Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  Her tiny flame lit only the circle around her, leaving the far end of passageway in blackness. She hesitated, certain that what she was doing was not right, but hoping that if she saw him just for a moment, she’d be able to sleep. Careful that she made no noise to echo in the stone hall, she set out and found her way to the darkened solar and over to the grillwork where she could see into the hall below.

  He was the only one awake, a solitary figure that sat staring into the fire. He’d said he slept fitfully, but as she watched his fingers work a length of rope, tying and untying knots like the sailors that worked her father’s ships, she couldn’t help but wonder if his wakefulness tonight was related to her own.

  After a time, he laid aside the rope and stretched his long legs toward the hearth, much as he had done that night at Richmond. Eleanor smiled at the sight. She couldn’t remember now what had drawn her to approach him that first evening, whether it was mere childish whim or some deeper augury, but now, standing here in the dark and looking back from a distance of years, it seemed she could have done nothing else.

  The wind howled louder, raising drafts that sent shivers down Eleanor’s back and set the candle flame dancing. Below, the shadow of the screen rippled and wavered against the far wall. Gunnar’s head jerked up to stare.

  With a start, Eleanor pinched out the flame, but it was too late. He’d seen it. He shot to his feet and spun, looking straight at her through the darkened screen. He knew it was she, she was certain of it, and that certainty was confirmed as he started across the hall. A moment later, his boots sounded on the stairs.

  And then he was there, a phantom in the darkness, and even in the thin light that seeped through the grill from below, she could see the desire that glittered in his eyes.

  Aye, he wanted her.

  She shouldn’t be here. She should go. But her belly tightened with anticipation, and she could do nothing but meet his eyes, his desire, with her own. She ran into his arms.

  Gunnar caught her up and spun her back against the wall, his mouth covering her gasp of shock before it broke the silence. His tongue plunged into her open mouth and found hers. She’d never been kissed like that, devoured like that, but it seemed the most natural thing to devour him in turn, to challenge and parry and lick and suck like he did. His responding groan was a bare exhalation, almost without sound, but it set her blood pounding through her body so hot it drove away every sense of modesty along with the chill. Heated to the very core, she moved restlessly against him.

  Somewhere far away, a door hinge squealed. Gunnar broke away, lifted his head, then put his lips by her ear. “Someone comes. You must go.”

  She cocked her head to listen, heard the door shut and the distant footfalls coming from the direction of the kitchen. No, not now.

  “No time.” She grabbed Gunnar’s hand and led him across the solar into the retiring room, where they ducked behind the draperies that covered a hidden niche beside the window. Pressed together there in the dark, they listened to the footsteps enter and scuffle closer. Eleanor held her breath as a stripe of torchlight grazed their toes beneath the draperies. If they were caught, her father would have Gunnar’s head on a pike. But the watchman, whoever he was, turned. He continued on his rounds and the light dwindled away.

  As his footsteps faded into the distance, she started to part the draperies to leave, ready to forego this dangerous liaison, but Gunnar tugged on her hand, wordlessly pulling her back to him. In the blackness, he had to trace up her arms to find her face. He cupped her head and held her still, one thumb beneath her chin as he carefully lowered his mouth to hers.

  This time his kiss was more careful, the exploration of his tongue slower. It was his hands that plundered her now, tracing over her boldly in the dark, down over her arms, breasts, belly, hips, and finally around to cup her bottom and pull her against him. She felt a leap of hardness against her where they touched and that was enough to plunge her back into the heat. It was she who pulled him back toward the wall.

  There against its support, their hands and mouths were free to do their worst. The dark made their mutual assault both more difficult and more delicious, heightening every touch and taste. He taught her how to use it by example, trailing kisses everywhere, molding curves and planes with his palms, and silently encouraging her to do the same.

  She’d touched him a little earlier, as she’d seen to his clothes, but not like this, not at leisure and with such awareness. His muscles were bulky but lean under her hands, his chest as hard as stone, and she knew that beneath his clothes, his skin must surely be as fevered as her own. Wanting to know, she slipped her hands up beneath his cote and found the gap between his doublet and hose. Flattening her hands over the narrow band of skin, she felt the heat that poured off him, sensed the quiver beneath her palms, and knew both the power she had and how badly she wanted that skin against her own.

  He let her explore that small territory while he turned his attention to her breasts, slowly circling them with fingertips before he cupped them and dragged his thumbs over the peaks. She shuddered with the pleasure of it and pushed toward him. He pressed her back with one hand and held her while he kissed his way down her neck once more, then farther, past the neck of her chemise, to find the breast he still cupped. His lips closed over her nipple through the linen.

  The flame that roared through her turned want into need. Her fingers clenched mindlessly, digging into his sides, and she lifted her hips toward him, searching for relief from that terrible, empty ache between her legs. With a barely audible growl, he drew her nipple into his mouth hard, his tongue working the tip through the thin cloth until she had to press her lips together to hold back a cry.

  He shifted, forcing a knee between hers and lifting so she straddled him, his thigh hard against the place where she ached. The breath caught in her lungs, and she thought to say stop, but before she could, he shifted his hands to her hips and dragged her forward over his thigh. Every thought of stopping him vanished in the realization that this, this was what her body cried for.

  His broad hands guided her, showing her the rhythm until she found it for herself. As she ground against him, searching for the perfect motion, the perfect pressure, the perfect end, his hands busied themselves with something else. And then they were on her, not through cloth, but skin to skin, her gown up around her waist, his palms on her belly.

  She gasped, and he silenced her again, his tongue plunging into her mouth in the same perfect rhythm as her hips had discovered. One hand moved slowly lower, brushed through her woman’s hair, then slid lower still, until his fingers slipped between his thigh and her quaint. Ah, yes. She recognized the touch, his intent, and moved to welcome him, the need worse than ever. Hanging on the edge of the unknown, she adjusted a little, putting his fingers to the exact spot, and thrust at him. Wanting. Close.

  A footstep echoed somewhere beyond the draperies, the guard coming back through the solar, and the sound, the knowledge they could be caught, tripped her over the edge. Pleasure flashed through her like lightning and shattered her. The steps and light neared, sending her deeper into the spasms. A moan gathered at the back of her throat. She fought to hold it back, the struggle making her body quake harder. Gunnar quickly covered her mouth with his and curled his body around her protectively, holding her together as she shook.

  By the time her senses came back to her, the guard was long gone. Gunnar still held her close, his hand curved possessively between her legs, his fingers moving in tiny, lazy circles that sent the last shocks of completion through her. He kissed her forehead, and she could feel the smile that curved his lips and raised a hand to trace it with her fingertips. A full smile, this time. She wanted to see it.

  And she wanted to return the pleasure he’d given her. She stroked his cheek as she moved her other hand, still at the edge of his doublet, to tug at the end of one lace. It came free and she moved to the next. Something bumped her wrist in the dark. She jerked away, then realized it was his
member, swelling and bobbing against the loosened cloth. She tentatively reached out, cupped him as he still cupped her, felt his deep sigh against her temple.

  He entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her hand away.

  She rose up on her toes to kiss him, using her tongue the way he’d taught her to show him how much she wanted to do this for him. The wind rattled at the shutters, now carrying with it, thin and high, the rooster’s first crow, warning of a still-distant dawn. There was time. She reached for his laces.

  This time, Gunnar’s fingers bit into her wrist. “Stop,” he whispered against her ear. “I must go.”

  “But—”

  “I must. I’m sorry.” He pushed the draperies open a crack and listened, and he was gone, like that, across the retiring room, out into the solar and down the stairs before she could even protest.

  She stood there, mouth agape, stung that he could leave her like that, not understanding at all. She started after him, but he was already below, so she stood at the screen, angry and disappointed, and watched him gather his things. He looked up at her, just as he had earlier, and for a moment she thought he was coming back to her.

  Then abruptly he whirled away and strode toward the door. As he pushed it open, another cock’s crow blew in on the wind. Gunnar stood there a moment, tension radiating from his body as he battled something within himself.

  She understood, then. He was protecting both of them by going off to do his odd business, whatever it was. If he didn’t, the guard on the gate would note the change, talk might spread. Lucy might realize she’d left the bed.

  If he turned back, they would both be lost.

  So before he could lose his will, she snatched the candle stub from the table where she’d left it and ran, plunging into the dark hallway, only slowing when the faraway thud of the closing door told her he had gone.

  Her heart pounded like a drum in her ears as she groped her way back to her room. Lucy still snored, thank the saints. Eleanor dropped the candle back into the basket with the other stubs, shed her robe, and slipped back into bed, grateful that no one would know she’d ever been gone, ever done anything so wonderful, so foolish, so utterly sinful. As the cock crowed again, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, knowing she’d made a terrible mistake and trying to ignore the soft, wicked voice that whispered that the mistake had been not in going, but in waiting so late to do it.

  CHAPTER 7

  “WHAT THAPPENED TO my riband?”

  Lucy glanced up from the veil she was pinning into shape. “Is it caught in your gown?”

  Holding the end of one braid, Eleanor twisted to look. “I don’t see it, and this side is half undone already. Come and help me.”

  Lucy left the veil and went over to shake out Eleanor’s skirts. “It must have fallen off earlier. I will retrace our steps.”

  “Later. See if you can fix this.”

  Lucy inspected the intricate arrangement of interlaced braids that cradled her cousin’s head. “I’m not certain I can. Miriam did something different today, and I’m not certain where the plaits start and stop.”

  “Try, before they come out entirely.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Lucy fetched a spare length of riband from the basket and, draping it over her shoulder, started trying to sort out one braid from the next as Eleanor jounced up and down, the way she was wont to do when she was happy. Unfortunately, Lucy suspected why she jounced, and it wasn’t good. “I am going to undo a bit more. ’Twould be easier if you would stand still.”

  “I’m sorry. I shall try.” Eleanor settled on her heels.

  Lucy separated the various strands between her fingers and started rebraiding them. It seemed to go together correctly, but when she compared the results to the other side, the pattern didn’t match. With Lady Eleanor beginning to jounce again, Lucy undid things and started again, tugging a strand to one side then the other without result. “This makes no sense.”

  “Then tie it off and fetch Miriam. The horn is about to blow for supper.”

  “And you are about to be married.” Lucy clapped her mouth shut. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

  The braid flew out of Lucy’s grasp as her cousin whirled on her. “Stop. We will not do this again.”

  Foolish, but now it was begun, she may as well finish. “I think we must, my lady, and that we must do it until you hear me. You and Sir Gunnar cannot …” Lucy stopped, hesitant to put a name to what she suspected. She wasn’t sure if the fuzzy recollection of her cousin crawling over her into bed sometime near dawn was real or a dream. “Does he know you are promised elsewhere?”

  Eleanor flushed. “The subject has not arisen.”

  “Then you must raise it.”

  “But he’ll … He won’t.” Eleanor took a deep breath and started afresh. “He is an honorable man and he—”

  “How do you know?” demanded Lucy.

  “What?”

  “How do you know he is honorable?”

  “He saved us from the fire.”

  “And I am as grateful as you for that. But that proves only that he has courage, not honor. How do you know he is honorable?”

  “Because I do.” Eleanor touched the pit of her stomach. “Because when I look into his eyes, I feel it here.”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow. “An odd place to feel someone else’s honor. And so to salute his honor, you lie to him?”

  “I have not lied.”

  “A truth untold is as good as a lie.”

  “You sound like a priest.” Eleanor made a sour face.

  “I fear you need a priest,” said Lucy. “And if I were wise, I would summon one. Why have you not told Sir Gunnar you are betrothed?”

  “Because if he knew, he would do the honorable thing and ride away.” Eleanor stared past Lucy’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on some private vision. “I don’t want him to ride away. Not unless it is with me.”

  “Surely you don’t still imagine …” Lucy’s voice trailed off in disbelief as she sank down onto the bed. “That was a phantasm even four years ago. Now it is dangerous folly. If you ride off with him, your father will hunt you down and have Sir Gunnar drawn and quartered before your eyes.”

  “No.” Eleanor pressed her hands to her temples and shook her head, denying the bloody image. “No he won’t. Not if he gives us leave to marry first.”

  “God’s toes. You are mad! The earl will never let you wed him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s poor.”

  “He has land in Lesbury. My father has picked men as low for his other daughters.”

  “Not those from your lady mother. He wants you married well. To Lord Burghersh.”

  “Well, Lesbury is here and Burghersh isn’t. Richard could have come for me three years ago when he was made lord, yet here I sit, still unwed. He wants me as little as I want him, and my father grows impatient with both of us. When Sir Gunnar asks for my hand, he will say yes, just to be rid of me at last.”

  “If Sir Gunnar asks for you.”

  “He will.”

  “How do you know?” Lucy cut off the answer with a wave of her hand. “Never mind. I know, you ‘feel’ it. Well, whatever Sir Gunnar wants, you must tell him about Lord Burghersh. Else I will.”

  “You cannot. Please, Lucy.” Agitated, Eleanor paced back and forth across the room, chewing on her lip. “I will tell him in time, but I want him to grow fond of me first, so he is ready to ask for me.”

  “And what if he doesn’t? What if you are mistaken and all he wants is to bed you?”

  “He doesn’t.” Eleanor blushed deep red. “But if he did, then I would change his mind.”

  “Every maid who ever spread her legs to a passing knight has thought the same thing.”

  Eleanor went redder yet. Lucy’s stomach twisted. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream. She was going to have to try to sleep more lightly.

  “You cannot tell me this is wrong, Lucy. I knew even at Richmond that I preferred Sir Gunnar o
ver Richard, and as soon as I saw him take that bow after he was knocked over in the mêlée, I knew I still do. He has such a good humor to him. Can you imagine Richard able to mock his own loss of dignity so easily? Or that in mocking dignity lost, he could ever regain it?”

  Staring up at a cobweb that waved lazily from a beam, Lucy debated what answer to give. She hadn’t intended the conversation to go this way at all.

  “Well, can you?” Eleanor prodded.

  Lucy sighed. “If I am going to insist you tell the truth, I suppose I am obliged to do the same.”

  “You are.”

  “The truth then. I cannot envisage Richard le Despenser with any dignity at all. And if by chance he found some, surely it would be in such short supply he would dare neither lose it nor mock it.”

  Eleanor sagged down next to her, nearly sobbing with relief. “Then you understand.”

  “I do. I should not admit it to you, but I do.”

  Eleanor laid her head on Lucy’s shoulder. “I need your help, Lucy, please.”

  “God’s toes. I am not some simpleton you can bend to your will with those doe’s eyes.” Lucy squinted crookedly down at her cousin. “I won’t help him to bed you. Nor you to bed him. And I won’t lie to the earl, nor to your lady mother.”

  “I would not ask you to. Besides, my lady mother will be lying in for another month, and the lord, my father barely takes note of me, except when he wants something of me or is angry with me.”

  “He will take note of this,” predicted Lucy.

  “We will be discreet.”

  “There is an entire castle full of people, some of whom will be quite pleased to carry tales to the earl.”

  “Anne, you mean.”

  Lucy nodded. “And anyone else who wants to curry favor.”

  “We will misdirect them.”