by Dee Brice
They continued to the river in companionable silence. Only after they swam did they talk.
“What happened yesterday?” Gerard used his shirt as a towel.
“As we expected, the other twin came to me at the farrier’s.” Edgar grinned. “I’ll give her credit, Gerard, for pegging you a dandy. She said you’d forgotten an appointment with your clothier.”
Gerard chuckled.
“She has a melodious laugh, sweet as robin’s song.”
“While Edina—if it was her with me—giggles. Which sounds to me like a brook babbling over rocks. Somehow I find that pleasant. What else?”
“She has calluses—on all her fingertips.”
Gerard grunted.
“What happened with Edina?” Seeing Gerard flush—fair skin put him at a disadvantage when he felt embarrassed—Edgar added, “That you can tell me about.”
“Edina has a birthmark on her left shoulder. ‘Tis shaped like a butterfly.”
Edgar’s eyebrows raced toward his hairline. “You’ve seen her naked? Already?”
“Her neckline kept slipping.”
Gerard’s sideways glance gave lie to the statement and made Edgar certain more had happened. But he respected Gerard’s reticence to kiss and tell. “Uh-huh.”
“What happened with your lady?” Gerard looked menacing.
Prepared to defend himself, Edgar cocked his fist, rushing to finish. “My twin wants me to call her Rowena.”
“Ah-ha! We have them then,” Gerard crowed.
“Insofar as names are concerned. We still cannot physically tell them apart.”
“I think we can. You see…”
“Tell me or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
“Rowena’s birthmark—that little butterfly I told you about—”
“So you’ve seen them both naked. By damn, I will kill you!”
“Another slipping neckline.” Gerard dodged his brother’s fist. “Rowena’s birthmark is on her right shoulder.” When Edgar sat on his heels, obviously shocked, Gerard added, “What’s more, she does not like the way I kiss.”
“Edina pleaded a headache when I kissed her.”
“Rowena said I kissed like a fish.”
They shared a hearty laugh but soon sobered.
“Unless we undress them—” Edgar muttered.
“Or get them to kiss us…”
“Or hear them laugh.”
“We’re no farther along than we were yesterday.”
“We still cannot tell them apart.”
“Saint Christopher on a crutch!”
“Bartholomew’s balls!”
Chapter Three
A Sennight Later
Lounging back against pillows, Edina stared openly at Gerard’s magnificent chest. Sunlight glittered off his dark gold chest hair. His powerful pectoral muscles flexed every time he poled their punt forward. She wanted to kiss his flat nipples until they puckered. Lick each drop of sweat or—better still—follow the arrow his chest curls formed from his nipples to under his trunk hose.
Since the onset of her flux, Edina had had time—perhaps too much time—to think about what she and Gerard had done. Had they been at Beaufort, they would not have been left completely alone together. When not under the watchful eyes of her parents or her lady-in-waiting, some servant or other would have followed them. Sometimes, since courting couples required a modicum of privacy, the servant would follow at a discreet distance, other times at their heels.
But here at Marchonland, no one seemed to care about propriety. No, ‘tis simply more relaxed here. As if the very air held dreams of longing and fulfillment. As if…if a woman allowed herself to drift as she and Gerard drifted now, anything was possible. Love, especially. Contentment and happiness. And joy in being young and healthy and…rutting like rabbits.
At Beaufort, had her parents discovered what she’d done with Gerard, they’d be married—never mind that they might or mightn’t love each other. Here, it seemed everyone—from Yvonne and Gareth to the lowliest peasant—expected couples to find each other and do what healthy young animals do. Even elders like Aida and Gaspar seemed to expect it.
Glancing up at Gerard, she saw that his attention was focused on the slow-moving river. When he made love with her, he gave her that same fierce scrutiny, making her feel as if she were the most important person in his world. But was that love or only a courtesy? Being fair and ensuring she gained equal pleasure in their mating?
He’d read to her this past sennight. Brought her roses and hyacinths from Willa’s gardens. Ordered tea to ease her aching belly. Asked her dozens—perhaps hundreds of questions about Beaufort and her childhood there. He certainly behaved as if he were courting her.
Did his behavior mean he loved her? Did she love him? I must. Otherwise I would not have done…what I did. Or was she a wanton whose only interest lay in what rested between his powerful thighs?
“If you continue to stare at my shaft, Edina, I’ll swive you here and now.”
“Over this past week you’ve had ample opportunity, Gerard. Yet you have not bedded me since our first time.”
“I would not have minded the mess. You, however…”
“You knew?”
“I fostered in a castle full of female cousins. ‘Tis impossible to ignore when a woman has her monthly.”
“Oh,” she moaned, her face heating. “I thought… That is, the pain in my belly lessened after the first day.”
“The day you spent in bed. But until today you still looked pale and seemed to have lost all sense of adventure.”
“You think I have a sense of adventure?” Delighted, she raised her gaze to his face.
“I am counting on it, Edina.” With that cryptic remark he poled the punt under the drooping limbs of a weeping willow. Jumping into water to his knees, he tied the square prow to a limb then reached out. “Hand me the blanket and the basket. While I attend them, fill your arms with pillows.”
He ducked beneath a low limb, leaving her to wonder what he had planned. Shivering with anticipation, she gathered up pillows so soft she wanted to sink into them. So bright with gemlike colors she wanted to gaze at them forever.
Well, she amended when Gerard reappeared, not forever. Gerard she could stare at for hours at a time.
“Do you want your lute, Gerard?”
His shrug brought her gaze to his wide shoulders. When? When would he hold her against his muscled chest? Pillow her head against those wide shoulders? Let her feel his skin, his flesh—all of him—sliding over her? In her? Wanton, aye. Wanting his bedding above anything else. Except his love.
“Hand me the pillows, sweeting. I’ll come back for the lute. And you,” he added, his voice husky. His blue eyes darkened and she felt her juices seep between her nether lips.
“Hurry.” He seemed deaf to her pleas. Grateful he had ignored her needs for the moment, she picked up the long-necked instrument. Holding its belly against her own, imagining Rowena holding her own lute, Edina ran her left hand up the strings and wished she knew how to play it. Or could at least match its beautiful tones with her voice. She hadn’t lied about her singing voice. Despite Rowena’s assurances, Edina thought she sounded awful when she sang and hoped Gerard would refrain from asking her to prove it.
“Edgar is the singer in our family. Got his voice from his mother. On the other hand, my mother played the harp like an angel. She taught me how to play the lute. Come here, Edina. I’ll lift you out.”
Still a little afraid the flat-bottomed boat would tip, she cautiously stepped to the prow.
“You have different mothers? You and Edgar?”
“Aye. Gareth too. As Yvonne, Willa and Pippa had different sires, we all had different dams.”
Not knowing what to say, Edina simply reached out to Gerard.
“Kindly refrain from bashing my lute over my head,” he chided gently when it banged his back.
“Sorry.”
“You are a lovely armful.”
&n
bsp; “You need not carry me, Gerard.”
“And you need not apologize. Though light, my lute is strong.” He set her on her feet. Taking the instrument from her hand, he carefully leaned it against the tree trunk.
“Will you play for me now, Gerard?”
Turning, his hot gaze swept over her. He wanted her! She could see it in his eyes, the need written clearly on his clenched jaw and heated skin. Her knees trembled so, she feared she would faint at his feet.
“I’ll bargain with you, Edina. A bawdy tune—a short one only—for each shoe you remove. A longer ballad for your smock.”
“And m-my kirtle, m’lord? What will you play for it?”
Grinning, he simply waggled his eyebrows.
She sank to her knees on a pillow. He’d strewn them over the blanket he’d spread on the ground. A surprisingly soft ground. When she could think clearly, she would ask what lay beneath the blanket and pillows. Just now—watching him pluck his lute strings and tune them to their proper tones—she could think of nothing but those clever fingers plucking her nipples.
“Well, m’lady? Will you remove your shoe or shall I remove it for you?”
“I’ll manage.” She held up both clogs.
Gerard laughed. His gaze locked with hers, he strummed a lively tune. A moment later he flowed smoothly into another melody even faster than the first. And shorter yet. She barely had caught the beat before he finished with a quick flourish.
A breathless giggle escaped her lips. “I believe you wish to hurry, m’lord.”
“’Twas you who removed both shoes at once, Edina. What am I to think but that you wish to hurry as well?”
She fiddled with the ends of the ribbon that held her neckline firmly on her shoulders. Could she brazenly bare her breasts to him? Knowing just his eyes on her nipples would make them pucker?
His knuckles beat a soft tattoo on the lute’s belly. Inhaling deeply, she unfastened the ribbon, eased the neckline open and watched the material slide down her left shoulder.
Gerard’s breath caught. He thought he would die before the fabric slid off her pink-tipped breasts. Lowering his lashes to half-mast, he watched as Edina shrugged her right shoulder. The smock pooled at her waist. She looked both shocked and embarrassed. Her cheeks reddened as she looked down at her naked breasts.
“Beautiful,” he said, praying she did not discern he missed several notes. “Take it off. No! Don’t hide from me, Edina.”
“B-But…when I move, they jiggle.” Holding her hands over them, she giggled.
“Aye.” He licked his lips, moved her hands to her sides. Amazing. Her nipples harden with only my gaze on them. “Hurry.” Had his shaft said that? Did she imagine his tongue on her pert nipples or his fingers plucking one while he suckled the other? “Hurry,” he repeated, using the lute to conceal his swollen shaft.
Pushing at the material, she shot him an imploring glance. When he simply stared at her, she pulled the fabric over her flaxen curls. Her shoulders hunched and her lashes drifted to her cheeks. And remained there until he lapped one tender peak.
“Oh Gerard,” she moaned, arching into his questing mouth.
“Raise your hips, Edina.” His fingers fumbled with her belt. His hands slid down her torso, her thighs, her feet. He threw her skirts over his shoulder and gazed at her naked form.
Her entire body blushed pink, yet she remained perfectly still. One arm supported her head. The other rested at her side, palm up. Her curved fingers seemed to beckon him. He ignored the summons, content for the moment to gaze at her.
“Gerard.” Her soft voice pleaded. His rigid shaft begged to be inside her.
“Not yet. My eyes have yet to learn all your lines.” His chuckle sounded more like a growl. “Can you imagine how much it excites me to see your nipples rise when I look at them?”
“A-Aye. Yet I could imagine your excitement far better if you would remove your hose.”
“Not yet. The butterfly on your shoulder enchants me. When you breathe its wings seem to flutter. As if it wants to fly away. Take you away. Would you fly away, Edina? Leave me?”
“Never.”
“Good.” His gaze lingered briefly on her breasts. He heard her draw in a deep breath. Saw her arm move as if to shield herself. He shook his head. She stilled. “Your waist is slender. Yet I see no marks. Nothing artificial gained you this narrow waist.”
“Have you seen so many naked women, m’lord, that you can easily judge artifice from nature?”
The hint of jealousy in her voice made him grin. “Enough to know perfection when I see it.” He continued his perusal. “Good hips. Slim enough for a man’s hands to hold comfortably. Wide enough to shelter a babe.”
Her startled gaze told him she had yet to consider the consequences of their swiving. Wishing he had kept that particular appraisal to himself, he went on, soothing her with his voice. “For such a tiny creature your legs are remarkably long. Delicate yet strong. Especially strong when they wrap around me and hold me deep inside you.”
She moaned and restlessly shifted those delicate appendages.
“Do you want me deep inside you, Edina?”
“You know I do, Gerard.” Longing tinted her voice.
“Then spread your legs for me. Yes, like that. Your curls are damp. I can see your dew on them.”
She tried to close her legs, but he was already between them.
“Your scent tells me how much you want me. ‘Tis the most exciting odor in a man’s world. It tells me you are almost ready for me.”
“Al-Almost?” Her voice squeaked.
He ran his tongue from her opening to her pleasure bud. She tried to jerk away, but the ground and his weight kept her bound.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “Your juices are like honey on my tongue. The gift of life to a dying man parched by the desert sun. Fill my mouth with your juices, Edina. Give me life.”
He stroked, licked, lapped until her juices flowed over his tongue and she sobbed his name.
He stripped off his hose. His gaze on her expressive face, he filled her. Her easing spasms nearly drove him over the edge. Only her eyes—filled with wonder and delight with the gift he had just given her—kept him from plunging to his own release. He wanted—needed—to see her eyes when she came this time.
Without his urging, she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her arms wreathed about his back. As they matched thrust and parry, her hands told him much about her need. Flat on his back at first, they traced his muscles from his shoulders to his buttocks. Lazy. Dreamy. Then her fingers pressed hard. Curled. Her nails dug into his butt muscles. He could hear his balls slapping against her hot, wet nether lips.
“Gerard!” She screamed his name. Her eyes widened. Darkened. Glazed. Climaxing, she took him with her.
Seconds, minutes, hours later, she murmured, “Oh my! I forgot the soap.”
* * * * *
Marchon Orchards
Flummoxed, Edgar watched Rowena carefully open the blanket she had refused to let him carry. From its folds she took a lute then carefully cradled it to her.
Her blue eyes alight with pride, she smiled up at him. “Beautiful, isn’t she? And her voice is so sweet and pure the angels weep to hear her.” Sitting on the spread blanket, Rowena hugged the instrument as she would a lover.
As, Edgar hoped, she will soon hold me.
“I hope you do not mind my bringing her. I thought I could play while you sing. If you will?”
“Happily. Although I doubt my voice will match hers. Even Gerard’s lute is not so beautiful.”
“His is beautiful enough to have earned an equally beautiful case. I saw Gerard’s squire return the lute to it and nearly wept at the sight.” With care, she laid the lute beside her.
“He’s not supposed to touch her.”
“How sad. Gerard’s squire seems to possess a chanteur’s soul—if the chanteur is fortunate enough to own such a magnificent instrument.”
“How do you know about the squ
ire’s soul?”
“The reverence on his face.”
“Is that all? A look? You might have mistaken greed—she is valuable—”
“Only to another singer or lute player.”
“For reverence.”
Rowena huffed. “He sang to her when he returned her to her case. I sing to my lute Ariel when I must leave her.”
“Let’s not argue, Rowena.” Settling beside her, he examined the intricate inlays and wood hues then handed the instrument to Rowena. She took it, her right hand on the neck, her left arm cradling its pear-shaped bowl. Plucking and pegging, she tuned Ariel to sweet perfection.
While he waited, Edgar stared at the summer blue sky. Through the canopy of the mother tree, he could catch glimpses of puffy white clouds. A hawk drifted on a breeze unfelt below. His eyes saw, yet his mind kept busy on the matter of Rowena and her lute. He pictured Gerard lifting his lute from her velvet-lined box—his left hand on her neck, his right cupping her rounded bottom.
Was telling the twins apart that simple? Was one right-handed, the other not? Would he and Gerard ever see them together to know the difference?
“Edgar? Lively or sad? The tune, I mean.”
“Lively, to match our mood.”
A slight blush tinting her cheeks, she played a tavern song a gentlewoman never should have heard. Not only did she play it perfectly, she knew every bawdy word. Nodding encouragement, she fed him the words until—no longer embarrassed for either of them—he sang them.
“Your voice is…magnificent,” she said, strumming a tune he didn’t recognize.
“And you play magnificently. I wonder… Years ago, Gerard composed a ballad. If I sing it, can you play it?”
“I can try. You must allow mistakes, Edgar. It may take me several attempts to get it straight.”
“Gerard invested several weeks before he decided to play it for his lady.” Seeing Rowena’s eyes flash and her lips purse, Edgar hastily added, “A cousin he fancied himself in love with at the time. He was fifteen, she nearly twenty and safely betrothed to another.”
“Ah. A May-December love then. Fifteen being May—”