Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “My lady?” he leaned lower with the question. His words were a whisper, and his face was close to her own.

  The promise of true panic rose within her mind.

  She didn’t want this . . . closeness.

  She didn’t want to be feeling what she was feeling, and sensing something frightening that lay in her soul. She felt slightly faint, slightly dizzy, and though she had challenged him by drinking so swiftly, and perhaps too much, it was not the ale. It was not that she longed to slam her fists against him, or that she hated him, and was afraid that he would touch her too long.

  It was something worse.

  She was trembling, and she was certain that he could feel it. And it seemed like forever since she had felt Afton’s fingers moving through her hair, felt a soft whisper against her cheek. Eric was horrible, surely, savage, a foe who had come and changed her life, and yet she didn’t want to think about his birth or background or his political passions. She knew, held against him as she was, what she had feared so desperately before. She was drawn to the breadth of his shoulders, the pulsing heat of his chest, the length of his fingers on her arm. She liked the rugged contours of his face, the sound of his voice, the strange adherence to principle he had shown. And most of all, though she had to fight it, she liked the fact that now, he was turned to her, touching her, with her . . .

  She liked being held. Breathing the scent of him. And she longed to feel a gentle touch. Not even a gentle touch. A hungry touch.

  The realization of just exactly what she was feeling washed over her like a sweeping wave of deep and shattering heat. He was . . . compelling. He was masculine, sensual. And the restless urge within her to challenge, argue, mock, and anger was because . . .

  She wouldn’t allow the words to form in her mind. And yet they did. And then the fury she felt with herself, and the horror, and the fear were suddenly overwhelming. And it was true: She had purposely set out to laugh with his men, charm them, shine within the music and dance, and all to make him see that she was not just a prize of war. And now . . .

  She wanted only to escape his nearness, and come to terms with herself.

  “I . . . yes!” she whispered, and now, the sound of her voice was desperate. Her words were faltering. “I mean no, I’ll go, but I need no escort, I require no assistance up the stairs. If we’ve a matter of interest to discuss, it has to be tomorrow. You mustn’t leave your celebration, not when you’ve proven yourself so perfectly heroic and you’re so pleased with the fruits of battle.” She saw in his eyes that her words were stirring anger in him. For once, she had not meant to do so. “I didn’t mean that, exactly. You should stay. You must stay. I can walk just fine. I’m going.”

  She broke free from his hold, and meant to make all haste to the stairs, and hurry up them, and do as she said—and pray through the night to forget that such feelings had ever swept through her heart and touched her senses.

  But as she turned, it was as if she was blinded. She ran past the table. Angus had sat, great legs stretched out before him. And once again that night, she tripped over his feet.

  Dangerously so, this time, in her haste. She catapulted up, and nearly fell on her face.

  Before she could fall, she was caught. She grasped desperately at the arms steadying her, lifted her face, and met Eric’s eyes once again. Before she could speak, she found herself lifted. Angus had risen, rueful, concerned, apologetic.

  “The lady is tired, I believe. And then again, perhaps she’s really enjoyed our celebration, and had a bit too much ale. She isn’t hurt, Angus, and don’t worry—I have her.”

  He strode for the stairs.

  And he did not know just how deeply she was hurt, not in the flesh, but in the soul. And now, she could not escape.

  Either from him . . .

  Or from herself.

  CHAPTER 14

  He wondered just what the hell he had been thinking, insisting she come down.

  She’d told him she wasn’t dressed.

  And that she was barefoot.

  But he knew many a man who fought without shoes, and her bare feet seemed no reason not to push the issue. Nor were they.

  But the nightdress. Natural linen. Sheer. Caught in the light of the fire. Not while she was seated at his side, but when she stood, when she took the lute, when she defied them all, and they applauded her anyway. When she blushed and laughed and looked so young and delighted, especially dancing with Jamie . . .

  He’d wanted to walk up to his own cousin and pummel him. There were things that he shared with his kin, and things he did not. Logic didn’t help. They were dancing, doing nothing more than dancing. The lady was learning highland steps, laughing, enjoying the ways of his people. He trusted Jamie with his life. Jamie was doing nothing wrong.

  He didn’t trust a word that fell from her lips.

  She was his captive. Captives weren’t to be trusted. She was his wife. Made so while bound and silenced in the confines of a sheet. He hadn’t wanted a wife.

  But he had always wanted this woman.

  And come to terms with it.

  He had married her. And what better function did a wife provide than appeasing the hungers that raged in mortal man? She thought herself so safe here. No cruelty in her prison. Just protection against other men, when he was so lost in the torment of his mind that he would reject what any other reasonable man would cajole, demand, seize . . .

  He tried to tell himself that the anger that drove him was completely irrational. He had been curt, tense, and determined in their moment together, he had barked out commands, and pushed her as far from him as he could. He had blamed her for what was not her fault.

  He was still furious. More tense than ever.

  He opened the door to her room with a slam of his foot against it that surely echoed down the hall.

  In his arms, she trembled. But when he gazed down, he saw that her eyes were on his, violet, dark, so dark, as dark as the mass of her hair. And they challenged, and hated, and yet . . .

  There was something else within them.

  “We are here. My cage,” she said, her voice tight and breathless. “You can set me down and lock me in and leave.”

  He set her down on the carpet before the fire. For a moment, her back was to him, her head was lowered. He gripped the mantel, staring at the gleaming dark tresses against the unbleached color of the gown, and felt a burning again, anger so deep that it amazed him he could still be so incensed.

  “What did you think you were doing?” His voice sounded deep and harsh to himself, like a roar across a battlefield.

  She spun around to face him, eyes wide, pure violet in the firelight. “What was I doing? Obeying every last command of the great, triumphant, warlord! You dragged me down to your celebration, and thus I came. You said I must drink, and so I drank. You ordered me to sing and so I sang.”

  “About ragged, savage barbarians.”

  “If you took such words to heart, it was not my intent, and therefore how you see yourself in your own mind—Sir.”

  She was ever quick, her words some of the sharpest blades he had come to know.

  “You posed before the fire in that gown. What were you hoping? That men would come to blows over the perfection of your person?”

  “Never!” she denied heatedly, fingers clenched tightly into fists at her sides. “You insisted that I rise!”

  “But you knew, my lady, you knew exactly what you were doing. Every man there could see every curve of your body, every intimate detail.” He paced from the mantel then, tearing at the brooch that held his tartan at his shoulder, and cast both aside as he strode back. He took the chair at her writing desk, pulling his boots from his feet. “And, madam, the way that you danced!”

  “They are your dances.”

  “Your smiles, your laughter, your tête-à-têtes!”

  “I was never ordered to be rude,” she challenged, but she had turned again to watch him as he sat, now barefoot, boots and hose cast aside.
He nearly ripped his shirt over his head, and threw it with a vengeance on top of his boots.

  “Like any little strumpet, you were down there teasing and provoking.”

  “I was down there, forced to celebrate your prowess at bloodshed,” she countered with swift wrath, but then her voice faltered as she at last demanded, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you leaving?”

  He remained seated, feeling the blaze from the fire radiate over his face, his bare chest and shoulders. “That should be obvious,” he said flatly. “I am not leaving tonight.”

  She remained where she stood, as if frozen, not betraying the least sign of emotion.

  He had expected screams of rage, denial, fury. He had been ready to deal with them.

  But she just stood, delicate, perfectly cast face pale in the night, eyes unfaltering, the rich ribbons of hair gleaming like ravens’ wings over and around her shoulders.

  “What?” he inquired. “Is that it? You intend just to stand there.”

  She took a moment to answer, then lifted her hands in a fatal gesture. “Is there some weapon your men might have missed in this room? A sharply honed knife I could stab into your heart? I am supposed to throw myself from the window?”

  “No,” he said simply.

  And still, he watched her. And still, the fire burned. And it was as he had said. The blaze created light and shadow of her gown. The delicate lace enhanced the hollow of her throat, decorated the fragile structure of her collarbones. Her breasts were full and firm, and if the fire didn’t give all away, he already knew the rouge color of her nipples. Deep shadow fell against her tiny waist, and light again found the flare of her hips. Even the ebony secrets at the apex of her thighs were visible in his mind’s eye, if not in truth.

  “Well?” he murmured quietly to her, still studying the woman before the fire.

  And by watching, he saw more and more. She was not so very still. She was trembling like a leaf borne on the wind. The fire, the night, or perhaps his gaze upon her was creating other telltale signs. The peaks of her breast were perfectly, clearly visible, hardened to little pebble-like nubs of temptation. Her nails had curled into her palms, and were all but piercing her own flesh.

  “What?” she lashed out. “Am I to come to you? Don’t you think, my lord, that would be asking... demanding . . . far too much?”

  The anger fled from him.

  “Aye,” he said softly. “Aye, it would be.”

  He rose, and walked to the place where she stood. Her head was bowed slightly, her eyes were fallen, and the ebony spikes of her lashes shadowed her cheeks. He didn’t force her to lift her hair, but swept the thick richness from her shoulder and pressed his lips against the silk of her flesh, first there, and then against the length of her throat. His mouth came against the rampant pulse that beat there, and it was then that he caught her chin, and raised her face to his kiss. There was the briefest moment when he touched upon her lips when they were pursed, cold and tight. Then they gave, parted to him. He tasted the sweetness within the recesses of her mouth, delved and pressed and demanded, and as he did so, a pulse, a pounding began within his head and his groin, and he pursued his purpose with a deep, urgent passion. His fingers threaded into the thickness of her hair, cradled her skull. She didn’t deny the pressure of his lips, yet neither did she participate as she allowed the liquid sweep and plumbing of his tongue. Yet he felt the drum of the hearbeat within her. Her hands came to rest upon his shoulders, tentatively, then a bit desperately, as if she struggled to stand. He realized in a haze of raw desire that she was aroused, that she wanted, wanted him. But he knew her, and knew that a will of steel was keeping her aloof.

  He brought his palm against her cheek. Stroked it with his knuckles, and allowed his hand to caress downward until his fingers moved over the ties in the field of lace upon the gown. The thin fabric slid from her shoulders in a slow cascade, and all the perfection to be found was his. If she had lost her last vestige of defense, she didn’t seem to know it. She trembled, the touch of her fingers upon his shoulders more desperate, the tips of her nails curving into his flesh.

  He lifted his lips from hers. Her eyes remained closed, her mouth parted and damp. His hand curved first around her breast, dark against the paleness of the flesh. He lowered his head, tongue laving around the crest, then mouth affixing upon the fullness of it. A sound escaped her at that, and he fought the raging buildup in the erection straining against his breeches. He tasted the sweetness of each breast, then lowered himself, blond hair brushing against the dampness of tongue-swept flesh as he delved lower and lower.

  “Don’t . . . don’t . . . I will fall,” she said in a strangled whisper.

  “No, you will not,” he told her.

  In the end, she did. But not until he had stripped away the last of her pretense. His hand spanned the slender circle of her waist, slipped down to her hips, and his head lowered still. He steadied her, listening to the wracked breathing that escaped her lips, felt the quiver become a deeper tremble. He cupped the round of her buttocks, drawing her tightly against him, drew his fingers in a slow, destined caress from her calf to her upper thighs, and then between. Her scent was intoxicating, her taste an aphrodisiac that raged within the senses, and made a man mad. And still, he fought the hunger that had become a burning anguish, and stroked with touch and tongue through to the most intimate petals of her body, nestled in a sea of tight ebony curls as soft and luxurious and damp as liquid silk.

  Her knees did buckle and give and she fell against him, a cry tearing from her lips. When he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, she kept her eyes closed. He paused above her for a moment, despite the now desperate state of need that was like thunder with him, wracking him from head to toe. But then he untied the breeches in silence, allowing her the denial in the lashes swept so thickly over her cheeks. When he slid his weight between her thighs, her arms curled around his neck. A gasp escaped her, and at last, her eyes flew open as he thrust fully into her. She closed them again, tightly, yet her hands remained clutched to his back, her arms around his shoulders, and when he moved, she moved with him, and in moments she was arching and straining to meet him. Her hips hiked suddenly and tightly about his; she writhed, arched, and went still. He heard the breath go out of her lungs, then something like a sob that she was not quite able to catch at the back of her throat. And again, as she drifted downward, he felt a trembling beneath the damp ivory of her flesh. He was free to unleash the tempest. Tension filled his body, every muscle within him taut and constricted. Thunder pounded fiercely, through his head, his groin, and every limb, until it seemed that a lightning strike ripped through the storm, and his climax seemed to rip through him with the power of the wind.

  He eased his weight from her, and lay beside her. She curled away from him, and he was left with her back, and her tangled hair, like a cloak of darkness, swamping over his chest.

  “Igrainia.”

  He didn’t know himself why his voice sounded so harsh.

  “If you’ve any mercy in you whatsoever, you will not make me talk now!” she whispered.

  “Then don’t turn away from me.”

  She stiffened, then turned back. He drew her into his arms, against his chest.

  And she did not fight him.

  She had a dream in the night. It was warm, seductive, entirely sensual, and sexual to a point where it seemed she would crawl from her own skin. Sheer wonder, ecstasy, and pleasure. She felt kisses against her flesh, her shoulders, spine, buttocks, hips, and her lips . . . and she was kissing back, wildly, unable to get enough of the lips that formed over her own, taste enough, delve . . . fill that mouth, as it filled her own.

  And all the while, she knew that the dream was real, and though the fire had burned low, and the darkness was deep, she knew as well the man, the gold of his hair by day, and the breadth of the chest so thickly matted with crisp blond curls. She knew the whisper against her lips, her cheeks, her flesh, yet the words were a bl
ur. And she knew that she responded to every touch with a rampant fever of her own. She had wanted . . . ached . . . needed . . . wanted . . .

  And she had gotten.

  And still . . .

  She was grateful for the darkness.

  And the sleep that came to close the door against the gnawing guilt that lay in her heart.

  He lay awake when she opened her eyes, startled by the sunlight. He was on his back, his head rested against his bent arm as he stared across the room.

  “What is that?” he demanded, aware that she had wakened, and staring at the crest she had so painstakingly designed. He leaped out of the bed in a sudden surge of energy, going to stand by the wall.

  He reached out, as if he would take her handiwork, and throw it in the fire.

  “It’s mine!” she cried out quickly, and when he turned to her she quickly added, “Mine! The house of Abelard. My family name,” she continued softly. And she forced a word from her lips. “Please . . . it is just . . . mine.”

  “All right,” he said after a moment. “Yours stays . . . as does mine.”

  She bit lightly into her lower lip. This wasn’t the conversation she had expected to have this morning.

  He strode across the room for his breeches, drew them on, tied them. Igrainia lay back down, drawing the covers around her, turning as if she would sleep again. She felt his weight as he sat on the bed. He caught her shoulder, drawing her back to him.

  “I told you there was a matter we have to discuss.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “There is nothing to discuss.”

  He arched a brow, then a small smile curled his lips. “I wasn’t referring to the events of last night.”

  “Oh.” If possible, her cheeks burned more brightly.