Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

“I carry a roll of old linen in my saddlebag,” Desmond told her. “It’s amazing how often I use it.”

  “If you will remove your tunic, I’ll clean and bind up your arm.”

  He unbuckled his belt and laid it and his sword across the foot of the bed. Then he began to pull off his punctured and blood-stained chainmail tunic. Hearing him wince, Elaine cast aside her last shred of maidenly reserve and stepped forward to help him. She caught the hem of the chainmail and lifted it, taking most of its considerable weight while he peeled the sleeve away from his arm and cast the tunic aside.

  After dipping a towel in water Elaine laid it over his wound. It took only a few minutes until the moisture combined with her careful teasing loosened the torn sleeve of the padded shirt he’d worn beneath his mail so he could remove it, too. His linen undershirt was next and was much easier, since the arm of it was already thoroughly wet.

  When he stood before her naked to the waist she swallowed hard, not at the sight of his wound, which was long and thin and looked to have cleaned itself by copious bleeding, but at the wonderful manly form revealed to her. She had seen men before with their shirts off. Not one of them had ever affected her as Desmond did.

  His shoulders were strongly muscled, but he was not as bulky as most of the men-at-arms who daily practiced with weapons in the courtyard at Warden’s Manor and who routinely stripped when the weather was warm.

  Looking at Desmond’s shoulders in fascinated admiration, Elaine acknowledged the taut, smooth – and deadly – strength of him. The perfection of his upper body was marred only by a scar on his left shoulder, another along his left side, and several small scars on his arms. She knew most fighting men bore similar reminders of battle. Scars were considered badges of honor.

  Desmond’s chest was broad, although, like his shoulders it was not bulky with muscle. Instead, he gave the appearance of catlike grace and strength, of power controlled by intelligence, rather than by unthinking brute force. Soft, golden brown hair furred his chest and his lower arms, not nearly as dark or heavy as the body hair of other, coarser, men. Desmond was made of finer stuff than a mere man-at-arms. His skin glowed with the tan developed after hours in the sun. And his grey-green eyes were intense when she lifted her gaze to his.

  “If you feel faint,” he said, “I can clean and bandage my own arm. I’ve done it often enough in the past.”

  “No.” She recovered her wits by sheer strength of will. “I don’t sicken at the sight of blood. I was only wondering if I ought to sew up the gash.”

  “Just wrap it tightly.” He pulled a roll of linen from his saddlebag, along with the jar containing the ointment she had used on Jean and Ewan. He smiled at her look of surprise. “I try to be prepared. If you smear some of this over the cut, it will heal soon enough.”

  “Yes, I think you are right.” She couldn’t help herself; she needed to touch him, so she planted the tips of her ten fingers on his beautiful body and pushed gently. “Sit down, please.”

  Desmond obediently sat on the bed. Taking the basin from the table, Elaine used it to scoop water from one of the buckets. With the towel that was already damp and some of the soap she began to clean the wound and the area around it. Doing so necessarily brought her close to Desmond. He steadied his arm by laying it across his thigh while he let her do as she wanted with him.

  Elaine wasn’t a complete innocent. No one who lived in the close confines of a manor house could remain ignorant of what men and women did together, and she recognized the physical signs of desire in a man. To her knowledge, no man had ever displayed any sign of wanting her. Until Desmond.

  She knew he was watching her face as she worked, so she tried to conceal how aware she was of his manly discomfort. Keeping her gaze strictly on his wound, refusing to glance toward the source of the growing heat that emanated from him, she wrapped his arm, tearing off the bandage, splitting the end of the linen with practiced competence, and tying the bandage securely.

  “Thank you.”

  At his whispered words she looked up, directly into his eyes. The warmth she saw there nearly brought her to her knees. He lifted his right hand to brush back a loose strand of her hair and tuck it behind her ear. Elaine licked her dry lips and saw how he watched the quick movement of her tongue. She wasn’t sure what he would do next, whether he would kiss her, or reject her.

  The arrival of the innkeeper put an end to her overheated musings.

  “Sir, I have your dinner tray,” the innkeeper called from outside the chamber door.

  “Just a moment.” Desmond glanced at the bloody water in the basin. “Dump that,” he ordered in the curt low-pitched tone Elaine had grown used to hearing at moments of possible danger.

  While Desmond wrapped his cloak around his bare shoulders, holding it so the bandage on his arm didn’t show, Elaine opened the window and tossed the water out, then set the basin on the table and hid the pink-stained towel behind her back.

  Only then did Desmond open the door to admit the innkeeper and one of the maidservants.

  “Sorry to interrupt yer baths,” the innkeeper said. “We’re busy in the common room below, so if I don’t feed ye now, ye’ll have to wait until much later and I’m guessin’ ye’ll want yer bed early. Travelers usually do. Now, I’m givin’ ye a fine beef stew, a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, a pitcher of wine, and a small tart made of dried apples and honey for yer sweet. Will that be enough?”

  “Oh, yes,” Elaine said, trying to sound enthusiastic, though she wondered if she’d be able to eat a single bite. When the innkeeper proudly lifted the cover of the large bowl of stew to display the contents, she gulped and added, “It smells wonderful.”

  More coins changed hands, then Desmond bolted the door behind their host and the maidservant, who went out after casting an interested look at Desmond’s bare chest.

  “Before we eat,” Desmond said, “take off your dress and shift.”

  “What?” She went cold at the unemotional way he spoke.

  “It’s either that, or cut off your sleeve to get to your wound, and I think you’d prefer to enter Caen with your arms covered.”

  “You needn’t bother,” she began.

  “You are as pale as the fair linen of any altar cloth,” he said, smiling a little. “Of course, I need to bother. You fought well in my behalf and you tended to my wound. Now it’s my turn to clean up the cut on your shoulder and bandage it. When I’ve finished, you may want to use some of that hot water to wash away the dust and grime you’ve accumulated over the last two days. It’s what I plan to do after you are clean.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She had been feeling a bit queasy from the strong smell of the beef stew, but the unpleasant sensation quickly disappeared as she recalled the warm tension between them while she worked on his wound.

  “Now!” he commanded gruffly. “You don’t want your wound to fester, or the water to cool. Take off your dress. Wrap yourself in your cloak with just your shoulder uncovered. I’ll turn around until you are ready. But be quick about it. I do not care to eat cold stew.”

  She struggled a bit with her dress, finally applying the damp towel to it as she had done to tease the tunic from his arm. Her shift was easier to remove. Too nervous to think of what was right and proper, she tossed both garments onto the bed, where they landed on top of Desmond’s sword and belt. Finally, wearing only her shoes and stockings, with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, she took Desmond’s former position on the side of the bed and let him tend to her.

  His touch was gentle as he washed her shoulder and examined the gash.

  “This is a deeper wound than mine,” he said. “I’m glad I thought to include the ointment in my supplies. Lift your arm so I can bandage it properly.”

  By the time he was finished the herbs in the ointment had soothed the last of the stinging pain of the cut. He tied the strip of linen over her shoulder and under her armpit, with a neat knot at the back of her shoulder.

  “N
ow, use the water,” he said, looking closely at her. “Your face is dirty and so are your hands.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Do it. I’m tired and hungry and not amenable to maidenly objections. Fair is fair: I will turn my back while you wash, and then you may turn yours while I wash.”

  She was also weary, though not at all hungry, and the water, still hot when she dipped her fingers into one of the buckets, was too tempting to resist. Elaine unfastened her ribbon garters, pulled off her stockings, cast aside the cloak, and stepped into the little tub the innkeeper’s boy had left. She wished she could wash her hair, but there wasn’t enough water and she didn’t think Desmond would allow her the time she’d need to do a thorough job. Scooping some of the gelatinous soap from the bowl with her fingers, she lathered herself as fast as she could, then used the basin to pour water over herself to rinse away the suds. The remaining dry towel was too small to be of much use.

  “Here.” Desmond’s hand appeared at the corner of her vision. He was holding a piece of coarse fabric. “Use this.”

  With a gasp of outrage Elaine whirled around, to find him standing with his back turned and the bed sheet dangling from his fingers.

  “Thank you.” She seized the sheet and covered herself with it. By the time she was finished, Desmond had lathered his face with soap from the bowl. “I’ll turn my back, as you did,” she offered.

  The sounds of Desmond removing his boots and hose and then splashing water around affected her as much as his earlier closeness had done while she bandaged his arm. The thought of him entirely unclothed left her shaking. She wished she’d had sense enough to take her clean shift out of her saddlebag before she washed, but the saddlebag sat under the window and she couldn’t reach it without seeing Desmond. Which, she admitted to herself, she wanted to do, but she didn’t dare look. He had behaved honorably and hadn’t peeked at her while she bathed. She owed him the same courtesy.

  “Let us eat.”

  He was wearing his cloak again, draped over his shoulders and gathered close at his waist. His feet were bare, but otherwise he was decently covered. Except, she knew he wasn’t wearing anything at all under the cloak. But then, she was only covered by the coarse sheet.

  If Lady Irmina could see them, she would faint and, the moment she was revived, she’d demand satisfaction for the insult offered to her daughter’s virtue. The fact that Desmond had kept Elaine safe during a dangerous journey would count for nothing. Nor would the fact that, privately, Lady Irmina herself was far from virtuous, or that she cared little for her plain-faced older child. Only what showed on the surface mattered to Lady Irmina. That aspect of her character was the source of much dissension between mother and daughter.

  Elaine sighed, thinking of the confrontation that was sure to come when they met in Caen.

  “You must eat.” Desmond gestured, and she obeyed the implied command, sitting on the edge of the bed. He pulled the table closer to her and, sitting down on the stool, he began spooning the stew into the small bowls the innkeeper had provided.

  She hadn’t thought she could swallow a mouthful, but suddenly she realized how hungry she was. She finished the stew, ate the wedge of cheese Desmond cut for her, and chewed on a piece of the crusty bread.

  “The wine isn’t bad,” he said, filling a wooden cup for her.

  She sipped from the cup, then drank deeply.

  “It is good. Thank you for taking care of me. I haven’t been thinking very clearly since this afternoon.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Your reaction was natural.” His large hand covered hers on the table. When she met his gaze, his warm smile slowly faded into a serious expression. “We are going to have to share the bed. The floor is certain to be hard, it’s none too clean, and I want a good rest tonight. We don’t know what we’ll have to face tomorrow before we reach Caen.”

  “I understand.” She could barely whisper the words.

  “Nor do I want to put on my dirty undershirt now that I’m clean again. I intend to sleep as I am. Will that offend you?”

  “No, of course not. I – Do you want the sheet?” Her voice cracked and she pretended to cough. It was so hard to sound as if they were discussing the weather when she was wondering if he still wanted her, or if the few moments of desire she had noticed earlier had completely faded away with the innkeeper’s interruption. His soft laugh startled her.

  “I can sleep wrapped in my cloak,” he said.

  “Oh. Will you be comfortable that way?”

  “No. Not while I’m lying next to you.”

  “I’ll try not to disturb you.”

  “Look at me, Elaine.”

  She could not resist his commanding, yet gentle voice. When she met his gaze she amended that thought to, his tender voice, and his warm gaze. And his hands, sliding over her forearms to link his fingers through hers. His mouth curved into a slight smile that made her want to kiss him.

  “I will never do anything you do not want,” he said. “It’s only fair to warn you again that I have nothing to offer any woman, no title, no land, only my few personal belongings. And my heart, scarred and tarnished as it is.”

  Elaine withdrew a hand from his warm grasp and lifted it to touch his cheek.

  “Do you truly desire me?” she asked, scarcely daring to believe what he was saying.

  “Since the first moment I saw you.”

  “No one else ever has.”

  “I cannot believe that. You are lovely and intelligent, and remarkably sensible for a woman.”

  “For a woman?” she exclaimed. “Is that an insult?”

  “Women are supposed to be silly and giddy,” he said. “The ladies at the royal court certainly are. There’s not a serious thought among them. The only other intelligent woman I’ve ever met is my brother’s wife, and she stays away from court as much as possible. Like her, you are also kind.”

  “And desirable?” Her voice trembled.

  “Very.”

  “Desmond?”

  “Yes?”

  “I – I find you desirable, too.”

  “You are driving me mad,” he whispered.

  “I want you to hold me. Your chest is beautiful. I want so much to feel your naked chest against mine.”

  “Woman, you would tempt a celibate saint to forget his vows!”

  Leaping up from the stool, he shoved the table aside and caught her in his arms so forcefully that the sheet she wore slipped down to her waist. In the next instant Elaine was granted her wish when his chest pressed against her bare breasts. The sensation of soft hair and warm skin on hers left her breathless. Before she could tell him just how wonderful it was, his mouth came down on hers with all the passion of a wild and windblown summer storm.

  She opened her lips, hoping he’d do what he had done once before, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. He did, and the heat of it left her weak. She responded by letting her tongue slide against his until she felt herself melting into him. She was aware of her feet leaving the cold wooden floor as he swept her up in his arms and laid her on the bed. She opened her eyes to see him above her, his enveloping cloak gone, only Desmond and his warmth surrounding and enclosing her. When she glanced downward the size of his manly part took her aback.

  She wasn’t sure how he would fit them together when their sizes were so disparate, but she trusted him completely. Desmond would never hurt her, of that much she was certain. The hard evidence of his desire for her prodded at her thigh, the sensuous touch creating a surprising pool of heat deep inside her. She shifted a little, trying to get closer to the jutting object of her desire.

  To her despair, Desmond drew back. Then he kissed her again, a long, slow, deep exploration of her mouth that only increased the heated ache deep within her body. She cried out in soft protest when he ended the kiss, but he began to nuzzle at her neck and her breasts, where his fingers were working the most amazing magic.

  Elaine surrendered, offering herself to his pleasure and her
own, letting him do whatever he wanted. After a delicious few minutes, compelled by an increasing restlessness, she began to touch him, caressing his shoulders, reaching around to his solid back to stroke the hard muscles there, trailing her fingers along his spine to the cleft of his buttocks. Desmond groaned.

  “Are you in pain?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Dreadful pain,” he answered, laughter mingling with another groan as her fingers pressed deeper still. “If you don’t stop at once, I will either die, or ravish you in the most barbaric way.”

  “Does that mean you like what I’m doing?” His only response was another groan, which encouraged her to continue stroking him, for her awakening senses recognized the sound as an expression of pleasure too intense for mere words. “Perhaps I want you to ravish me.”

  “Believe me, my sweet, you don’t. Another time, perhaps, but this is your first experience with a man and you need gentleness and care.” His hand drifted slowly downward along her flank and back up the inside of her thigh.

  “I’m not feeling particularly gentle,” she gasped, writhing under his intimate caress. “I feel like groaning, myself. I want something, but I don’t know what it is. Oh, Desmond, do please stop touching me that way!”

  “Does it hurt?” With the lightest of touches, he caressed a part of her that she had never suspected was so sensitive. Just a quick touch and then his questing fingers were gone, leaving her in a state of longing and emptiness.

  “No, it’s just that – yes, it does hurt! I ache. I’m burning. Help me.” She did groan then, reacting to the sheer pleasure of it when his finger returned, pressing more firmly this time, easing her rising discomfort. But not enough. She had to have more.

  “Is that better?” His mouth was at her breast, his tongue teasing her nipple, so she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. She was finding it difficult to keep her thoughts clear.

  “I want – I need -” She lifted her hips, eagerly pushing herself against his hand. She sensed, rather than actually felt, a moistness in that part of her body. Liquid heat, pooling between her thighs, waiting for Desmond to make her his. She had heard that possession by a man hurt the first time, but she knew no pain, only an ache that cried out for his manliness. He took his hand away and raised his head from her breast. “Please! I don’t know what you are doing to me.”