The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  “I do not mind,” she said, feeling herself flush at her own words.

  “It seems the courtesan endeavors to change Wulfe’s thinking about her place being by his side,” Gaston mused.

  Ysmaine looked up into her husband’s eyes and her chest clenched. Was there a new heat in his eyes? Did they share their reaction to this sight?

  Did she dare to ask for what she most desired.

  He had asked her for honesty, and she hoped her granting of it did not change that.

  “If she is by his side,” Ysmaine added hastily, feeling most bold. “Though it looked as if she were atop him.”

  She dared to glance up at her husband again, only to find him biting back a smile. “It did, indeed.”

  Ysmaine took a deep breath and turned to him, placing her hands over his. “I would be atop you, sir,” she whispered to Gaston, whose eyes widened slightly at her bold speech. “I would feel whatsoever makes her shout like that.”

  He bent his attention upon her immediately, closing his hands over hers. “Lady mine, you shall not ask this woman for instruction…”

  Ysmaine put her fingertips on his lips to silence him. “You insisted upon honesty between us, sir, and here is a measure of it. I am jealous.”

  His astonishment was clear. “Of a whore?”

  “Of a woman so well pleased that she cares not who knows of it.”

  Gaston shoved a hand through his hair, managing to look both exasperated and beleaguered. “You wish to be with Wulfe?”

  “Nay!” Ysmaine’s shock at that suggestion must have been clear, for Gaston looked reassured. She shuddered. “To couple with a man like that would not be my taste at all. I find all that is admirable in my own husband.”

  “Save that you do not moan abed.”

  She dared to smile. “It seems I am greedy for experience, sir.”

  Gaston watched her warily. “I thought you might find his experience alluring.”

  “His experience, sir, is too extensive. It suits me well that you do not share it, for I do not have to fear that my husband will give me the pox, or that when you ride to hunt, your prey is other than deer and boar.”

  Gaston seemed to fighting a smile. “But…?” he invited.

  “But.” Ysmaine took a deep breath, feeling herself flush at her audacity, and leaned close to her husband. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I would know more of whatever it is that makes her so noisy.”

  His eyes twinkled, and she guessed that he meant to tease her. “So, you would have me enquire of the courtesan what grants her such pleasure?”

  “Gaston!” Ysmaine declared and he laughed at her outrage. Her cheeks burned but she would not leave this matter be. “I would have you discover what might grant me such pleasure, as well as show me what would give you sufficient pleasure to linger over the matter.”

  He sobered. “You would have me render the marital debt more slowly?”

  “I suspect that is part of the secret.”

  Gaston licked his lips and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Ysmaine took the last step between them, her words so softly uttered that Gaston might not even be able to discern them. “I liked your hand upon my thigh,” she confessed in a whisper. She swallowed and dared to look at his face. He was watching her, his eyes glittering, his manner intent. She was not even sure he breathed. “I liked it better when your hand rose even higher.” She could not name the place he had touched. She swallowed. “What would ensue if you left it there longer? Would it be more readily achieved if I were atop you?” A fire lit in Gaston’s eyes, and she had a moment to hope that he meant to do something about the matter.

  “Lady mine,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. He considered her for a long moment, and Ysmaine feared she had shocked him overmuch. When he inhaled sharply, pivoted and marched away from her, she knew her impulsiveness had steered her false.

  She was left burning on the threshold of the common room, and it appeared her husband did not desire her honesty so much as she had hoped.

  Ysmaine turned and climbed the stairs, her footfalls heavy. Would he even come to her this night? Or was he too appalled by her request?

  * * *

  Gaston was aflame.

  He could not think clearly. He could not summon a coherent course of action. He could think only of Ysmaine, of the softness of her skin, of the smoothness of her curves, of the enticing little gasp she made when he entered her. Her whispered confession of her desire to be astride him was sufficient to obliterate all other concerns. He thought of looking fully upon her, of stripping her nude and exploring her, of savoring her so that she made the same sounds of pleasure as Wulfe’s whore and his mind went blank.

  There was only raw need burning through his veins.

  Only Ysmaine.

  He had to step away from her, to collect his thoughts, and to choose the right course of action. Even putting distance between them did not help: the vision of her gasping with pleasure, her eyes alight with invitation, her lips parted, was one that would not be dislodged from his mind’s eye. He could smell her perfume on his skin where she had touched him, and could not forget the press of her breast against his arm or the alluring way she had blushed when confessing her desire to him.

  Gaston went into the courtyard and filled a pail with cold water from the well. He stripped down in the stables and bathed with haste, savoring the icy touch of the water upon his flesh. He hoped it might douse the fire within him, but it did not.

  If anything, his ardor for his wife only grew.

  What if he could give her such pleasure? What if creating heirs was not a duty, not a task to be completed but a pleasure to be savored? He thought of Wulfe’s counsel that he should ensure his lady lost her heart to him and wondered whether this might be the course to ensure that end.

  He scrubbed himself from head to toe, removing the muck of the day and the weight of assumptions he had carried a long time. Why should a man and wife not find pleasure together abed? Why should a man not cultivate his lady’s affection and her loyalty? Why should he not savor the prize of his lady wife?

  Gaston washed his hair and shook out the water, reassured and resolved. He donned his chausses and boots again, then cast a glance upward to the window of Ysmaine’s chamber. She stood against one edge of the window, half in shadows, just as she had that morning, her gaze fixed upon him. His blood quickened with the certainty that she had been watching him bathe and their gazes locked. She bit her lip and that ardor redoubled within him, filling him with purpose and need.

  He would take her challenge. He would see his lady pleased.

  And perhaps, he might set them upon a good course for the future. Gaston donned his chemise, then filled another bucket with water, taking the stairs three at a time to his lady’s chamber.

  * * *

  Ysmaine turned away from the window, flattening her back against the wall. Gaston had seen her looking, and she had been too foolish to draw back. Was he insulted? Was he dismayed? She exhaled, fearing that again she had showed her earthy interests too plainly. She knew he had not been at ease the night before when she had lifted his chemise and seen the scar on his hip.

  He left the courtyard in haste, on some quest or another, while she was still simmering with desire for him.

  To make matters worse, the courtesan began to moan anew.

  It was as if that pair would torment Ysmaine with the knowledge of what was not to be her own. She began to list again the advantages she had that Christina did not, even as she paced her chamber.

  She froze when she heard the sound of a footstep on the landing. Radegunde straightened and glanced at the door.

  There came a solid rap upon the portal, one that made Ysmaine’s pulse flutter.

  “Lady mine?” Gaston said, and she could not believe her good fortune.

  Still fearing that he meant to chastise her, Ysmaine hastened to the door, and unlocked it to him. It made no sense but he seemed larger without his armor, or pe
rhaps he was just more vibrantly male. There was no mistaking the muscled breadth of him when his chemise stuck to his damp chest and shoulders, much less the way her mouth went dry when she met the vivid blue of his eyes. His hair was wet, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms, and he was more disheveled than ever she had seen him.

  Could it be that there was some impulsiveness in her methodical husband?

  Gaston carried a brimming bucket of water and a sponge bobbed within it. She had a fleeting thought that he meant to douse her to quench her passion, but then he spoke.

  “I would take your challenge,” he said, his voice husky and his eyes dark. “If still you desire it.”

  “I do,” she admitted softly, then took a step back. She dismissed Radegunde with a gesture and the girl left the room. Gaston strode into the chamber, and Ysmaine turned the key in the lock behind him.

  He hesitated in the middle of the chamber, as if uncertain how to proceed. Ysmaine swallowed, then laid a hand upon his arm. “I apologize for looking so openly upon you just now. I have never seen you fully,” she admitted. “Nor indeed, have I seen any man nude.”

  “Nor have I looked fully upon you,” Gaston replied. “It seems there is much we must see achieved.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. His gaze burned brightly into hers and his voice was low when he continued. “I thought we might explore each other, the better to discover what gives pleasure.”

  Ysmaine could not bite back her smile. “Does it vex you to have a wanton wife, sir?”

  “It enchants me,” Gaston confessed in a rush, then dropped her hand. With uncharacteristic haste, he speared his fingers into her hair and drew her to her toes. His touch was both resolute and gentle, all the more thrilling for the pulse she spied at his throat. He looked at her as if she were a marvel, then slanted his mouth across hers in a kiss that set her very soul aflame.

  Ysmaine knotted her hands around his neck and kissed him back, liking her sense that she could provoke this very deliberate man to be impetuous. He seemed to need no more encouragement than that, for he put down the bucket from such a height that the water splashed over the rim. He framed her head between his hands and backed her into the wall, trapping her there with his hips as he kissed her deeply.

  Ysmaine was flooded with pleasure. She closed her eyes and surrendered to him, her fingers knotted in his hair, her back arched so that her breasts rubbed against his chest. He kissed her with a passion that left her gasping, then eased his knee between her thighs. When Gaston lifted his head, he arched a brow. “Tell me what you like, lady mine,” he invited, his voice a low rumble.

  “I like when you kiss me like that,” she confessed. “I like when it seems you cannot resist me. When you seem to hunger for me.”

  His smile was fleeting, then he kissed her again, if anything more fervidly than before. The fingers of one hand speared into her hair, and he lifted his other hand away, only to lift the hem of her chemise. She felt the warmth of his palm upon her thigh, even as his tongue dueled with hers. He laid it flat then slid it slowly upward. He spared her a simmering glance, then bent to tug the tie of her chemise loose with his teeth. His lips were on her ear, her throat, beneath her chin, his fingertips easing toward the place that burned for his intimate touch. Her very flesh seemed alive, and yet she wanted more.

  Ysmaine gasped for breath, then braced her hands upon his shoulders. She spared him a quelling look then hauled her chemise over her head and cast it across the room, letting him look upon her fully. Gaston’s eyes widened in a most satisfactory way.

  “Tell me what you like, sir,” she invited, echoing his words and her husband chuckled.

  “This,” he growled. He bent and flicked his tongue across her nipple, which tightened in response to his touch. “This.” He cupped her breast in one hand, kissing the nipple then drawing that tight bead between his teeth in sweet torment.

  Ysmaine found the fire inside her was coaxed to an inferno, and she ground her hips against him, not knowing how to find relief. “Sir!” she gasped.

  “This.” Gaston’s hand slipped between her thighs, his gaze intent as he touched her there. Ysmaine flushed, she caught her breath, framed his face in her hands, and kissed him full on the mouth. Gaston’s fingers moved against her, summoning her passion with skill, even as she fair devoured his mouth. He moaned into her kiss, and Ysmaine was delighted that she should have some power over his passion, as he did over hers.

  She plucked at his chemise, and they parted panting, smiling at each other as he echoed her move. He tugged his chemise over his head and cast it after her own, looking even more wicked and passionate than he had before. He was muscled and tanned, scarred yet healed. She thought him beautiful.

  Ysmaine’s fingers dropped to the lace of his chausses and he lifted her high, holding her captive against his chest with one arm around her waist. He discarded his boots and then his chausses, meeting her gaze when he was just as nude as she.

  “A noble warrior,” she said with a smile, tracing the line of an old scar on his shoulder. She could not believe the power of his body, the heat of him, the desire she saw in his eyes for her.

  “You might have found a prettier one,” he teased.

  “But not a better one,” Ysmaine replied, seeing how her words pleased him. He held her captive, her feet above the ground and her hair unfurled down her back, his hands locked around her waist. She kept her hands upon his shoulders and watched him with fascination. Again he backed her into the wall, purpose in his expression.

  “Tell me what you like, lady mine,” he invited again, then kissed the other nipple to a turgid peak.

  “I like you,” she admitted in a rush. “I like when you desire me.” Ysmaine swallowed and met his intent gaze. “I like when you fill me.” She bit her lip, then dared to say it aloud. “When you stretch me.”

  Gaston inhaled sharply and spun her around. He crouched so that she was sitting across his thighs. His hand landed on the inside of her thigh, awakening that tremor again. “Let us find out first what happens when my hand lingers,” he murmured in a low growl.

  Ysmaine smiled at him and parted her thighs in invitation. His fingers were warm and they moved slowly, his touch once again proving to be both gentle and resolute. He caressed her so that she gasped aloud, and yet he did not halt. His gaze was locked upon her, his other arm around her waist. He watched her as his caress grew more demanding, more firm, more exhilarating.

  Ysmaine felt her pulse race and her breath come quickly. Shivers raced over her flesh, and heat seemed to course through her body. She found herself twisting against his finger, increasing the sweet torment of his touch. Gaston smiled as she murmured incoherently, and he chuckled when she moaned. He eased a finger inside her and then another, and she was suffused with pleasure.

  She kissed him greedily, wanting his body pressed against his. Her hand fell on his throat, and she savored the wild leap of his pulse, and the evidence that she was not impassioned alone. His fingers moved against her with persuasive ease, and she was certain she could bear no more. Her lips parted in entreaty, but she made no sound before Gaston spun her around.

  “I believe this was the posture,” he said, lifting her above him and lowering her onto himself. He was more than ready for her. Indeed, Ysmaine believed he filled her more than he had those other nights. The sensation made her moan with pleasure and summoned a quiver deep within her. She smiled at him, much pleased with the pose, then he gripped her buttocks and moved within her.

  Ysmaine smiled at her husband and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Like this?” she asked playfully, knowing she had seen the courtesan do exactly thus.

  Gaston did not seem to be able to reply. He whispered her name, then again backed her into the wall. His one hand dove between them again, caressing her once more, and Ysmaine realized there was something she liked much, much more than her husband filling her.

  She wriggled against him, a movement that h
e seemed to enjoy. She locked her legs around him and rocked, savoring how sharply he inhaled. His eyes glittered and his skin flushed. He moved deliberately and powerfully, coaxing the tumult within her to increase beyond belief. She was about to beg him for some manner of release, when his finger and thumb closed abruptly in a sensual pinch.

  Ysmaine screamed in pleasure. She was caught in a maelstrom that might well shake her to pieces—save that Gaston held her fast. She clutched his shoulders and locked her legs around him, riding the wave of her release even as he roared and drove deeper inside her. He shook with the power of his own release and his teeth grazed her skin as he growled with a satisfaction that pleased her mightily. She tumbled against his chest with a shudder and held him fast, loving the sound of his galloping heart beneath her ear.

  “I like that, sir,” she whispered, and he laughed.

  “As do I, lady mine,” he murmured, his words making his chest vibrate beneath her ear. “As do I.”

  He pressed a kiss to her temple, and Ysmaine lifted her head, stretching to kiss him. This was a sweet kiss, a triumphant kiss, and one that filled her with a satisfaction beyond all expectation.

  Who might have guessed that bold speech would have won her a prize such as this?

  * * *

  Ysmaine was a madness in his blood.

  Gaston had been unable to think of anything other than possessing her, yet now that she clung to him sweetly, sated and soft, he could think of naught other than having her again. He was a man of moderation and reserve, but his new wife pushed him beyond that.

  He supposed he should be troubled that he did not mind.

  “The liniment,” she recalled, but Gaston was dismissive of such ministrations.

  “I feel sufficiently hale without it this night,” he growled.

  Ysmaine laughed up at him, so well contented that he had to kiss her anew. When he broke their kiss, he could only admired her visible satisfaction.

  She sighed contentment. “I must lie on the pallet, if you please, sir.”