she had loosed her garment, she took his hand in both of hers and, kissing his palm, placed it where she wanted it most, upon the tingling curve of her bosom.
He gasped as if burned, but she held his hand there, thrilling to the sensation of the rough pads of his fingers upon her untried flesh.
"Lady, you know not what you do… what you…"
She slipped his hand further inside her bodice, sighing in pleasure at the way his fingers curved perfectly about her breast, as if they were made for such a thing.
"Ah, God…" he cried, and the hunger in his voice incited her to a fever pitch of longing.
She lunged against him, an
d his hand moved fully over her, his fingers brushing the sensitive peak. She drew in a sharp breath, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, so aching sweet was the sensation. Naught could possibly feel more divine, she thought.
Until he lowered his head, tickling the flesh of her bared shoulder with his thick mane, and closed his lips over the crest of her nipple.
Ryance knew better. He knew if he dared to taste her, if he dared slake his thirst, it would be his undoing. Yet her own reckless abandon, her wantonness, her encouragement, compelled him onward. So, despite dire misgivings, he knelt to take tender suckle from her, savoring her ambrosia on his starving tongue.
"Aye. Oh, aye," she groaned, firing his blood till he shook with an ecstasy of longing.
Her breast's twin was just as succulent, and she moaned softly as he took his pleasure there as well, laving the supple flesh and teasing the nipple to a stiff peak.
She tangled her fingers in his unruly locks, holding him to her, accepting him, and his heart soared even as his braies swelled to bursting.
"Oh, God…" Her sigh ruffled his hair. "Please…"
It was as if she spoke directly to that appendage rising betwixt his legs, for it responded as if it knew for what she begged. But here he had to intervene. Here he had to curb his animal desires and muster strength to prevent them both.
"We mustn't…"
"Please," she whispered.
"But my lady, I fear…"
Her fingers found his lips. "Do not fear. Do not speak. Only… please…"
His groan was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Lord, Hilaire hadn't even the words to ask for what she desired. She didn't even know her passion's name.
But that didn't stop her from demanding satisfaction. Or begging for it. She dropped to her knees before him and caught his gambeson in her fists. "Please."
He had to drag the words from the depths of his moral soul, from the heart of his chivalry, and they came from him as harshly as an arrow from a wound. "I… cannot."