‘If there is anyone to apologise it’s me,’ he said.
She thought back; he’d never once touched her. ‘For what?’
‘I hold still. And I do more than that when our height or proximity won’t suffice.’
What was he telling her? ‘You allow my touches?’
‘I do. A shoulder, an arm... You hold my hand. A warrior doesn’t allow his hands to be filled unless he wishes to die. If we found enemies and I could not get to my sword quick enough, you would die.’
‘But I hold your hand all the time.’ At his knowing look, she added, ‘Because you allow it.’
The corner of his mouth curved, and his eyes softened.
In her head she had often compared him to a great oak, but that wasn’t right. He was a flesh-and-blood man who could move. All those times she’d brushed her hands and fingers against him. Laid her head on his shoulder or bumped her hip into his side... He’d allowed it.
The odder part of it all was—now that she reflected on it—she’d realised just how much she did touch him.
‘Are you thinking of how much you’ve touched me?’ he said.
She put her hand to her mouth, utterly embarrassed. ‘I’m horrified.’
‘Horrified? It shocked me because you don’t touch other men.’
‘Of course I do. I’m Ian’s mistress.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re not. He told me. But even so, he touches you. You don’t do it back. You clasp your hands in your lap and go still, like a deer who hears a branch crack.’
That was an apt description for exactly how she felt. How she’d always felt since Josse had first touched her. And Evrart had observed this.
Which didn’t adequately explain why she touched him. At all. Was it familiarity? How much of her feelings had she revealed to this man?
‘You’re my guard. You’re always around. You’re just there.’
‘You don’t walk stiffly in front of me like you do with Ian. You walk by my side.’
How often did her shoulder brush his arm? Or her skirts get caught around his legs when she passed him in a doorway? On the narrow stairway, how often did he stop so she ran into his back?
Every day.
‘You truly allow me to touch? You’ve been given me opportunities to touch? To test?’
‘To know.’
‘To know what? Whether it felt right?’
‘To know whether you would. Because from the first moment you touched me it was right.’
Margery’s insides flipped—and it wasn’t because of embarrassment, but because of something lighter...happier. All this time Evrart had been purposely putting himself in places where she would touch him. For what purpose? That was a question that didn’t need to be asked. She felt the pull of it now.
She wanted to.
In fact she felt this need to climb onto his lap and give him a thousand kisses all over.
‘You’ve been...courting me,’ she said.
He jerked. ‘What?’
That wasn’t right...there were better words than that. ‘Trying to woo me?’
At his expression—half-desire, half-longing—she broke. This man had seduced her beyond all reasoning or comprehension.
‘I believe you need to move towards me now,’ she said.
He looked at the distance between them, straightened, and rubbed his palm down his thigh as if bracing himself to move. Something inside her recognised him. All her life she’d avoided people, tried to protect herself from them, from men. But with Evrart, she brushed against him.
Hopping over, she straddled his body and laid her hands on his shoulders. He froze, his mammoth hands hovering somewhere along her back, her hip.
He pulled back, his brows raised almost to his hairline.
He was startled—which was good, because she was startling herself. ‘Is this acceptable?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nothing of this was true. It couldn’t be. Not this room...not this woman. Nor the facts of her kindness—no, more than that...her caring. She cared for him.
At any time he could have told her he couldn’t see colours, like her, but saw her eyes were lit by something he’d only seen from the stars at night. But he’d kept his mouth closed, and everything else about him open to her. To the light touches of her fingertips as she’d placed objects in his palm. To the light way she breathed. To the tiny gasps she’d made as she picked something up and then the other little hitch as she’d placed them in his palm.
In the silence of the room everything became about her.
Everything was about her now.
She straddled his lap, her slight weight significant against him. Her eyes were sparkling, with a light of mischief in their depths that was darkening more the longer she gazed at him. He saw the curve of her lips in her delight that she surprised him.
And he was surprised.
‘You’re supposed to touch me now,’ she said.
She shifted her hips, brushing against his breeches, brushing against him. Touch her? If he did... Caressed, kissed, suckled her small breasts, dug his fingers into the curves of her ample hips? Would he see if he was right that the span of his hand could wrap around the tiny waist?
She gave him a knowing look before dropping her eyes down between them. He hadn’t even laid his hands on the small of her back. He hadn’t even kissed her. And he couldn’t be harder...couldn’t want her more.
Pressing on his shoulders, she curled her weight against him. ‘Oh!’
‘Margery...’ he growled.
‘This will do.’ She tilted her hips again.
His hands dropped to her waist. The warmth of her skin beneath the mountain of clothing undid him. Wrenching it up, he wanted it off, off, off.
‘Wait!’
He stilled.
‘I have to untie it here.’
‘I want to rip it from you.’
She jerked. ‘Oh, well...’ Laughter. ‘I want that, too.’
He meant it. Watching her fingers daintily tug this way and that, it felt as if she tugged at his own braies. He grabbed her hand, shoved it out of the way, fisted the silk and jerked it free. There was a slight ripping sound as her body flattened against him. Clenching the wrecked fabric, he pulled it over her head, tossed it away, and was left with a fine chemise and Margery, who was grinning at him.
‘Better?’ she quipped.
He couldn’t answer. His mouth was dry, his chest constricted. His cock was flexing against her.
Her eyes widened and then her lids lowered. ‘Oh, that is better...’
‘Is it?’
He felt as if he’d soon tear off the rest of her clothing and devour her. Bury himself—his entire body—right underneath her skin and wallow in the very essence of her. Wrench her soul right out of her heart, hold on to it and defy the very heavens because it was his.
He felt alive.
His hands skated up the small of her back, feeling the slight furrows of her ribs, the hills of her spine, until he cupped her shoulders and pressed her undulations down harder on his body, feeling the spike of lust. Releasing her shoulders, he kneaded the small of her back, the roll of her hips.
She gave a low moan and lowered her head to his shoulder. ‘Oh, I don’t know why that feels so good...but don’t stop.’
Spanning his fingers against the generous globes that had fascinated him since she arrived, he flexed her against him.
She shifted her head, breathed words and sounds into his neck. ‘Yes, Evrart... Yes.’
He did it again and again. Her scent, her noises, were driving him mad and he buried his nose in her neck. She smelled of that flower he had been told was white. The one that grew in the chapel gardens and the kitchen gardens, like the rosemary from the shrubs that dried their clothes.
Like her.
Did she taste as sweet?
He licked. She gasped. He licked again, from her collar to her ear. She giggled. He rubbed his face, kissed, nipped, licked, until she was laved by his kisses, his touch. Every sound, gasp, laugh and purr encouraged him.
And all the while the pressure of his hands never stopped. Palms spread over curves, thumbs forked into her hips as he moved them both. Until the hitches of her breath against his neck stopped and stuttered. Until he pulsed with the need to release, but just held back.
Until she said, ‘Evrart... Evrart.’
Her fingers dug into his arm, her body shuddered and thrashed, and he slammed her down hard against him, feeling the fluttering heat of her core press against him. He raised his head to the ceiling and clenched his body, holding until her shivering stopped. On a low growl he ripped off her chemise, rolled her underneath him and latched his mouth on the plump rosebud nipples that had teased him since the day she’d slid into his life.
* * *
The more Evrart touched her, the more Margery’s body starved for more. Something in her might have begun this, but everything between them was so much more because Evrart touched her and kissed her as if he hungered, too.
It was the feel of his hot hands rubbing her back. The piercing draw of his mouth as he encompassed her entire breast with his mouth and pulled until he had the very tip, which he lightly bit. He went to the other breast to do the same. Then back to the other. And when she expected a nip, he swirled his tongue.
She clutched his head, tugged his hair. She had released in pleasure from a man for the first time before he unleashed his mouth upon her breasts and now her body wept for more.
‘What are you doing to me?’ she asked.
‘Tasting you...’
He ran his kisses up to her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts, squeezing her breasts together so he could lave them with his tongue.
She wanted to laugh...wanted to moan. It felt so good. She wanted to do the same to him as he descended to her navel. It was as if he was marking her, claiming her—and he was still fully dressed.
She plucked at his tunic. ‘Please...’
He lifted his head, and a brown lock of hair fell across his shoulder and slid against her stomach. ‘You want me to stop?’
‘I want this off.’
He hesitated, his eyes on hers, as if determining something. She didn’t know what words he wanted to hear, but she kept her eyes on him, letting everything she felt in this moment be seen.
Lowering his head, he began to explore again.
She pulled on his hair. ‘Evrart,’ she said. ‘Please.’
He huffed and eased back. Her legs were stretched wide to accommodate his bulk, to make room for him. Something she hadn’t even been aware of. Giving freely wasn’t something she’d thought possible, but she did because of him. Her reluctant giant.
He reached behind him and she was temporarily mesmerised by the flex of the muscles in his arms, before he pulled the tunic up over his head and flung it towards her gown.
Then he held still, and she held still with him.
She’d seen men in her life...had touched two of them. Never utterly freely, but she had known the softness of Josse, a man twenty years her senior, and had hidden from Roul, with his whip-like body, as much as possible. But this man she chose over them—chose for herself.
Warm skin over tissue and strength. But a strength that didn’t seem humanly possible. How often had she compared him to the fortress? The breadth was there, but the fortress was cold and he was heated. Alive.
Corded muscles crossed shoulders, the defined ridges of his stomach narrowing to his breeches, only to flare out for his thick legs. Down to what no amount of clothing could rein in. The fact he was a man who wanted a woman. Who wanted her very much.
With layers of clothing between them, he’d used his need and she had taken her pleasure. Yet now her core clenched with greed all over again.
Gathering her thoughts, she judged the width of his torso against hers, noted the difference in where her feet ended and how much farther his legs spanned beyond the bed they lay on. She splayed her hands against his arms, realising it would take four of her hands to wrap around one of his arms.
Feeling his gaze, she glanced up at his face. Amusement was there, as well as desire and heat.
‘I’m comparing, aren’t I? Like those other women.’
‘So am I.’
He smiled, and her worries faded.
‘I thought you were a warrior?’ she said.
His lips twitched. ‘Is there something about me that looks as if I’m not?’
She’d seen him in the lists. None of the men held back as they swung their swords. She’d seen men limping from the lists, holding an arm, a stomach. She’d seen the trickles of blood. But Evrart...
She grabbed his arm, felt his resistance before he lightened it for her. She stared at the expanse of his hips. Craned her neck to see more of his back.
His expression was changing from one of confusion to amusement and back again. ‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘You don’t have any scars on you.’ She lowered her arm and felt along his back with her fingertips. His heated skin was smooth and unhindered.
He looked down to her hand, which was clenched on the wrist of the arm that held his weight. She was trying to move it, and he wasn’t helping her this time. So she tugged harder.
‘Why are you smiling?’ she said.
‘You’re flinging my arms about and touching me again.’
She wasn’t flinging anything about. ‘You were allowing it,’ she huffed, and gave up.
‘I was.’ He swallowed. ‘You’re not afraid?’
‘You’re always asking that question.’
His eyes dimmed.
‘Are you waiting for it to happen?’ she asked.
His eyes told her the answer.
She was afraid—afraid that this connection would be just for now, just this one time. That beyond this she wouldn’t see or feel him again.
She laid her hand on his stomach and the muscles rippled. ‘My hands are cold?’
He pursed his lips. ‘No. Never.’
She flattened her palms, revelling in the bumps against her palm, the light smattering of hair between her splayed fingers. She touched until she, too, wanted to taste.
Dragging herself up to his shoulders, she kissed the jut of his collarbone and across the mounds of his chest. She moved down the bed and against him to flat brown nipples, where she nipped as he had done to her. When he jerked, she laughed. When he growled and pushed himself up and away, she laughed some more.
And then all of him hovered, as he bracketed his arms at her sides. She stopped her exploration to gaze at the length of them. She could see her feet, but not his.
Her fingers hooked in his breeches at his waist. ‘These too.’
His breath heaved through him. ‘Margery...’
It sounded like a warning. This man...
‘You knew you couldn’t see colours the way I do but you let me try to show you. Why?’ She laid her hand against his mouth. She didn’t need his words. She knew the answer. ‘You wanted me to touch you...that’s why. Now I want these off.’
‘You’re so small, and I’m...not.’
There should be something that frightened her now. Not because of him though—not because it was Evrart—but because he was a man. None of her experiences before had gone well. None.
‘I’m not afraid, Evrart. You’ll have to wait forever for me to be afraid, and even then I won’t be.’
He clenched his eyes tight at those words, then breathed out slowly before piercing her with his gaze. ‘We’re going slow on this—you understand?’
Why was this only making her want more? Moments ago he’d fulfi
lled her more than any man before, but now...now she felt as if there’d been nothing at all. Nodding eagerly, she hooked her fingers into his breeches again.
‘Put your hands above your head,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I need your hands above your head.’
Her entire body sank into the thick blankets and the mattress at his command. She hated being told what to do. But this...?
Awkwardly, unevenly, trying to get her arms to work properly, she arched her hands above her head. When his eyes watched hungrily, she linked a few of her fingers and was rewarded with a heavy-lidded, lust-darkened gaze as he swung his eyes back to her.
‘Stay there.’ He pushed himself off the bed.
She would if she was to be rewarded like this. With this man standing before her, his heated gaze never leaving her. Moving from her eyes to her hands, to the curve of her waist and down her legs. And all the while he undid the belt of his breeches, unwound the fine linen of his braies. Held it there.
It made her restless, eager.
‘Still your legs,’ he said.
She did, and she kept her knees together and off to one side, feeling vulnerable, feeling too much. Every order he made was unexpected.
‘Why are you like this?’ He looked down to the curl of her toes. ‘Do you know how finely you’re made? How utterly beautiful you are to me?’
She waited for the moment of disappointment. Other men had complimented her, other men had noted her beauty, but her happiness at being with this man did not dim. Because she knew he said it not because of her hair or her eyes. Evrart saw her.
‘You shouldn’t be anywhere near someone like me...someone who does the things I do. But there you went...touching me, talking to me. Offering me your food.’
She didn’t want to hear those words. He was perfect. Didn’t he realise she saw him, too?
‘I thought I just bothered you.’
His brows drew in. ‘You do. Constantly. Even late at night, when you’re sleeping on the other side of my door.’ He looked away and huffed. ‘Especially then.’
He thought of her when they were apart. Yet he kept them separated now! ‘Please, Evrart.’
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 53