Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  Without speaking and with a carefully blank expression, absent of any hint of triumph, the Black Wolf turned and sank slowly to his knees in the water, presenting her with an agonizingly stark view of the scarred shoulders.

  Deformed and maimed, capable of conjuring ghouls and grotesques, even elfin demons at the snap of a finger.

  His words, mocking her.

  Touch them, you would not burst into flame or see the bones turned to ash on a devil’s curse.

  Her fingertips barely creased the surface of the water and she raised them with a curious detachment, watching the droplets fall brightly back onto the glassy surface. She dipped and raised them again, this time lifting a cupped handful of the steaming stuff and observing the glistening path it left on the hard-surfaced flesh. With the scantest tip of a finger, she traced a wet curl of chestnut hair from the base of his neck to the solid ridge of his shoulder. She lifted more water, smoothing it in with long, circular motions that tempted her hands down the plated knuckles of his spine, then up and over the wide, hard slabs of muscle that armoured his shoulder blades.

  Despite the moistness in the air, her throat was dry and her mouth felt stuffed with raw, unspun fleece. The skin across her breasts was stretched so taut it felt brittle; the slightest abrasion from the silk sheath sent shivers of icy pleasure into her nipples until they were puckered tight, straining with impatience.

  The Wolf had not moved; he did not move now as she waded from the side to the front and stood before him, the black centres of her eyes dilated, the surrounding rim of blue shimmering with the weakness that throbbed and vibrated through every vein and nerve in her body. The broad expanse of his chest filled her gaze; it lured her hands like the sin of untold riches, and she did not even use the feint of bathwater as an excuse to lay her palms against the bulge of muscles, or to drag her fingers through the crisp, lush pelt of curls. They climbed slowly to his shoulders, then to the broad base of his neck. Of their own accord, her fingers buried themselves in the thicker, lusher waves of his hair.

  Servanne’s lips trembled apart. She did not know what to say, or how to ask. She did not even know what she was asking for, but the Wolf knew, and his hands rose up from the water, caressing her skin, moulding to the narrow indent of her waist. He drew her forward against the incredible heat of his chest and his mouth was there to smother her gasp. His lips moved forcefully, possessively over hers, his tongue barely waiting to reacquaint itself with the supple outer contours of her mouth before it was delving boldly, deeply, hungrily for sweeter rewards within.

  Servanne’s cry went unheeded when, with brutal disregard for her sanity, her mouth was left gaping and abandoned while his lips plundered the swanlike arch of her throat. He sent her senses reeling on waves of carnal promises as he blazed a fiery path from the tender underside of her chin to the silk-encased tautness of her breast. She gasped without sound as the moist, suckling heat closed around her nipple. A curse and the sigh of tearing silk brought the heat closer, gave bolder texture to the rolling, kneading thrust of his tongue. She shook her head as if to deny the shock and the pleasure, but her own voice betrayed her. Pleas and clawing fingers guided him with shallow, urgent cries of assent when he lifted his mouth from one trembling peak and gallantly went in search of the other.

  He also seemed to know the exact moment when her legs could no longer support her. With the ghostly vapours of steam cushioning her descent, the Wolf drew her down beside him, to where the water was a thin, warm sheet over the fine sand, and the sweet green moss was the perfect pillow for her head. Half in, half out of the water, he lowered his mouth to her body again, his hands raking into the golden mass of her hair, spreading it beneath them with a reverence that caused his arms to tremble.

  A gust of hoarse incredulity acknowledged the lusty imprint of his flesh where it intruded, swollen and impatient between her thighs. Her limbs were coaxed wide by a body that had difficulty disguising its eagerness, and she gasped again, clutching frantically at the muscles that tensed across his back as his weight bore down over hers.

  There was none of the gentle, apologetic hesitation which had marked Sir Hubert’s couplings. The prideful thrust of the Wolf’s flesh was like the man himself—wild, savage, primitive, unyielding. It breached her hard and fast, stretching, swelling, filling her to the bounds of reason, then surging even deeper, deeper, until she could feel him touch upon the very depths of her soul. And when he moved within her … dear God, when he moved within her, she had no more thoughts to waste on pride or shame, only the desire, the need to clasp her arms, her limbs tighter around him so that she might know the glory of total possession.

  The Wolf heard her cries of awe and was conscious of his own astonishment as he felt her lithe young body strain and arch to accommodate him. The velvety fist of her womanhood closed around him without guile or avarice, and for the first time since he had vowed to close his heart and mind to any soft intrusions, he felt the formidable barriers of ice and steel threatened. The loner, the renegade, the black knight within him fought the encroachment with as valiant an effort as any he had put forth in the lists, knowing the dangers of falling blindly into the chasms of emotion. The man in him, the ardent lover of so many years ago, succumbed to the heat and the drenching oblivion, he stumbled and fell headlong into the misty well of imploring cries and passion-haunted eyes.

  He slid trembling hands beneath her hips to raise her, brace her as he felt the tide of pleasure begin to swell and burst in scalding founts of ecstasy. Servanne’s head thrashed against the moss, her eyes wide and staring as she soared through peak after peak of rapture, each one higher, sharper, brighter, hotter than the one before. She thought she heard someone screaming, the sound as shivered and splintered as the shafts of fiery consummation that ravaged her body with unending spirals of flame.

  The Wolf groaned and rolled onto his back, carrying her wet and streaming body with him, seeking to hold her steady until he could collect his wits and will about him again. But she was already far beyond the authority of his hands and, challenging his efforts to hold her still, she curled her hips forward and slid them back, forward and back, shamelessly triumphant to discover she was not dependent upon his permission to exploit the deep, throbbing friction within her. The rough, calloused hands were clamped rigidly around her waist, but they could no more resist the succulent temptation of her breasts, than her hips, once free to obey her instincts, could fail to quicken to a blur as their ecstasy reached another shuddering crescendo … and another.

  It had been his intention to brand himself on her mind and body forever, but in the end, clinging to her as desperately as she clung to him, he feared she would be the one seared into every nerve and fibre of his being until he drew his last breath.

  13

  Servanne opened her eyes slowly, the lids heavy beyond belief. Her head was still pillowed on the bank of fragrant green moss, her body as yet suspended on several inches of warm, lapping water. The sand beneath her had been hollowed and contoured to lit the shape of her body, and enfolded her more snugly than the heated ticking of a feather-filled mattress.

  She uttered a tiny gasp of dismay and allowed her lashes to flutter closed again. She knew she dared not look down to where the dark crown of his head was moving slowly, languidly between her thighs. She could feel the hungry insistence of his mouth and tongue and that was bad enough. To acknowledge she had regained the full use of her senses, or that she might have found enough strength to deter or dissuade him, would only make matters worse.

  Worse? What could possibly be worse than lying helpless and vulnerable to a passion she had not known she was capable of feeling? What could be worse than permitting his hands and his lips free access to her body, or to respond to each deliberately provocative thrust of his tongue with soft cries and indelicate shudders that only invited and encouraged more unthinkable wickedness?

  Her teeth tore at her lower lip to keep her from groaning aloud as she felt his hands skim up t
he gleaming litheness of her body. She halfheartedly cursed the knowledge in his dancing fingertips as he curled them around the straining flesh of her breasts, and, finding the nipples flushed with anticipation, he pulled them gently, abrading them with the calloused pads of his thumbs.

  She stretched her own hands wide on either side of her, searching for something solid to grasp hold of. There was only water and sand on the one side, moss and slippery lichen on the other, and with a groan of resignation, she reached down and threaded her fingers tightly into his chestnut mane. She dug her heels deeper into the fine silt, aware of the water beginning to splash more violently over her hips and belly. Her arms tautened and her head pressed back into the moss. The heat leaped and flickered within her like a candle flame, the blue-white core burning in her loins, the orange and red sparks flaring and bursting behind her tightly squeezed eyelids.

  Her gasped sobs of pleasure echoed wetly off the damp walls and ceiling of the cavern. Her shivers and shudders vibrated the steamy fingers of mist, causing them to thicken, she was certain, where the heat was becoming almost unbearable.

  The Wolf’s mouth relented and his hands clasped her waist, drawing her down to where he knelt in deeper water. Servanne felt the urgency in his grip as he lifted her, held her against the incredible splendour of his chest, then slowly lowered her down over his turgid flesh. His dark eyes locked mercilessly to hers and there was nothing to be gained or lost by trying to deny the instant and violent spasms of pleasure that welcomed the solid, sliding penetration. There was nothing she could do but curl her arms more frantically around his neck and weather the same storm of pulsating contractions that forced him to pause and press a muffled groan into the curve of her neck.

  He gathered her close, crushing her against the hard breadth of his chest, his powerful muscles bunching under the deluge of moist shivers that urged him deeper into her silken body. He was loathe to move too soon. The pleasure of holding her, of feeling the heat of her pour over and around him was almost pain—indeed, it was an agony demanding to be assuaged with each breath torn from his chest.

  The Wolf rose off his haunches, carrying her with him, the wet skeins of her hair dragging through the water like spilled honey. He laid her back against the shifting mattress of sand and swallowed her cries as his thrusting body brought them both to a swift, savage release. Once, twice, Servanne’s hands tore at the bulging muscles across his back. Thrice she gasped and sent the feverishly gouging fingers to his flanks to ride the plunging motion of his hips.

  Flung through one shattering wave of ecstasy after another, Servanne strained and writhed to a stunning climax beneath him. Even after their bodies ground to a dazed, reeling halt, the pleasure of his heat and presence within her continued to send tiny little spirals of sensation whorling outward from her loins to the farthest tips of her toes and fingers.

  Worse, and worse again.

  She should have heeded Biddy’s warning and stayed well clear of this creature of the forest. She never should have given way to her curiosity, never touched a hand to the hard, virile promise in his body, and never, never opened herself so greedily, so wantonly to the desires he roused in her. She should, by all rules of sanity and logic, be longing to see the last of him. Instead, she longed only to feel his hands roving hungrily over her body. She longed only to lie here in the steaming, mystic peace of the grotto, his hard body joined to hers, the texture of belly, hips, and thighs imprinted vividly on her flesh.

  Moreover, she longed never to have to move from this place, never to have to discover any truths other than what she knew and felt to be irrefutable now and to her mind, forever.

  But of course the dark head moved, as she knew it must, and the Wolf’s somber gaze sought hers through the glowing phosphorescence. He said nothing. In truth, he had said nothing—neither of them had—since she had taken her first tentative steps into the heated pool.

  She suffered another mildly disconcerting shock as he bent his lips to hers and kissed her with tender thoroughness. When he released her, he did so on a sigh of feigned consternation.

  “What am I to do with you now?” he asked quietly.

  “Do?” she whispered, her eyes growing rounder and darker with alarm. “What more could you possibly do that you have not done already?”

  The Wolf would have laughed if not for the suffocating pressure her words placed around his heart. He raised himself on his elbows and stared down at the bruised lushness of her mouth. Swollen and pink from his attentions, the sight was not kind on his composure. Nor was the damning residue of tears on her lashes, or the softly mottled flush that warmed the delectable plumpness of her breasts. And the mere thought of the fine golden hairs meshed with the coarser, blacker ones at his groin made it painfully clear there was little hope of regaining the cool indifference that had served him in their dealings thus far.

  “Why is it I am left with the distinct impression you were a virgin in all but the strictest sense of the word?”

  Servanne reddened, as much from the directness of the query as from the shivered response his voice triggered in her body.

  “I … was not a virgin,” she insisted lamely.

  “You were no longer in possession of your maidenhead,” he agreed, “But you were a virgin nonetheless.”

  Servanne attempted to avert her head so she would not be forced to endure his mocking humour, but a resolute thumb tilted her chin back with ridiculous ease.

  “Sir Hubert never bedded you?”

  It was not so much a question as it was an expression of puzzled disbelief, and she could feel fresh tears welling along her lashes.

  “He … never bedded me … like this,” she admitted haltingly.

  Her words, and the ravaged emotions behind them, prompted the gray eyes to narrow and the Wolf to regard her in a new and disturbing light. Their bodies were so motionless, the surface of the water calmed to molten silver and the mist dared to venture close again, enveloping them in a creamy white veil.

  “I did not miss the attention,” she explained in a rush, thinking his silence a request for such. “He was very kind and very good to me. A gentle, loving, and considerate husband in every other way. But … he was old, and … tired very easily. And … since I had no way of knowing … I mean, no way of judging … well, I did not know enough not to be content.”

  “A woman’s logic,” he mused. “And you will have to forgive my ill-mannered curiosity for asking, but why did he not make other private arrangements for you?”

  “Arrangements?” she asked, the warmth of only moments ago fading under an uncomfortable chill. “I was not aware my ignorance was such an offence.”

  “No, little fool,” he said, smothering any hint of rebellion under the power of his lips. “I meant arrangements to insure you delivered him an heir.”

  “A stud?” she gasped, shocked anew. “For breeding purposes!”

  The Wolf shifted his weight forward to confine her outrage to a few halfhearted squirmings. “A man,” he said firmly. “For the purpose of protecting you against being sold or traded away in another marriage of someone else’s convenience. Surely Sir Hubert was aware of his shortcomings. He should have contrived to keep you from falling victim to a king’s greed again—especially if he was as gentle, considerate, and loving as you say he was. Had it been me,” he added intently, “I would have gone to whatever lengths necessary to protect you, even to finding a stud to breed you … even to binding you hand and foot to the bed and overseeing the deed myself.”

  Servanne had no rebuttal, for indeed there was none. She would not have been in this predicament if she had given Sir Hubert an heir. Both she and the child would have become wards of the king until the heir came of age, but she would have been well within her rights to refuse any proposed unions which she did not favour.

  What the rogue’s theory failed to consider, however, was that up until a few short hours ago, she had been more than content with the future arrangements made for her. She
had been looking forward to her marriage to Lucien Wardieu with a naive eagerness that bordered on childish glee. There again, content in her ignorance, she had not been aware of any other choice available to her.

  But was there any other choice? She had only his word he was come to England on a secretive, honourable mission for Eleanor of Aquitaine. She had only his word the golden-haired knight known throughout England as the Baron de Gournay was a cheat and an impostor. This man had bedded her, had introduced her to the wonders of her woman’s body, but was passion and pleasure any way to measure the truth from the lie?

  The chill within her deepened and spread. Despite claiming revenge had played no part in this, would he not, when clearer, calmer reasoning prevailed, consider it a minor triumph to have bedded his brother’s intended bride beforehand? Men were all vainglorious creatures when it came to testing and proving their prowess; why should the Wolf’s motives prove to be any purer?

  Fear, conscience, uncertainty … and a sudden awareness of where she was—sprawled naked and wildly disheveled in a cave hissing with the ghostly voices of pagan rituals —caused Servanne to tense noticeably. She lowered her hands from where they rested on his shoulders and placed them like a subtle barrier between his flesh and hers.

  “Please, I …”

  “What is it? What is wrong? Surely you still do not fear me as a demon with horns and a forked tail?”

  “Devilish,” she admitted softly, her fingers curling involuntarily into the crisp pelt of hair on his chest. “But no devil, although it does confuse me profoundly to try to find a difference.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Confusion is a woman’s normal state of mind, so I neither take nor lay blame for causing it in you.”