Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  Confident that he had allowed Matilda enough time to change, he approached the cave once more, coming to an abrupt halt at the entrance. On her knees before the fire, Matilda was staring into the flames, her expression wistful, dreamlike. Her delicate hands rested in her lap, palms upturned, vulnerable, like limpid flowers. Fanning down over her flushed cheeks, her eyelashes drooped with fatigue, glossy spikes like black velvet feathers.

  Breath punched from his lungs.

  Stalled in the cave entrance, he gritted his teeth, struggling for control. Desire coiled, deep and treacherous, a slow ripening of lust. Where was the self-restraint that was so customary to his character, the thread of logic, of sanity that would pull him back, away from temptation? He was a soldier, a commander in Henry’s army, relied on by others for his strength of resolve, his clear head in the dire extremes of battle. How was it that this single, wayward maid could affect him so? He lifted one hand, surprised to see it was shaking, and pushed dripping hair away from his forehead.

  ‘Matilda?’ he called out quietly, startling her from her reverie.

  ‘What…?’ She glanced up at him as he stepped towards her, his cloak sparkling with raindrops.

  ‘You were miles away.’ A smile played at the edge of his mouth, a dimple creasing his cheek.

  ‘I…er, yes, sorry.’ Her eyes shimmered like sapphires in the juddering flames. ‘I was thinking about Katherine, about my family when we were all together at Lilleshall…’ Her voice drifted away on a forlorn note. She jerked her head towards him, tracking upwards along his honed, tough body to meet his eyes, a rueful smile pinned on her mouth. ‘Foolish thoughts.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Stupid, really.’

  His heart creased. ‘No, no, not stupid.’ He hunkered down beside her, the material of his trousers stretching taut against his big thigh muscles. She averted her eyes, staring resolutely into the fire. With his body so close to her, her stomach looped crazily; she could smell the fresh air on his skin, vibrant, invigorating. ‘You’re fighting for your livelihood, Matilda, to save all that is dear to you…’

  She caught the note of empathy in his voice, was surprised by it. ‘Do you have family?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, picking up the stick she had discarded, throwing it into the flames. ‘They live farther north from here, in the castle where I was born. My parents and my sister-in-law, Isabelle.’

  ‘So you have a brother, then.’ Her eyes shone over him, brilliant pools of cerulean light.

  The air in the cave stilled, suddenly.

  Pain flashed across his face, his eyes hollowing out to solid discs of silver. He bounced to his feet abruptly, almost knocking his head against a low overhang of protruding rock. Shocked by the violence of his movement, Matilda struggled to her feet, clutching Gilan’s blanket about her, arms laced tightly across her body, a defence.

  ‘Gilan?’ she whispered. ‘What is it?’

  Wind gusted against the mouth of the cave, sending a squall of rain scurrying inwards. Droplets splattered in the fire, hissing, thin trails of steam rising upwards. He clung to the sympathy bound in her earnest perusal, the concern, and wondered what she would do if he told her what had happened, how he had caused his brother’s death. Would she be able to show such kindness towards him then?

  His voice, when it came, was wretched, scoured with grief. ‘My brother…is dead.’ With his words, the familiar black guilt washed through him, yet it was muted somehow, thinned, like an echo gradually fading into the distance.

  Matilda blanched at his guttural tone, the hoarse syllables. ‘Oh, Gilan, I’m so sorry.’ She reached out instinctively, her fingers splaying across his sleeve.

  He pulled his arm down, roughly, away from her soft touch and turned away, hauling in the larger pieces of wood from the cave entrance and throwing them haphazardly on the fire. He didn’t want her sympathy; he wasn’t worthy of it. Instead, his eye focused critically on the wet splotches soaking through the light-coloured wool of his blanket, and his mind seized upon her transgression, her refusal to change her clothes as a way out of this conversation, an excuse to deflect any further questions.

  Reaching across, he snatched the blanket away.

  Her hands flailed outwards, trying to snare the flying edges. ‘What are you doing? That blanket is keeping me warm!’ The swift change in his behaviour appalled her, the harsh breaking of any sort of connection between them. She wanted time to digest his speech, to sift through his few scant words that gave her a glimmer of insight into this man who stood before her. But he wasn’t going to let her.

  ‘I told you to take off those wet things.’ He scowled down at her.

  ‘Otherwise you would take them off for me,’ she chanted back at him, jeering faintly with her head tilted on one side, a taunting smile deepening the shadows beneath her cheekbones.

  ‘Do you think I wouldn’t do it?’ His response was terse.

  ‘As if you would do such a thing!’ she blurted back at him. Her smile vanished as his eyes darkened, predatory, unwavering.

  Oh, Lord, he did mean to do it, she thought, interpreting the determined look in his eyes. Panic jolted through her veins. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ she squeaked, shuffling back in a futile effort to escape him.

  ‘I’m used to having my orders followed.’ He reached out and began to pluck at the lacings on the front of her tunic. He knew he was behaving like a boor, but this made it easier to deal with her, to maintain some distance between them. Unlaced, her tunic gaped open at the neck, revealing the startling white of her damp chemise pressed stickily against her skin. His gaze touched on the upward thrust of her breasts, nestled pinkly beneath the gauzy material. Hell’s teeth! What had he got himself into? This situation was difficult enough, without him wanting to throw her to the ground and make long sweet love to her.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she flashed back hotly, smacking his hand away, tugging the hood angrily over her head and throwing it to the ground. ‘Go out, or turn your back at least, if you have an ounce of civility about you!’

  He stood up, releasing a stiff, clenched breath. His whole body, the muscles, the ligaments, all seemed strung out with tension, rigid. Thank God, he thought. Thank God she had said she would do it herself. He pushed out into the night air, his body compressed with longing. How on earth was he going to spend a whole night in the cave with her?

  He pressed his spine up against the rock face, in the lee of the escarpment. Waited.

  The rain continued to pour down, pattering on the gorse bushes surrounding the cave, gushing down the rocky sides. If it hadn’t been wet, he would have slept outside.

  ‘You can come in now,’ she called out to him, her voice bristling with annoyance.

  He peeked around the rocky edge. Matilda stood in the centre of the cave, arms folded resolutely across her bosom, his blanket wrapped very firmly around her slight figure. Bare feet poked out from beneath the trailing hem. Clothes were strewn about her, as if she had torn them off in a fury, her boots lying on their sides, flung into the back of the cave.

  He picked a spot as far away from her as possible and slung himself down against the ragged rock, raising his eyebrows towards her trembling, statuelike figure positioned like a sentry in the middle of the cave. ‘I would try to get some rest now, if you can,’ he suggested equably. ‘We have a long day tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine!’ Glaring at him, Matilda lunged towards the opposite side of the cave. Lying down, she turned her back staunchly towards him, shuffling against the hard, uncomfortable ground.

  The fire burned brightly between them, the leaping flames highlighting her small bare toes and slender ankles poking out from beneath the blanket: smooth, perfect skin, like alabaster. What would it be like to tug that blanket upwards, he thought, to run his hand across the tempting curve of her hip, up, up, and hear her sigh with desire at his touch? The temptat
ion to lie alongside her, to bend his body around her slim back, to…

  Stop, now!

  Grimacing, he unbuckled his belt, detaching his sword and flinging both down on the rocks beside him. Drawing one knee up, he tilted his head and shoulders back against the stone, closing his eyes and willed himself to think of anything else but the woman lying a few feet away from him.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Matilda had no idea what time it was when she awoke, but she had a very clear idea of what had awoken her. A hoarse cry, a man’s shout, echoed upwards into the high confines of the cave, drowning out the gentle crackling of the fire like a sear of pain. Confused, she opened her eyes, blinking up into rosy glow that bathed the rocky interior. A sharp lump of stone stuck into her left hip; pins and needles raced along her forearm on which she had rested her head and she flexed her fingers, trying to dispel the uncomfortable feeling.

  Sitting up, her eyes flew to Gilan, on the other side of the cave. Was it he who had called out? Awoken her? He had fallen asleep sitting upright, his head and shoulders tilted back to rest against the rock, one arm crooked, resting on an upraised knee. The jewelled hilt of his sword lay gleaming on the ground next to him, topped with the blue bundle of his tunic. Beneath the thin stuff of his white shirt, the extraordinary breadth of his shoulders was revealed, the bunched muscles on his chest. The lacings at the neck had come adrift, splaying the linen; the column of his neck was banded by two thick cords of muscle, deepening the hollow of his throat. His chiselled features seemed softer in sleep, the tough curve of his upper lip slanting up at the corners like a smile. Those lips were on mine, she thought, the breath surging from her lungs, her innards gripped by molten quicksilver at the memory. She lowered her eyes, ashamed by her furtive perusal.

  And then he howled.

  Aghast at the horrible sound, Matilda jerked her chin up; Gilan’s head thrashed from side to side on the rock, his hands flying out, fingers outstretched as if he were trying to grab hold of something. In the light of the fire his hair shone like gold filaments. ‘No! No!’ he shouted. ‘Pierre!’

  Matilda leapt across the cave, spurred on by his hollow cry, the pure sound of desperation, of loss that seized him with an invisible grip. The blanket fell away, a gathering jumble of folds lapping against the ground. Reaching down, she grabbed instinctively at his floundering hands, snaring his wrists. ‘Gilan, wake up! You’re dreaming!’

  To her horror, still in sleep, he wrenched free of her loose grip, rearing up to manacle her shoulders and twist her down beneath him. She landed on her back with a hefty thud, momentarily stunned. ‘Stop!’ she yelled at him, as his hands pressed her wrists back either side of her head, his chest heavy against her breasts, the solid muscle of his legs tangled with the bare flesh of her shins. ‘Wake up, Gilan!’ she gasped up into the handsome face mere inches from her own. ‘Please, wake up now!’

  Shuddering back to consciousness, he opened his eyes, torso heaving with rapid breaths. Matilda lay beneath him, her body squashed by his superior weight, eyes enormous, fearful, shining with tears.

  ‘What have I done? What in Christ’s name has happened?’ he managed to gasp out, his mind clearing, chasing back the threads of nightmare. Dear God, had he raped her?

  ‘Nothing, you have done nothing.’ The look of sheer horror in his eyes made her hasten to reassure him. ‘You were dreaming, Gilan, shouting out.’ He was so close to her that the fringes of his hair tickled her forehead. Through the flimsy layers of cloth that separated their naked flesh, his heat pounded against her. The honed, ridged muscle of his torso fitted snugly against the concave scoop of her belly. Warmth flooded her body. She had never, ever, been like this with a man—who could have known that this was what it felt like? Darts of exquisite delight quivered in her stomach, excitement building.

  She swallowed quickly, her mouth dry. Inch upon delicious inch of unyielding muscle pressed into the length of her body, making her aware of every part of him, the hardness of him. Her face flamed, a flush extending down her throat. A wildness prickled through her, a surging sweeping sensation. Mother of Mary! What was happening to her? She should tell him to move.

  No words came.

  Strange feelings plucked and squeezed in the deep pit of her belly, newborn, flaring, gripping at her innards, then building, building with sweet fire, a dangerous, heady sensation. As if by their own volition, her hands left the loose hold of his fingers, rose to his shoulders, cupping the solid muscle. Beneath the gauzy shirt, his skin burned.

  She sighed, her breath fractured with desire.

  The ragged sound echoed against his ear, the seductive flutter of her breath stirring his hair. His mind hazed with need, lust seizing him, striking through his limbs like hot, molten metal, like liquid fire.

  Her eyes darkened, the colour of vast oceans, endless seas. He lowered his head, a fraction of movement, lips grazing her mouth, feather-light. A tumult of awareness burst through her, a sound tearing deep from her lungs, uneven, demanding, wanting more.

  He groaned, his body grinding down against her taut stomach, burying into the pillowed cradle of her hips. His mouth tore at hers, frenzied, devouring, driving sensation after sensation through her, lightning strikes of pure ecstasy. The reason why he was here, why she was here—all turned to dust, sifting like fine sand through his fingers, blowing away on an unseen wind, to nothing. Nothing mattered but the woman beneath him, her hot silky skin, the plushness of her mouth. The frantic beat of her heart against his own.

  Her arms ran haphazardly along his shoulders and up the thick cord of his neck, fingers clutching wildly into his hair, its rough silk. Her senses ricocheted, clamoured for more, more, as if she were crazy or delirious, or both. She would not stop him now; she could not. It was too late; her body had taken hold of her practical brain, her self-restraint, casting it aside like a heap of old clothes on the side of a forgotten path. Her feet skipped, danced on the edge of an abyss, flirting with danger; with a jolt of shock, she realised she wanted to jump in, feet first.

  He should lift his head and roll off her, now. It was the last thing he wanted to do. The suppleness of her body beneath him had driven the final remnants of his nightmare back, back into the depths of his brain. Lord, she was so soft. Beneath the circle of his fingers, her pulse jumped erratically in her wrist; her breath raced against his cheek. She was not immune to him, her body was responding to his, whether she liked it or not. His mouth roamed over hers, tongue flicking against the closed press of her lips. Her mouth opened beneath his like a flower to the sun and he dived in, tasting the inner sweetness. Like a man possessed, he drank deep of the elixir of her beauty, ravenous, a man deprived of a woman’s touch, devoid of human emotion.

  Devoid of human emotion. The thought shuddered through him, an icy blade slicing through the fountain of heady desire that consumed him. He had forgotten who he was; the sensual press of her body, her mouth, had made him forget. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Matilda was worth more than this, far more than a rough, urgent coupling in some damp, remote cave. And she was worth far more than him, too. He was a black-hearted oaf, a loutish soldier, no better than Matilda’s brother-in-law. He was no good for her.

  Tearing his mouth away, breathing heavily, he wound thick legs around her naked calves, then twisted, his arms clasped about her waist, until he lay on his back and Matilda’s supple weight draped across him, her thighs pinned to his thighs, her belly slipping across the flat muscle-bound expanse of his. She lifted her head, expression stunned at the abrupt change in position, eyes huge, liquid with unspent desire, shimmering layers of sapphire, questioning him.

  He released his breath: one long tattered gasp, the hint of a groan. ‘Matilda, forgive me. We have to stop. This should never have happened.’

  No! No! she wanted to scream at him, sprawled inelega
ntly across his taut, honed chest. She gripped his shoulders, seeking support, seeking to brake the headlong rush of blood through her heart.

  ‘You should have stopped me,’ he said quietly. His breathing evened.

  How could she have done that when she hadn’t even the resources to stop herself? She stared down at him in disbelief: bereft, rejected. She wanted to pummel his chest, hit out with small fists at his sturdy frame and demand that he finish what he had started. But that would be the way of a harlot, of a woman with no morals, no self-control. She had never been like that. At least, she had never been like that until now. Until him.

  Shame slapped her in the face, flooding her skin. She reared away from him, sliding sideways from his lap, propelling herself up to stand on shaking legs that barely promised to support her, vulnerable, humiliated. ‘I’m sorry. You were having a nightmare. I didn’t know how to wake you.’ Her voice was clipped, wooden. Uncertain, her hands fluttered up to her face, tucking non-existent hair behind her ears, then crossed awkwardly across her chest, pressing the flimsy stuff of her chemise against her torso. Her belly lurched under his perusal, at the memory of how he had made her feel; her lips stung from the vibrancy of his kiss.

  He sat up abruptly, stuffed one hand through his hair, sending the blond strands awry. How like her to be the one to say sorry. ‘No, Matilda, it’s me who should be apologising.’ He threw her a rueful smile. ‘In my…dream, I thought someone was attacking me at first, but then…well, I could claim I didn’t know what I was doing…’ he spread his palms aloft as if in apology ‘…but that would be a lie.’ His eyes blazed into her, liquid pewter. ‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’

  Then why did you stop? she wanted to scream at him, chewing unconsciously at her bottom lip. His words trailed over her like a heated brand. Her face flamed and she stumbled back, bare heels scuffing the spent ash around the fire, embarrassed by his speech. Already she missed his touch, his hands roaming possessively across her limbs. There could only be one reason why he had stopped: he had found her lacking. She trawled her mind for the various criticisms that her siblings had levelled at her over the years: short, thin, her breasts too small. What man could possibly be attracted to her, let alone one with eyes that sparkled like diamonds?