LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  Her mouth was as hungry as his. He groaned with every sweep of her tongue.

  He caressed her. Readied her. Postponed the taking. Aroused her whilst arousing himself.

  All his senses were consumed by her. His head filled with the scent of her, his mouth with her taste.

  “Adam,” she whispered at his ear, and he felt a twist of regret that in her passion she did not call for Adrian, but rather for a man who did not exist.

  They moved against each other. It was an almost frantic undulation, hips bumping hips, his fingertips stirring her passions and his.

  Every fiber of his body went hot along with the rising flames by their heads. From where her hands cupped his buttocks to where her tongue roamed his throat, he broke out in sweat.

  She quivered against his fingertips and her hips twisted beneath him. She gave a keening cry, sweeping away any doubts her completion had come.

  He rose on his hands to watch as passion and the fire’s glow stained her skin scarlet.

  He thrust into her.

  And tore through her maidenhead.

  She choked back a cry; her body went rigid. Her fingers locked on his hips.

  Her eyes opened wide and filled with the reflection of the fire. The tide of his desire tempered, soothed by the knowledge she was innocent. He slowed his thrusts, tried to gentle his touch.

  He watched the changing expressions on her face until, at last, need took over and he drove deep inside her.

  A surge of emotion constricted his throat, so he closed his eyes lest she see that it was not the smoke that caused the moisture in them.

  She wrapped her arms around his chest and arched her body to meet his, saying his name again and again.

  With each plunge of his body, he reveled in the slick, hot feel of her and imagined she held a fire inside to lick along his manhood and consume him just as the flames consumed the wood in the hearth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hugh de Coleville considered the driving rain. He frowned. Adam was making himself scarce this morn, and the way to his tent would be a wet business. Hugh thought he’d do better to search out a lightskirt and crawl between her warm thighs.

  Mathilda came up behind him as if conjured from his lascivious thoughts.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the privies,” he lied.

  “They’ll be a noisome place on such a day.”

  He shrugged.

  “Come with me. I’ll find you better.”

  “I am a dog trained to her heel,” he muttered.

  “Did you speak?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Not me,” he said.

  They stopped at a chamber he realized must be hers. “I’m not entering your chamber. Have you lost your wits?”

  “I’ll wait here for you. I cannot be inside with you, if I am standing out here, now, can I?” She held open her door. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have my own privy behind that curtain. ‘Tis sweetly scented and will serve you well.”

  He stalked across her chamber, leaving some muddy boot prints on the wooden floor, fouling the rushes. It gave him a perverse delight. He pushed aside the curtain that concealed the thunder box.

  She had cloths laid out for washing and pots of soap and fresh water. He inspected the amenities, thinking his mother had not been more pampered in the de Coleville manor and regretting he’d used the cold, dank privies outside and had no real need of her facility.

  He strolled about her chamber, finally standing by the bed. “Mathilda,” he called.

  She opened the door and peeked in. “Did you want me?”

  Her words sent a rush of heat through him. “That I want you is not in dispute. That I care no more for you than some tart in a tavern is the real point.”

  The smile fled her face and he felt a twinge of something akin to guilt.

  “We need to speak,” she said as if commanding a groom. “But not here. Meet me in the little chamber behind the hall.”

  Her preemptory tone defied the look of her. Her hair was loose down her back like a child’s. Her gown was one she might wear among her family or women, loose and straight without ornament.

  “I’m not aware we have anything to say to each other. What little chamber?”

  “You’ll know it when you find it.” The portal stood empty as she flitted away.

  * * * * *

  The wind died. An uncanny silence fell over the lodge, broken only by the hiss of the fire, and the inarticulate sounds Adam made in his throat.

  Joan embraced him tightly with her arms and legs. His skin was hot and wet with sweat.

  He groaned from deep in his chest; his movements became quick, short thrusts. She thought ‘twas as if a hot blade possessed her, not the flesh and blood of a mortal man.

  She rode out the storm that consumed him, awash in her own torrent of sensations.

  A sudden, cold fear blunted her passion. Would she open her eyes and this was naught but a dream, a trick of the mind as Nat was wont to have?

  A moment later, Adam collapsed to his side, drawing her with him, holding her hips tightly to his.

  She placed her palm on his chest. His heart still beat with a frantic pace. Her own had calmed.

  Their tunics were damp with sweat where they were bunched between them, high on their ribs.

  What should she say? How did women act when they’ve lost their virginity in a moment of blinding passion—lost it to a man who would be husband to another?

  What had possessed her?

  If he asked the same question now, she must say madness.

  She wanted to leap up and run away.

  He shifted so he could see her face. His vivid blue eyes demanded she meet his gaze.

  “You are my Diana,” he whispered. “My huntress. I feel like a stag in rut and would take you ten times within this hour if I had the strength.”

  She said nothing.

  He pulled back, gripping her chin and lifting her face.

  “What is it, my love?” he said.

  She rolled out of his embrace, stood up, and tugged the tunic down her hips. “I must find Basil.”

  “The dog is an excuse to separate yourself from me. Why?”

  How easily he saw within her. She could not get the words, words of Mathilda, past her throat. She just shook her head. The loose mass of hair that swung across her breast merely reminded her of her wanton behavior.

  Wanton. It was what Brian had called her and he spoke the truth. Wantons claimed the men of other women.

  “You’ll not find a dog in this rain,” Adam continued. “He’ll have taken shelter as have we. Come back.”

  He had not pulled down his tunic. Desire flicked through her like the crack of a whip on bare skin.

  What had she done? She pressed her hand to her stomach and fought a rising panic. All this time, she had sought to protect Nat’s place at Ravenswood so he might live his out his days here, and in one mad moment, she had ensured that they must leave. How could she ever look Mathilda in the eye?

  Adam stood up, the tunic falling down to cover him, but it was short and did little to conceal his shape. What a beautiful man he was. Yet there was more to this than physical lust, was there not? There had to be after what she’d done.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nay, do not speak. I know what it is. You have remembered who I am. You’ve been thinking you have given your innocence to a hated mercenary. A man who will not scruple to sell his sword to the highest bidder.”

  “Adam. Nay. I thought nothing of the sort.”

  He snatched up the blanket near his feet. “Do not lie.”

  She caught the corner of the blanket and they held it between them. He was taut with anger.

  “I am not lying,” she said.

  “Then what were you thinking? Not of your missing Basil. You were not thinking of a dog when you left my arms.”

  “I thought of Mathilda.”

  The name stood between them f
or a dozen heartbeats.

  “In truth?”

  Something in his tone told her she must speak only the truth at this moment. “Aye. I thought of what we had done. And that you want Mathilda. And that she was once my friend.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and he dropped his end of the blanket. “Grateful I am that it was not my status in the world that turned you cold.” He put his hand on his chest. “Feel my heart. It’s beating far too quickly. You’ve done that to me.”

  Then he groaned and rubbed his lower back.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He turned around and lifted the hem of the tunic, and she gasped at the ugly bruises overspreading his hips and buttocks.

  “How can you bear it?” she asked, placing her palm to the mottled black, purple, and yellowing marks.

  “I mind bear it because I must. And, in truth, it is better each day.”

  A consciousness that she was touching him most intimately made her withdraw her hand.

  And she realized he had not spoken of Mathilda.

  How could she justify what she had done?

  He had almost drowned. She could not take back the leap into the pond, nor the demonstration of her feelings for him. Had she shouted it from Ravenswood’s ramparts, she could not have told him more clearly what she thought of him.

  Hate him? Nay, ‘twas much worse than that. She loved Mathilda’s soon-to-be husband. Joan took a step away from him.

  Adam caught her hand. He held her fingers for a moment, then lifted them to his lips. “Why are you suddenly wary of me again?”

  She felt scrutinized as a hawk watches its prey.

  “If I was wary, I would not have touched you.”

  “You touched me as you would a wounded animal. One can fear an animal and still offer it succor. What were you thinking?”

  This time she lied. “I thought of the drowned man.”

  “You could have done nothing for him. He had been dead many hours.” Then his voice went low and husky. “You leapt into the pond to save me. I am humbled.”

  An hour ago, by the pond, she had thought of nothing, felt only a screaming pain when she’d seen the black hair floating on the water. That pain had been as raw as if someone had dragged a blade across her breast.

  An hour ago she had been a virgin.

  She had betrayed a one-time friend. Another kind of pain throbbed in her temples.

  He cupped her face and lifted it. “Are you sorry for what we did here?” he asked.

  His eyes were so blue, so alive, so seeing.

  She bit her lip. “It is just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Mathilda.”

  His fierce hug wrenched her arm. She cried out and he lightened his hold.

  “Forgive me, I’ve hurt you again.” A smile curved his lips. “I showed you my injuries, now you must show me yours.” He eased up the tunic sleeve and gently probed her upper arm. “I may have forgotten your injury, but I have not forgotten Mathilda.”

  Joan pulled away, going to her gown and spreading the skirt that it might better dry. It was imperative it dry. She must leave this place. Now. Before she gave in to the compulsion to feel his body joined to hers again. Perhaps on Richard’s grand bed this time.

  “You are here to claim Mathilda—” she said.

  “I am here to claim Ravenswood. There is a vast difference.”

  Something burned in Joan’s breast. A coal of misgiving. “How can you have Ravenswood without her?”

  “Trust me.”

  He put out his hand. It was a strong hand. She went to where he stood. And took it.

  He tugged her near. His fingers were gentle across her cheek and brow. “You must trust me. I did not take you in idle pleasure.”

  His forearms were roped with muscle. Veins near his wrist throbbed with blood. And ‘twas blood she knew that flooded through her to swell her in places that embarrassed her.

  He kissed her forehead and brows. “I know it is hard to trust someone who has served in John’s Flemish company. Yet, I ask it of you. Ask, not demand. Will you believe me? I am here for Ravenswood and Ravenswood alone. Trust me.”

  They did not make love on Richard’s bed.

  They made love as they had before, on the furs before the fire. This time, Adam stripped off her tunic and his before they began.

  As she watched the fierce expressions chase each other across his face during his release, she held herself in check.

  One part of her wanted to give everything to him, from the first simple kiss to total submission of her body. Another part of her held back and stood outside to watch over them and say, it will never be.

  That part of her ruined the rapture.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It took Hugh less than a quarter hour to admit he must find the small chamber or perish of an aching cock. The room proved to have once been used as a private, family chapel, but was now filled to the brim with discarded furniture and crates.

  Mathilda waited, perched on a chest. She traced her fingertip through dust. “We must speak of what happened between us at the fair.”

  Hugh crossed his arms. “I suppose I must apologize for my behavior. Though a woman is wanton by nature…or so the philosophers tell us.”

  She frowned. “Wanton by nature? And that you call an apology?”

  “Nay. I said I supposed I should apologize. I have not yet done so.”

  Her small feet dangled, swinging against the chest with a rhythmic tapping. “I am waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For your apology, you dolt.”

  “I apologize.”

  “I sense a hesitation. Have you more to say?” She mimicked his stance.

  The posture pushed up her breasts and drew his gaze. What a lush place to rest one’s head.

  “Hugh,” she said.

  He jerked his attention to her face. “If I seem to hesitate, it is because you, my lady, laid hand to me first.”

  “Oh? Is that a signal you should release your restraints?”

  “It is usually so. A woman touches a man in a certain way and he may see it as invitation. You never said, ‘Stop’ or ‘Unhand me, you beast’.”

  She hopped off the chest and walked toward him. “You are a great beast.” There was a smile on her lips, a bright delight in her eyes.

  He took a deep breath. She walked toward the door. The back of her gown was dusty where she’d sat on the chest.

  “Wait,” he said.

  Her buttocks were soft and warm through the thin gown as he swept away the dirt. “Anyone would think you were—”

  He never finished his sentence. She turned. Somehow, she was in his arms again, her lips on his. He spread his hands across the lush mounds of her buttocks and lifted her. Her legs came around his hips, and he walked her back to the chest, set her down, and threw up her hem.

  She was rosy pink flesh, moist and ready, when he laid his hand on her. Her palms were also damp when she slid her hand into his braies. His breath expelled in a long sigh as she palmed the weight of his stones.

  He made short work of his clothing, did not bother to remove hers, merely shoved the loose gown up her body.

  As he entered her he discovered she was not a virgin. She was inexperienced, but not pure. The fact chased away his guilt that this should be Adam’s moment, not his.

  “Hugh,” she gasped, a deep flush of red rising on her cheeks. She was slick and hot around him. He could no longer wait. Her head fell back, her hips lifted sharply. He clamped his hand over her mouth as she twisted and arched through her climax. He jerked out of her, groaned through his own finish, then dropped his forehead onto her shoulder.

  She combed his hair from his sweaty brow and trailed light kisses along his temples and cheeks.

  “How many men have had you?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “A man likes to know how may swords have fitted a sheath.”

  She shoved at his chest. “What does it mat
ter? You were not chaste, were you? I am not your first, so what does it matter if I’ve had more than one lover? Nay, what does it matter if I’ve had one hundred lovers? I should ask how many sheaths have held your sword, you hypocrite.”

  “Now you call me stupid.”

  He moved away to pick up his tunic. She remained as she was, legs spread, gown twisted at her waist, golden hair tumbling everywhere.

  “I hate you, Hugh de Coleville. I’ve hated you since I met you when I was twelve and you were a bullying ten and eight.”

  “Oh, aye, you hate me, you who are wet with my passions and flushed from your release.”

  He jerked his buckle closed then went down on his knees between her thighs. She mewed a protest when he set his lips to the delicate skin of her inner thigh just above her knee.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Marking you so your next lover knows I was here.”

  She gripped his hair and tugged, but he resisted the pain and her gasps of indignation, gasps that only lasted until he slid his fingertips into her damp curls and massaged the still swollen treasure there.

  He suckled her soft skin until a large angry mark appeared. Then he left off the effort, delighting in her confused look.

  “My lady.” He bowed and left her.

  * * * * *

  Adam carried Joan back to the castle in his arms. He walked straight through the bailey, ignoring surprised looks and whispers, and set her on her doorstep. There he left her without word or gesture to indicate the passion they’d shared.

  His arms felt empty, his mind flooded with thoughts as he strode toward his tent. On the way, he paused to tell Hugh of the minstrel’s death, then summoned Douglas and gave orders about Christopher’s body.

  He felt some guilt that Christopher had lain out in the elements whilst he had warmed himself at a fire with Joan.

  But one must tend the living over the dead.

  What had Christopher learned in Winchester? Had he died with a translation of Brian de Harcourt’s paper in his head? There was nothing for it but to try to find another way to have the paper translated.

  Adam tossed on warm clothes, the finest he could find in his coffer. He must make his explanations to Mathilda before the gossip reached her that Joan had come home in his arms. The whole purpose of taking Joan to the lodge, to hide her state until she was dry and warm, had been negated by her insistence they return at a time when many were apt to see them.