Dabbing gently at the blood smears, he was glad to see the cut to her head was fairly small and already healing. Studiously cleaning the laceration, he recognised that it was about as clean as it was going to get and he would have to remove her dress. Alice showed no sign of returning and he doubted she was planning to any time soon.
First he pulled off her battered slippers, gritting his teeth as he noted the scratches on her delicate feet and wishing he could run those Frenchmen through a second time. Had she been scared? Or did she know he would come for her? She showed little fear when he came upon them and her swordsmanship had astounded him. Still, these were thoughts for later. Now, he had to concentrate on the task at hand.
His hands trembled as he pulled gently at the lacings on the side of her bliaut and he felt the tingle of sweat beading on his forehead. God’s blood, was he really behaving like some whelp who had never seen a woman’s body before?
Gently pulling the gown over her hips and stomach, he strove to keep his eyes averted as his fingers brushed against the side of her breasts. Though she worse a chemise underneath, the material was thin enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin through it. As he finally freed her from the sullied material, she moaned and he looked at her with a start, praying he had not woken her. Her eyes remained firmly shut and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Of their own accord, his eyes drifted over her lithe body. While the white, embroidered chemise covered every part of her, the material could not hide the curves that lay underneath and her rosy nipples stood out in stark contrast to the pale fabric. He wondered what they would feel like pressed against his palm and he itched to draw them into his mouth and watch her reaction.
He was convinced she would respond with the same fire as she had to his kiss, but he knew he had caught her in an unguarded moment, the exhilaration of survival spurring on her impulsive action. He wondered how things would have continued if they had not been interrupted.
As Tristan pulled the sheets out from under her to tuck her in, her chemise rode up, revealing bruises on her thighs.
Fingerprints.
Nausea struck him when he realised the significance of them. Dear God, what kind of a brute was he, lusting over her when she had just been attacked in such a manner? How far had the Frenchman got before he had arrived, he wondered.
Shame and anger boiled within him and he hastily finished drawing the sheets over her before pushing past a befuddled Alice, sickness churning in his stomach.
Chapter 7
“Madeline, will you walk with me?”
Her first instinct was to decline. She was still mortified by her reaction to Tristan yesterday, acting with such wanton abandon. It was so unlike her. Madeline considered herself practically emotionless. Her years away, the anger and sorrow she had nurtured, had stolen all feeling from her. But one look from him and a barrage of emotions consumed her. He was steadily breaking through her resolve and it frightened her.
Her head pounded and she was still tired, though not from her ordeal. The memory of his hot kisses, his firm body moulded to hers, had plagued her throughout the night, the power of it so unanticipated. She almost wished for the blissful ignorance of not knowing what his mouth felt like upon hers. At least she could have been able to view him with detachment more easily. Well, as best she could, she conceded, for since her return there was not a moment when his male beauty didn’t rob her of her breath.
Tristan must have sensed her reluctance, as hurt flickered in his expression. Though she intended to avoid any emotional entanglement with him, or anyone for that matter, she did not wish to cause him pain. She had become acutely aware of the anguish she had caused, though she suspected a lot of Tristan’s pain was borne of guilt. His protective nature ran deep and his inability to protect her probably ate away at him.
Nevertheless, in attempt to appease him, she agreed to join him.
They strolled out of the village and across the grassy bank that surrounded much of the village, allowing a view of the small thatched houses and the modest manor house sat to one side. The terrain rolled gently, dipping like the waves of the ocean, and soon they could no longer see the fief.
Walking in silence for the most part, Tristan took the opportunity to study Madeline as she walked a pace or so ahead of him, most likely deliberately trying to avoid him. She wore a pale blue coloured gown, more fitted than most of her garments, which served to emphasise the slender waist that she had kept hidden most of the time. Her breasts swelled above the dress, the creamy skin drawing his gaze whenever she turned to check his progress. The image of her lean legs wrapped about his hips, assailed him until he remembered the marks that marred them.
Tormented by the sight of her bruises, he had barely slept and he desperately needed to know if she had been dishonoured in any way. He didn’t doubt she would bare it as stoically as she bore all her ills, but if he could help her, convince her that it mattered naught to him, then he would.
There was also his mystification at her swordsmanship. The aggressive warrior woman who had slain those men was a far cry from the sweet, young girl he had known. Which begged the question, what else did he not know about her? Was there aught of that girl left? He itched to find out and was determined that today he would learn her secrets, learn what had caused such a change.
Though he promised himself he would control it, their impassioned kiss did naught to dissipate his hunger for her, instead spurring it onto new heights, plaguing him every moment of the day. This courageous woman stirred him beyond all reason. She may not be the girl he once knew but he had no doubt he wanted her still. Forever.
“Are you well?”
Madeline stopped her brisk pace and turned, well aware she had been marching on ahead, fearful of his questioning eyes, fearful of her reaction to him.
“I am quite recovered.”
“Your head gives you no pain?”
Tristan moved towards her, reaching out as if to put a hand to her injury. Swiftly turning from his touch, she shook her head. “Nay, I am in good health.”
“What about…” he trailed off uncomfortably.
“Aye?”
He shifted. “Did they hurt you in any other way?” His gaze dropped to her skirts and she realised he was referring to the attempts made on her.
“Nay,” She smiled to reassure him, “He did not get far before you arrived.”
He gave a sigh of relief. “Then will you forgive my actions yesterday?”
She frowned. Why should she need to forgive him? “Your actions..? Tristan-”
“I meant the kiss.” He glanced at her uneasily. “‘Twas not the honourable thing to do after your experience at the hands of those ruffians, and for that I am deeply sorry.”
Shaking her head, she smiled lightly at him. It had not even occurred to her he should feel guilty for his affections. The actions of the Frenchman had barely lingered in her mind, quickly erased by the memory of his passionate kiss. Though she tried to push it from her mind, it endured, resurfacing with every moment spent in his company.
“There is naught to forgive.” Much as she wanted to forget the kiss, she knew how much his honour meant to him and she would not have him punishing himself.
Tristan looked at her doubtfully.
“The Frenchman’s deeds do not trouble me, Tristan. I was only grateful that you arrived in time and I vow to you, you did not cause me grief.”
He considered her, his anguish still clear in his expression. “Did you suffer my attentions through gratitude?”
Madeline held back a frustrated sigh, wishing he would forget the subject, but she knew he was intent on marking himself as the wrongdoer in this tale. “Nay, Tristan! I kissed you because I wanted to. ‘Twas a mistake, but I wanted to!”
Startled by her sudden outburst, he gaped at her. “You wanted to?” he said with a quick grin.
Throwing her hands in the air with a quiet scream of exasperation, she collected her skirts and continued up the mou
nd. She slowed as she reached the top, suddenly recognising where they were.
Tristan came up behind her. “I will forever look upon this tree as ours.”
Madeline viewed the tree with sadness. It was the tree that Tristan had asked for her hand under. Moving towards it, she rested her hand upon the bark as if she could absorb some of the happiness she had felt that day.
“What happened all those years ago? Where have you been, Madeline?”
Madeline remained silent for a moment, wondering whether to share her tale or not. If anyone deserved to know it was Tristan. If he was to be believed, he had spent many years torturing himself with guilt and it was only fair.
“When my father took me, he had me imprisoned in a castle in Nottingham. I could not even tell you where it was. When you did not…you know…” she stopped, his remorse marked clearly in his eyes. “I escaped the castle and I wandered. I’m not sure how far or for how long.”
“‘Tis a miracle you came to no harm.”
“Aye, ‘tis that.” She glanced at him and, with a sigh, continued on with her story, “I reached a small village and the Lady of the Manor took notice of me. ‘Twas but a small fief and strangers were rarely seen. She stopped and asked me if I needed aid. She was not much older than I yet she spoke with such kindness that I wept and told her all.”
Tristan viewed her with sadness and she looked down, unable to bear his pity and with that, his guilt.
“Her name was Marian. She was a beautiful, vibrant woman and I was captivated by her. She took me in and gave me food and board…‘just until I had a plan’ she told me.” Madeline gave a half smile at the memory. “I could not stay there forever so I decided to go to Wales.”
“Wales?” He looked at her in puzzlement.
“My mother had a sister who married a Welsh Baron. I did not know if she would even take me in for I had never met her but I hoped for the sakes of my mother’s memory she would. I knew ‘twould be a long and perilous journey, but Marian said she could find men who could accompany me and offer me protection.”
Tristan looked horrified at the thought of her travelling with a company of men but he kept quiet, waiting for her to continue.
Madeline noticed his look and grinned. “They were good men who would work for a fair price. Most were outlawed by the Sherriff for menial crimes; such was the state of the county at that time. Marian knew the leader well for they were once betrothed and she assured me I would be perfectly safe.”
Reaching up to snatch a leaf, she began shredding it with her fingers, allowing her to look anywhere other than Tristan.
“So we journeyed across the country until we reached Wales and sought out my aunt. Thankfully, I am the very image of my mother and she recognised me straight away. She never liked my father and agreed to keep my whereabouts a secret.” She finally met his gaze with a wry smile. “So there you have it, ‘tis no great adventure, but that is my tale of woe.”
Her time in Wales had been solitary and her aunt was a stern character. While Madeline had cherished everything that she had taught her, and would forever be grateful for her aunt’s hospitality, she recognised that she had never been able to give her the love that she had so desperately craved as a child.
A slight frown of dissatisfaction marred his brow as he considered her and all that she had revealed. “And how do you account for your newly acquired skills? When you left you were naught but a young noble woman. Yet, yesterday you used your blade with great skill.”
“Much of it I learnt on our journey to Wales. ‘Twas long and tiresome and, with little to entertain the men helped me learn swordsmanship. I even became a fair archer. ‘Twas beneficial to them to know I could defend myself. Upon my arrival in Wales, I continued to master the skill with the support of my aunt. The lands surrounding their keep were wild and dangerous so ‘twas a useful skill to have.”
Moving towards her, he plucked the torn leaf from her hand and looked at her with a curious smile. “So now you are a warrior…”
Letting out a depreciating laugh, she shook her head. “Nay, but I am changed, Tristan, as I have tried to make you understand. I am not the girl you once pledged your love to.”
“You are not, that much is true. But I desire you no less.”
Madeline blinked at him as he edged forwards. “I do not hold you to your oath, Tristan. You are not honour-bound to love me.”
He moved closer yet again and panic began to bubble up inside of her.
“Tristan, you owe me naught. No pity, nor warm words or actions.”
“Madeline…” he murmured.
He towered over her, a bronzed God, highlighted by the bright midday sun. His hair gleamed as if each strand had been fashioned of gold and the azure of his eyes burnt into her, brighter than the clear summer sky.
Her heart hammered in her chest, yet she was not afraid. Indeed, he looked more like a warrior now than he ever had, the fierce lines of his brow, the breadth of his torso, all adding to his look of male dominance. But Madeline knew Tristan, knew the kind heart that lay beneath.
How then could she explain the intensity in those eyes? The simple sweetness that used to lie within them was a thing of the past and the look he gave her now could surely account for the restriction in her chest.
Madeline found her back pressed against the bark of the tree, its rough texture grating at her skin through her thin gown. Yet she felt not a thing, a strange sense of numbness coming over her as her thoughts became consumed with only one thing.
Tristan.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand met hers, his fingertips dancing across hers, as he wound their fingers together. Powerless to resist, all coherent thoughts gone just as soon as he had locked eyes with her, her fingers played back, grasping the roughened skin. His other hand met hers, softness against hardness, and bound together as they both watched, captivated by the twisting union.
Tristan leant in to her and his hands, still entwined with hers, reached up until the back of her hands were pressed against the tree above her head. Tilting her head to meet his gaze, she found her breath robbed from her as his lips hovered achingly close to hers. Gone was Tristan the rescuer, the friend, the protector. His eyes reflected burning desire, a look she did not doubt she shared.
“Do you still think me honour bound to you?” he whispered as his lips skimmed across her ear. “I assure you, Madeline, what I feel now has little to do with honour.”
Unable to respond, she could only gasp as his hot lips pressed against her neck. Her hands still pinned above her head, she could do little to resist even if she had wanted to. His mouth traced its way across her jawline, finally slanting across her mouth, satisfying and yet stoking the unbearable ache deep within her.
Tristan’s warm lips on hers were enough to set her knees trembling and Madeline feared they would give way entirely when his tongue touched hers. Her body reacted of its own accord, her mouth opening to his, her breasts pushing up against his battle honed frame. A groan rumbled from deep in his throat and finally releasing her hands, he grabbed at her waist, crushing her to him.
Now her hands were freed, they wound themselves up around his shoulders, gripping at the muscles of his back as they rippled under her hands. His arousal pressed against the juncture of her thighs, hard and intimidating, but still her hips thrust to meet it, a deep seated instinctive reflex.
His thumbs dug into her ribs as his hands gripped at her, while his mouth worked from her swollen lips, down her neck, to land at her collar bone. He tugged at the neckline of her gown, wresting a frustrated growl from him when it would not give way. Turning her around, she found herself pressed against the tree once more as he slowly loosened her laces.
Shudders coursed through her at the feel of moist breath on the back of her neck as he swept aside her hair. Callused hands brushed at the tender skin as he slowly revealed her back, pressing soft kisses to each newly revealed bit of flesh.
The laces now loose, he let her gown gape o
pen, the light breeze tickling the exposed skin. As he pushed the fabric from her shoulder, he laid a searing kiss upon it, warm and wet, while his other hand worked its way around to the front of her bliaut, moulding and cupping at her breast through the fabric.
His name fell from her lips in a whisper and in a sudden movement he pushed her gown down her arms, before twirling her around to face him.
“I beg of you, if you do not wish this then say it now.”
Madeline could say naught, only mourn the loss of his lips upon her skin and realise that, once again, the honour bound Tristan had returned, forever trying to protect her. When would he realise that she no longer needed his protection? She looked at him boldly as he awaited her answer, his hands clutched at his side in restraint.
Slipping off her shoes, she eyed him brazenly. With slow, deliberate movements, she pulled her gown from just above her breasts, the fabric brushing against her tender nipples. Heart pounding, courage filled her as she observed Tristan’s awe stricken expression, and her dress pooled at her feet.
Tristan regarded her exposed form with reverence, almost unable to believe what he beheld. Madeline’s creamy figure, so achingly perfect, beckoned to him while she looked upon him fearlessly. The slight shudder of her chest betrayed her trepidation as he cast his eyes over her, absorbing every part. Her legs and arms were well muscled but she retained her femininity, the sweet swell of her hips begging for his grasp, and the proud thrust of her breasts almost brought him to his knees.
Taking a step towards her, a cry fell from her lips as she closed the gap and clung to his neck. His hands connected with her silken flesh, the sensation more exquisite than he ever thought it would be. For so long now he had imagined what his life would have been like if he had not left – if he had done as he had promised and married her - but never in his wildest imaginings did he envisage her growing into this extraordinary creature.
Their mouths met in an unyielding kiss, demanding and urgent as theirs tongues united, his hands clamping around her back, stroking and kneading her skin. Madeline’s impatient hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his back so her hands could return the favour. Her delicate fingers stroked fervently across his skin, exploring every ridge, every scar.
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 8