The word love hadn’t crossed Arthur’s lips. How could it? They hardly knew each other. But just as he was the only man she’d ever yearned to kiss, he was also the only man she’d wanted in this way.
Life was changing. Anything might happen when she reached Fontaine. Some changes would be for the best, but would they all? She couldn’t be sure. Arthur was right to suggest that Count Myrrdin—a great lord—would make plans for her. It was unlikely that she would be consulted. This was a man’s world and she was used to that. But tonight, she had a choice. Tonight, she wanted Arthur. The feelings this knight evoked in her were unlike any in her experience. She might not understand the emotions behind those feelings—the warmth, the hunger—but she knew enough to recognise that liking and trust were vital. She couldn’t imagine feeling this way with anyone else.
Only with Arthur could she be so bold.
The future was unknown, but tonight she would accept what he offered. In return, she would do her best to see that he had pleasure, too.
She ran her palm up that muscled, masculine chest, and heat rushed through her. She was melting. Arthur’s answering groan made her long for him all the more. Sir Arthur Ferrer. Until she had met him, she had had no notion that a woman could want a man so much that it hurt. She had never met anyone with his particular combination of strength and gentleness. It was extraordinarily compelling.
He had come of common stock and some would name him a bastard. Even though he had risen to become Captain of the Guardian Knights, it was plain he had suffered because of his birth. How could people be so blind? So stupid. How could they not see how honourable he was? How exceptional.
At the back of her mind, she was aware there was much Arthur hadn’t told her. Was his brother’s death related to his humble background? Was that why he had avoided marriage?
He asked me to marry him—he can’t mean it. Sir Arthur Ferrer can’t really want to marry me.
Why would he, when back in Troyes he had matters arranged to suit him? Gabrielle. And, presumably, when the mood took him, other women at the Black Boar. His father had never married, why should he?
Arthur offered because he felt he ought to. Because he is chivalrous.
Clare had no wish to bind herself to any man. Admittedly, her experience of marriage was limited to observations she had made during her time as a slave. Her owner’s wife, Veronica, had been little better than a slave herself. The only difference between Veronica and the slaves had been that Veronica’s beatings had been less severe. For many women, marriage was but another form of slavery.
Arthur was dragging up the skirts of her blue gown, smoothing his hand up over her calf, thigh, hip...
Her thoughts scattered. A strange lassitude had stolen over her. Her limbs felt heavy. She was at this man’s mercy and, miracle of miracles, she felt not the tiniest jot of fear. All she felt was want. She shivered.
‘Clare? You are cold?’
‘Not at all.’ She smiled and ran her hands down his back and over his buttocks. The chain round his neck flashed in the lamplight. Hooking her fingers into his belt, she gave it a slight tug.
He was quick to take the hint. There was a breathless flurry of movement—the whisper of garments sliding over skin—and before she knew it they were naked on the pallet.
His gaze ran down her and a large hand followed his gaze, stroking in the gentlest of ways—arm, waist, hip...
He swallowed. ‘Honey and cream,’ he muttered. Clare felt her nipples tighten. Bending close, he blew a strand of hair from her breast and bent to dot kisses on her breast. On her nipples. Holding her steady with the gentlest of touches, he used his tongue, pausing only to give a sensual murmur of approval. ‘You even taste of honey.’
A sharp sensation shot from breast to womb and her gasp had him lifting his head. His smile was wicked. He knew the effect he was having on her. Eager for more from that smiling mouth, she dragged his head back to her breast. He groaned. Clare moaned.
Then it struck her, they mustn’t make a noise—they were in a monastery, for heaven’s sake, and what they were doing was a sin. It wouldn’t do to offend their hosts.
‘What if someone hears?’
Arthur lifted his head and brown eyes gleamed down at her. Dark. Hungry. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’
‘No. No. But we must be quiet. Ivo...the monks...’
‘Ivo’s asleep and the monks are in their dormitory by now. No one will hear.’
Clare frowned. ‘I really don’t want to upset them.’
With a sigh, Arthur reached for a blanket and drew it over them. ‘You’ve remembered it’s Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’ Clare blinked. For a moment she could not think what he was referring to.
‘It is forbidden for a man and a woman to take their pleasure of each other like this—we have no intention of having children. What we are doing is forbidden on Sunday; even if we were married it would be forbidden. And...’ Arthur’s fingers moved gently up and down her breast, teasing, tantalising ‘...as we are not married, I expect that makes us sinners twice over. This worries you? You are religious?’
‘Not especially.’
Clare’s master had seen to it that his slaves had attended the chapel on his estate. The services had been a welcome respite from what had been, for the most part, hard labour in the field and kitchen. But as she’d grown older, she’d begun to wonder about the character of a priest who condoned slavery. From there it had been but a short step to work out that the slaves were sent to chapel, not for their spiritual welfare, but to benefit their master. If slaves were instilled with a sense of right and wrong, they were more likely to be obedient. If slaves had been taught to understand the hierarchy, they were less likely to rebel against their place at the bottom of the scheme of things.
She was no longer a slave. However, the shape of her life in Fontaine was as yet unmapped. Today she was as free as she was ever likely to be. In Fontaine, if Count Myrrdin acknowledged her, her life would in all likelihood be arranged for her. She had no experience of life as the daughter of a count, but she would have to do her duty.
How odd. She had prayed for freedom for years, yet she had only just realised that no one was completely free. The daughter of a count was not free. And neither was Arthur—he had managed to rise through the ranks, but he was bound by his oath of loyalty to the Count of Champagne.
His hand shifted. He was sifting her hair through his fingers, arranging it round her neck, draping it over her breast. She wanted to please this man. Today she was a free woman, tomorrow could fend for itself.
‘Show me how to give you joy,’ she said, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm.
He rolled over her, cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss that left her breathless. Burning.
Breathing in that earthy, masculine scent—Arthur—Clare hooked her legs around his.
‘Careful, ma mie.’ She allowed him to unhook her legs and stroke her thighs apart. Her heart was thudding as though she had run all the way from Apulia. He was her equal. Hadn’t he said so?
As he moved to touch her in her secret place, she moved to touch him in his.
She hadn’t done this before, but instincts were strong, her body knew what to do. She pushed against him and he pushed against her. He groaned, and laughing brown eyes met hers—the grey flecks seemed to dance. ‘Ma mie, I cannot promise silence.’
She shook her head. Silence was no longer important. His responses to her touch—he was very vocal with his murmurs and groans of approval—were astonishingly arousing. ‘Touch me there...’ she whispered ‘...again. Don’t stop.’
‘Nor you.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’
They were as bad as each other with their sighs and moans. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. H
er hand gripped carefully.
‘Clare, yes, like that. More.’
She pressed herself against him, blind with need. In a frenzy for...for...
He was kissing her neck, giving her breasts soft little bites. His strong knight’s body, so large, so beautiful, seemed to respond to her every need. Except, except...she was hurtling towards something, something she was unable to define, but she wanted—needed—to reach it. Quickly, quickly...
Then the world convulsed and for an instant she was at peace. With Arthur. It was bliss. Save for the rush of their breathing and the hoot of an owl, the world was at rest.
Arthur’s tongue was playing with hers as she felt his large body shudder and she understood that he too had found his pleasure.
* * *
Clare fell asleep almost at once. Pillowed against Arthur’s shoulder, cloaked in that bright hair, she looked as though she belonged there. He wanted her to belong.
She refused me. Why?
He dragged the blankets over them and stared into the shadows. They’d brought each other joy. Indeed he’d almost forgotten himself—when she’d wound her legs round his, the temptation to push home had been overpowering. A pulse beat in his loins. Mon Dieu, pleasuring a woman and being pleasured by her was all very well, but it simply wasn’t the same. He still wanted her. Properly.
He stroked her hair.
She refused me. She likes me, but she refused me.
Arthur had never thought to ask for a woman’s hand. Without lands or a manor, he didn’t have much to offer in the way of security. Was that in Clare’s mind, too? Had the discovery that she might be a count’s daughter turned her head? Did she think she was above him?
He sighed, and wished he knew more about her. She’d told him that Geoffrey had found her on the road before he’d brought her to Troyes. It was likely she craved security. If only he could get her to open up about her past, he would know then whether he had a chance of being accepted. In the meantime, he would watch. And wait.
* * *
Arthur had been quiet all day, Clare rather suspected he was more worried about Ivo than he was prepared to admit. The infirmarian had given her various herbs and spices, and the day passed with her sitting by the fire in the main chamber of the lodge, brewing up various remedies. Arthur sat by the door, sharpening his sword. Clare found the rhythmic rasp of whetstone on steel oddly comforting, although from time to time it would pause and she would feel that dark gaze on her. She tried not to blush. She tried not to look at him or worry about whether her behaviour had shocked him. She concentrated on Ivo, who needed her help.
Last night, Arthur had taught her what it meant to give and take pleasure. She was only too aware of how responsible he’d been. He could have taken her virginity, but he hadn’t. He’d been careful not to give her a child. Clare recalled the moment when she had held him in her arms and he had reached his pleasure. It was so intimate. Just thinking about it made her warm—she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to know him fully. She couldn’t help wishing. And she couldn’t help but feel just a little jealous of the girl at the Black Boar...
‘Try this, Ivo,’ she said, putting her arm about the boy’s shoulder so he could drink.
Ivo eyed the cup suspiciously. ‘What is it?’
‘Elderflowers and honey.’
Grimacing, Ivo tried it. It didn’t seem to do much good. He coughed and wheezed and sank back against the pillows.
Arthur came over and threw some logs on the fire, making it sputter. ‘I’m going to see to the horses,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll ask the monks if they have any wine to spare.’
Whilst he was gone, Clare tried another brew out on Ivo.
Ivo looked blearily at it and moaned.
‘You’ll like this,’ she said, brightly. ‘It’s elderflowers with ginger, cloves and cinnamon.’
‘No honey?’
‘I’ll put honey in, if you like.’
Arthur returned in time to see Ivo set that cup aside.
‘We can try him on this,’ he said, waving a wine flask in front of her. ‘If we add some of those spices and mull it, it will at least warm him. It might clear his head, too.’
* * *
Evening came. The novice had been to tidy away their supper and Clare was upstairs in the dormitory staring through the lamplight at the pallets lying side by side by the chimney flue. She bit her finger. Arthur would be up soon—should she pull the pallets apart, or leave them where they were?
The click of the latch and a rush of air announced him.
‘Clare.’
Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face him.
‘Arthur, the pall—’
Warm lips covered hers and all doubt was gone. She wound her arm about his neck and held him to her. His dark, earthy scent wound through her senses and the kiss went deeper. He made that noise—the one that meant pleasure—and she felt herself melt.
She pulled back. ‘How do you do that?’
He nibbled her ear. ‘Do what?’
A large hand covered her breast and tingles ran all the way to her womb. She closed her eyes, and swallowed. ‘That sound you make, it weakens me.’
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Weakens you?’
‘My knees...’
He looked past her at the pallets, a grin lifting the edge of his mouth. ‘You’re tired. Worn out looking after Ivo. You need to lie down.’
She shook her head at him and smiled back. His eyes gleamed with intent and he nudged her over to the chimney flue.
‘And I...’ he kissed her nose ‘...need more of your kisses. I’ve been needing them all day.’
Before she knew it, they were side by side on the pallets and Arthur’s hands were covering her breasts, shaping them through the fabric of her gown. Her nipples tightened.
‘I think we both might need a little more of that pleasuring,’ he said, watching for her reply.
Boldly, she reached for the hem of his tunic, sliding her hand downwards so she could feel him in return. Testing. He made that little sound again and pushed himself into her hand. He was hard and large, begging to be free of his braies.
‘Pleasuring,’ she murmured. ‘Mmm.’
He tugged at her gown and peeled it up, and she dragged his tunic and shirt over his head. The silver unicorn swung on its chain as he leaned over her. It flashed in the lamplight.
Arthur kissed her mouth. Her cheeks. He wrapped a strand of hair round his fist and kissed that. When he returned to her mouth, she gripped his shoulders, enjoying the play of their tongues. He toyed with her breasts and blew on them. When he kissed her nipples, pulling on them, sucking, she thought she might dissolve with desire. She moaned and wriggled, part-delight, part-frustration. Arthur’s hand trailed on, leaving fire in its wake.
‘Open for me, ma mie.’ He pushed at her thighs and slid his finger into her curls.
And then she was groaning as badly as he, the dormitory filled with pants and sighs.
She closed her fingers around him and let herself be tutored by the small noises. There was a sigh that told her she had the rhythm just right. There was one that begged for more speed and another for less. Another for firmer. Up. Down. There was, it seemed, a moan for each subtle movement and she was learning its language.
Only with this man, she thought. She could only do this with Arthur.
His sighs, and hers, were coming faster.
Arthur shifted. He was covering her, lying between her legs, and it felt wonderful. They were both pleasuring each other and they were surely almost there. Almost...
She stopped breathing, her womb seemed to tighten, and the moment was upon her. That sense of deep pleasure swallowed her. She was lost, she was found. ‘Arthur!’ She pulled her hand out from between them. ‘I want
you. Please.’ Only this man could have this effect on her, and she wanted to know him fully. This might be our only chance.
His breath fluttered. He eased back and those dark eyes ran over her face. ‘I want you, but...’ Shaking his head, he rested his forehead against hers.
‘There are ways to be careful—you know them?’
The dark eyes glittered. ‘I know them. You’re certain?’
For an answer, she tugged at his hips.
He groaned and pushed against her. ‘Clare. Irresistible Clare.’ He pushed again. He pushed inside her.
The pain was a shock. Sharp. She had known what to expect, she had been a virgin and everyone knew that the first time one lay with a man was likely to be painful. Nevertheless, her eyes stung. She felt as though she was being torn apart. Biting her lip, she hid her face in Arthur’s neck.
Rather this man than any other. And he had given her pleasure. It was just that, coming so swiftly after the pleasure, the pain had caught her unawares, she hadn’t been braced for the contrast between the bliss and the pain.
Pain was to be expected.
Arthur didn’t seem to have noticed her discomfort, he was moving over her with slow deliberation.
‘That feels...perfect,’ he muttered.
‘I’m glad.’ And she was glad. Now the initial shock was past, the tightness was easing. When she had her expression in control once more, she looked up at him. His eyes were closed, his face was dark, intent. She couldn’t blame him for the pain, she hadn’t told him she had been a virgin, and he had mentioned more than once his belief that she and Geoffrey had been lovers.
Arthur muttered again. Something about being careful, that he wouldn’t leave her with a child, but all she could think was that the feeling of tightness was easing with his every stroke.
‘So good, ma mie,’ he said.
She touched his cheekbone and ran her fingertip round his ear. He turned his head and caught her finger in his mouth.
‘Clare. You feel...’ she felt his groan in her belly ‘...so very good.’
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 12