The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “And you appear to be most ardent,” he murmured. He looked a different man in this moment, at his ease and filled with humor, and her heart clenched at the sight. Wulfe unfastened her jeweled girdle and flung it across the room with satisfying force. It hit the far wall and clattered to the floor. Christine hoped it was broken beyond repair.

  Her laces were unfastened with satisfying speed and her kirtle cast aside. She arched her back with pleasure at the feel of Wulfe’s hands upon her. He was strong but gentle, firm but seductive. She had but a mere glimpse of a surprisingly mischievous smile, then he pushed up the hem of her chemise. His hands were on her thighs, and she thought he would caress her with his fingers. Indeed, she was so aroused that she did not know how she would bear such a touch.

  When he closed his mouth over her, she gasped in surprise. “Wulfe,” she whispered, knowing only the routine of granting pleasure and not that of accepting it. He was undeterred by her protest. Indeed, he spread his hands across her thighs and held her open to his wicked tongue.

  Christina could only surrender to the pleasure he was determined to give. She fell back against the pallet and closed her eyes, her fingers still locked in his hair. He showed uncommon persistence in his chosen task, teasing her with his teeth and his tongue, coaxing her passion to new heights. Christina burned as she never had burned before. She felt savored and even indulged to be the focus of his attention.

  Even as she moaned in pleasure, she noted the similarities in his technique to what she had been taught. He took her to the threshold of release then halted, the better to increase her ultimate satisfaction. He alternated between firm caresses and gentle ones, even grazing her with his teeth before he blew on that most sensitive part of her. Christina found her hips twitching on the pallet. Indeed, she writhed beneath his touch, parting her thighs wide like a wanton as she burned for the release that only Wulfe could give.

  She was breathing quickly when he summoned the fever again, and she felt the flush heat her skin from head to toe. She was achingly sensitive to his touch, her blood simmering and her hands locked in his hair. She felt the passion rise, her heart thunder, her ardor increase…

  Then Wulfe pulled back.

  Christina cried out that he cheated her again. “God’s blood, but you are a vexing man!” she muttered and he grinned. He braced himself on his elbows, his eyes dancing with merriment as he regarded her.

  “Shall I halt?”

  “Nay!” Christina declared. “You should finish what you have begun.”

  He laughed, his breath fanning the inside of her thighs. He closed his mouth over her again and she moaned his name at the glory of his intimate kiss.

  “By Saint Felicity,” she whispered, invoking the patron saint of barren women. If ever a coupling should create a son, it should be this one.

  If Gunther had taken her like this, perhaps she would have given him a son.

  Wulfe became more demanding at her words, so Christina thought he must like her response.

  “By Saint Rupert of Bingen,” she cried, invoking the patron saint of pilgrims.

  Wulfe laughed then grazed her with his teeth, a most delicious sensation.

  “By Saint Christopher!” Christina cried and was rewarded with a more vehement touch. She was feverish again, thrashing beneath him, yearning and burning for more. “Saint Felicity and the Archangel Raphael!” she cried. “Saint Rupert again!”

  She appealed to a long list of saints, some of which might have been appalled to have been invoked in this moment, but Christina did not care. Wulfe ate her with vigor, clutching her buttocks in his hands. His fingers dug into her and he lifted her from the pallet, feasting upon her as Christina writhed in his embrace. She began to whisper to him of what she wanted him to do to her, and Wulfe made a sudden move that flung her over the edge.

  She moaned his name as the release claimed her, shaking in its vigor and completely in his power. It took her some moments to catch her breath, by which time, Wulfe had shed his boots and chausses. He stood, sipping from a cup of wine, watching her with undisguised satisfaction.

  His own arousal was more than evident.

  Christina stretched, savoring the weight of his gaze upon her. “I would have helped you disrobe,” she whispered.

  “There was no need.” Wulfe put down the chalice and flung his chemise aside with purpose. She liked the gleam in his eyes well and removed her own chemise, baring herself to his view. She unfastened her braid and shook out her hair as she approached him, then locked her arms around his neck.

  “All of you,” she whispered as she held his gaze. “Fast and hard this time.”

  “You like that?”

  “I like you.”

  Her reply seemed to please him. Wulfe closed his hands around her waist then picked her up. Christina braced her feet upon his thighs as he lowered her over himself. She liked different poses and liked that he had the strength to hold her so easily. She knew he would not drop her.

  He smiled, then kissed her. She tasted the red wine mingled with her own pleasure and loved the combination. She cupped his head in her hands and slanted her mouth over his, claiming his mouth and deepening their kiss even as he eased inside her. She wriggled her hips a little, ensuring that he was deeply inside her and Wulfe caught his breath. He gripped her buttocks and she began to move, riding him and loving how he moaned.

  “Too fast,” he whispered, breaking their kiss to protest.

  Christina chuckled. “Fear not. I will make it last.” She rolled her hips and rose high above him, tormenting him just as he had tormented her. Wulfe moaned and she loved that she could grant him this pleasure. She saw him inhale sharply and noted how his eyes glittered, then he withdrew and rubbed himself over her, teasing her anew.

  “By Saint Felicity,” she cried as the tumult rose within her again. Wulfe grinned, so she summoned every saint she could think of. At the same time, she rode him with resolve, drawing him deeply inside her with every stroke. She found his rhythm and though she endeavored to make the union last, the heat that drove them on would not be slowed this time.

  When she could bear it no longer, she seized a fistful of Wulfe’s hair and kissed him anew. She fairly devoured him, demanding satisfaction, and he dropped to the pallet again. He rolled as he fell, ensuring that she landed atop him, and Christina writhed against him even as she drove him to the brink.

  Wulfe cast her a bright glance, then moved abruptly. He slid a hand between them and pinched her clitoris so sweetly and thoroughly that Christina could not hold back. She cried his name as pleasure seized her, pounding the floor with her fist to punctuate the moment. To her delight, Wulfe gained his release with a roar of satisfaction in nigh the same moment. His grip tight upon her as he surrendered to the fire she had kindled.

  She collapsed atop him and smiled, knowing that he had waited for her.

  “God’s blood, woman, you would wake the dead,” Wulfe murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.

  Christina recalled only then that she was in a house filled with people who knew little of her trade and realized they must have been shocked by the sounds emanating from Wulfe’s chamber. At the brothel, in contrast, the robust sounds of lovemaking were considered to be good for business. She could not find it within herself in this moment to fret over what was done, though.

  Indeed, she began to laugh. “Are you not charged with ensuring the education of Stephen and Simon?” she teased, bracing her elbows on Wulfe’s chest.

  Wulfe took a deep breath, then shoved his hand through the disarray of her hair with affection as he smiled. “I was thinking of the women in the kitchen,” he admitted, then began to laugh as well.

  Once they had started to laugh, it seemed impossible to stop. Christina tumbled down beside Wulfe, well content to have his warmth against her and his arm around her shoulders.

  Having this knight as her champion suited Christina well indeed.

  “Saint Felicity?” he asked, his voice a rumble bene
ath her fingertips.

  “Patron saint of barren women.”

  She earned a quick sidelong glance for that, but Wulfe did not comment. “Saint Rupert of Bingen?”

  “Patron saint of pilgrims.”

  “I know Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.”

  “And of those seeking what is lost.”

  Wulfe frowned. “Did you truly desire the intercession of an archangel?”

  “Nay, but I always liked Raphael.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. He alone dared to take flesh and walk amongst us. I admire any man, angelic or mortal, bold enough to challenge his own assumptions.” She eased her hand down his chest, granting him a coy smile. “I fear that I failed in my quest to make your pleasure last,” she whispered when her exploring fingers found evidence of his mood.

  Wulfe arched a brow. “And what remedy would you propose?” He leaned on one elbow, his other hand easing between her thighs.

  “Not again!” she said, although she granted him access anew.

  He smiled. “It is but a quest for knowledge,” he admitted. “For it is said that women can find their pleasure with twice the frequency as men. I would know for certain.”

  Christina could not argue with that intent, particularly when he pursued the matter with such resolve that she found herself moaning anew.

  * * *

  Christina was intoxicating. No matter how many times he claimed her, Wulfe only desired more. His desire for her was curiously persistent, and in that, unlike any he had felt before.

  Worse, it was dangerous.

  Wulfe held her against his side as she slept hours later, knowing he had to step away from her. He could lose all he held dear by pursuing such intimacy with her. Yet, even knowing as much, even as a practical man, he did not want to put her aside.

  He had heard of men finding themselves in thrall to desire, or even love, but had never expected he might join such company.

  But there was so much in the balance. Not only did the entire house know Christina’s trade, but all had to know he had partaken of her charms on this night.

  It could not happen again.

  No matter the cost to himself.

  At least he had the scheme to pursue with Gaston this night. Wulfe recognized that he could not have remained upon this pallet for the night and restrained his desire. The need to depart was a blessing in disguise.

  And after this night, they would depart from Venice. He could ensure that he and Christina never shared a chamber or had the opportunity for intimacy.

  He would have to be stern with Christina and keep her at a distance. Even as Wulfe resolved as much, he realized his fingertips were moving against her back in a caress. He treated himself to one last look. Christina had buried her face against him and was deeply asleep. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, its hue making her skin look like ivory. Her hands were curled together and between them, as if she protected some treasure within her grasp. The pose made her look young and vulnerable, so sweet that his breath caught.

  There was no point in regrets. His life would never be other than it was. Wulfe hoped that Christina’s life, though, would change for the better when this city’s walls were behind them. He pressed a kiss to her brow and closed his eyes at the sweet perfume of her skin.

  He would never forget this moment.

  He would never forget her.

  But she needed to believe that he spurned her. He would only succeed in his goal if she ceased to tempt him. It was a cruel choice, but letting her believe in what could not be would have been more cruel.

  Wulfe rose from the pallet, ensuring he did not disturb her sleep. Indeed, he had never seen her sleep so deeply. Was it because she no longer believed she had to be vigilant in the night? He covered her with his sole blanket, then dressed, his gaze fixed upon her the entire time. Wulfe carried his aketon and hauberk when he departed, intending to seek the assistance of Stephen before leaving the house. He should have been thinking of the ploy he and Gaston would follow this night, but instead, he could think only of Christina.

  Her past, her strength, and her future.

  Wulfe paused by the portal, drank in one last sight of Christina, then placed the key to the chamber on the table beside the lantern. He knew she would want to have it, so that she could lock the portal herself. Wulfe then extinguished the lantern and left her to sleep in peace.

  He knew he would feel no such tranquility any time soon.

  Perhaps he should appeal to a saint or two for strength.

  Friday, July 24, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Lupus, Saint Wulfhade, and Saint Ruffinus of Mercia

  Chapter Nine

  Wulfe could not find it within himself to admire the city of Venice. It was said to be beautiful and he had met many who yearned to see its marvels for themselves. To him, it was but another port, filled with vermin and crime. Perhaps it was worse than other ports, for it pretended to be elegant and fine, while its underworld seethed with activity.

  It seemed that the finely garbed noblemen who governed this city did not care about vice.

  But then, that might be the city’s lure to many.

  The streets were quiet when Wulfe left the house. He knew that Gaston followed him at a distance. He was well aware that Bartholomew followed Gaston, as well, and doubted he was the sole one who was filled with trepidation. If Gaston was right about the villain’s intent, Wulfe would be soon attacked.

  If Christina was right, it would be Gaston who paid the price.

  Wulfe hoped Gaston’s plan led to the anticipated results. He hoped he remained the target, though he did not relish the prospect of another fight. He carried naught of value, at Gaston’s suggestion, and walked with purpose. If he was to gather a prize from a merchant used by the Templars, he would need only a word to prove his identity, for that could not be stolen from his hand.

  He walked as if he had a firm destination, though in truth, he simply endeavored to draw out the thief. He worked his way steadily toward the Arsenale, which was quiet this time of night. The men who built ships there were either asleep after their long day of labor or drinking heartily. He could hear distant laughter and rough singing but kept away from the taverns.

  Footsteps echoed suddenly behind him, the sound making him jump. The stone surfaces played with the sound so its origin was not readily discerned, and then all was silent again. Was Gaston so far behind him as that? The attack upon him earlier in the day was at the fore of his thoughts, though he knew Costanzia’s men had other labor at this hour. Wulfe peered into the shadowed way behind him and imagined he caught a glimpse of Gaston’s silhouette.

  He exhaled then walked onward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The moonlight was particularly bright on this night and thousands of stars shone overhead. Despite the light, the streets were filled with mystery. Wulfe was not a fanciful man, but he felt as if he walked in the realm of the dead. Not a living person was in sight and the shadows might have hidden untold horrors. The air was damp and still, as if might have been in a crypt, or as if the city itself held its breath.

  And watched his progress. Wulfe had never had such a strong sense that he was observed, though he could not see anyone else. Indeed, the shutters were locked over the windows, the streets were empty and the portals were barred against the night. The city might have been abandoned, at least when he was out of earshot of the taverns.

  Yet there was that persistent sense of being observed. It was strange to have the hair prickle on the back of his neck, even as he felt so alone. His boots echoed loudly on the stone and even his breath seemed loud. He could smell the moisture that invaded every detail of this city and began to fear that their ploy would fail completely.

  Wulfe shivered with the cold and decided it was time to force any man who pursued him to show his intent. He peered at addresses, as if seeking a specific door in the street, then looked left and right before ducking into the alcove before a portal. He raised a
hand as if to knock, wondering what he would say to any soul who answered, then he heard a cry of pain. It was not so loud as that, but he guessed it had been Gaston.

  Wulfe lunged out of the archway and retraced his path. The sound of a splash made him break into a run. He could hear a struggle ahead and rounded a corner to find two figures locked in battle. They were of a size with each other, and though one was Bartholomew, the other was cloaked.

  “Halt!” Wulfe roared and drew his sword. He leapt at the villain. That man spun and flung Bartholomew toward Wulfe before he fled. Bartholomew stumbled into Wulfe and the pair felt backward. Once they separated, Wulfe might have given chase, but Bartholomew swore at him.

  “That is not the task of greater import!”

  Wulfe looked at the dark water of the canal in horror. The splash! Gaston had been cast into the water. But there was no sign of the other knight, just the dark surface of the canal. It might have been a dark mirror.

  Wulfe stared in horror at the water. He could not swim.

  Bartholomew swore again. “Of course, you would not wish to mire your tabard,” he spat. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his weapons, then dove into the canal with grace.

  It took the younger man three dives to bring Gaston to the surface. Wulfe bent over the lip of the canal and helped to haul Gaston out of the water. The older knight was as pale as a fish’s belly and unconscious. He must have sunk due to the weight of his mail.

  “We must get him back to the inn,” Bartholomew said when he climbed out to stand beside them.

  “Not yet.” Wulfe had locked his hands together. He pushed on Gaston’s chest, doing as he had seen a sailor treat a pilgrim who had been swept overboard.

  “What is this you do? He has need of warmth…”

  “He will not survive unless the water is expelled.” Wulfe flicked a glance at the younger man. “I may not be able to swim, but I have seen people saved from drowning.”

  “You cannot swim?” Bartholomew echoed.