Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  It all depended, she supposed, on how much she loved him. And how much freedom he was prepared to give her.

  She glanced down. “Lancelot—you’re not wearing your shoes!” Or his stockinged hose.

  “What has that to do with anything? I dislike being shod.”

  “Not every surface is clean or as soft as grass.” His feet would soon become sore on cobbles and gravel—even wooden floorboards, which were unforgivably cold in winter.

  Could she wed a man with so many peculiarities? She’d never be bored, would she? A warm glow began in her stomach and slowly spread to every part of her body.

  “I’m quite amenable to marrying you, Hector Lancelot de Glanville, if you don’t rule out the possibility of us going to court.”

  He slowed the horse a little, letting Sorrel find her own pace. Clemence loved the flexing of his thigh muscles as he controlled their mount. What would it be like, she wondered, to sit astride a horse, with a man at one’s back, holding one tightly? But she couldn’t ask now—someone might see. Their current position was unseemly enough.

  “Conditions? So soon?” He sounded amused. “I daresay, knowing you, there will be more. I hope you prove worth the sacrifices you intend me to make.”

  She should slap him, only she’d lose her balance and fall off the horse.

  “Your conditions may be met,” he added. “I shan’t rule anything out of our relationship, so long as you don’t either.”

  She flushed, not understanding his meaning, but suspecting from the tone of his voice that he was referring to something sinful. An image flashed into her mind—Lancelot shirtless in the rain, lifting his arms to the heavens and relishing the feel of the cool drops on his skin. If only she could make him feel like that.

  Before she could frame a reply, she was surrounded by the green darkness of foliage and realized they’d left the road and entered the forest. She sniffed at the familiar smells as Sorrel slowed to a walk; the rank scent of nettles, the earthy aromas of hedge garlic and bellbind, and the cloying sweetness of honeysuckle.

  The mare was brought to a halt by a shallow watercourse and left to drink once they’d dismounted. Was this the stream that led to Lancelot’s grove? Picking up her skirts, Clemence followed him, only to discover that the wood consisted of a network of small streams, ancient dykes and ditches, and patches of impenetrable undergrowth. He was doing her the honor of letting her see the way to his hideout, but it was obvious that she’d never be able to find it on her own.

  She was breathless, unkempt, and scratched by thorns when he finally halted in front of a dark wall of holly. Placing his hands on his hips, he stared at it awhile.

  “It seems—smaller than I recall. Although the holly must have grown. Where is that springy branch? Ah, here.” He held it aside for her, grinning broadly as she shuffled through, trying to protect her gown.

  “Forgive me.” His voice was warm with laughter. “I should have suggested you disrobe first—to protect your clothes.”

  “How you can walk through here with no shoes on your feet, I can’t imagine,” she grumbled.

  The branch sprang back behind her and, once again, she was in the small glade that surrounded the ancient oak. A shaft of sunlight speared through its branches, illuminating the soft moss that grew before the cleft. It felt like coming home.

  “Hot and cross, Mistress?” Why was he wearing that mocking smile? Why that wicked glint in his eyes? “Shall we refresh ourselves?”

  It sounded an excellent idea. Her feet were itchy and uncomfortable from the long trek over rough ground. Huddling down on the turf near the brook, she removed her shoes. The crystal-clear water trickled temptingly by while, high above her, a dove cooed its soothing call from the branches of the oak. Tension fell away, and the urge to remove her stockings and dip her feet in the water was strong.

  A shadow fell across her, and she sensed Lancelot at her back and heard the rustle of his movement as he settled behind her. She felt his hands flex on her shoulders, and a thrill of delight shivered through her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I think you need to relax. It’s been a trying morning. Are you hungry? I can check my traps—if they’re not completely overgrown by now—or hunt for roots and berries.”

  “Nay.” He needed to keep doing what he was doing. Beneath his firm, expert fingers, the muscles of her shoulders were easing, and a heady warmth stole over her.

  He pressed his thumbs in toward her spine, rolling them back and forth. “I could do this better if you weren’t clad in your female armor.” He brushed a few strands of her hair away from her neck and tugged gently at her kerchief.

  It slid away, creating a delicious friction on her breasts as it did so. Her nipples peaked.

  One hand cupped the side of her neck while Lancelot bent his head to kiss the other. “You smell of paradise.”

  “Flatterer. Don’t stop.” His free hand was smoothing up and down her spine, lulling her into a hedonistic version of reality where nothing mattered but his touch. “It would work better if you took this thing off.” He plucked at her bodice.

  Why make things difficult for him? He’d offered to marry her, and now he was offering her pleasure. She wondered how many other significant things lay within this man’s gift.

  Feeling gloriously wanton, she started drawing the lace of her bodice through the eyelet holes, until her breasts were no longer supported. They felt ripe and heavy. Thank goodness she wore her shift, or the wanton behavior of her nipples would be revealed.

  But why be ashamed? He’d never hidden his body from her before—why should she now hide hers from him?

  The bodice came off and was laid to one side, along with her shoes and stockings. Lancelot’s clever fingers began to work again, molding her shoulders, massaging the space between them, then roving wickedly to caress her flanks. She changed position, leaning back on her arms, raising her face to the sky.

  “This next, I think.” Lancelot deftly removed the pins holding her hat and coif in place and released her hair. She felt him lift it to his face and heard him inhale.

  “Paradise as well?” she mocked.

  “Don’t be presumptuous,” he growled. “When I wish to give a compliment, it will be because I’m ready, not because you’ve asked for one. Tell me, have you ever lain naked in the stream on a hot day?”

  She gulped, then flushed. Wretched man, trying to discomfit her like that. He must have known she would immediately imagine it, and find it tempting. “Of course not.”

  “Then you have not yet lived, Mistress Clemence.”

  He was pulling away from her. Why, when he’d just created such a longing in her with his expert manipulation? She sat up and turned, just in time to see him sliding out of his hose.

  “Feel free to join me.” He grinned at her. Then, before she had a chance to cover her eyes, he pulled his shirt up over his head and dropped it with the rest of his clothes.

  She couldn’t tear her eyes off him as he padded past her, completely naked, and stepped into the water. Before she could respond, he was partly submerged. With a great sigh, he let his mounded muscles relax. He was at one with the water but, at the same time, his powerful body robbed it of vitality. All she could see was him, slick, beautiful and powerfully-made, his dark locks floating about his head, the water eddying cheekily around his slender hips and flowing unchecked over his muscular legs. This man had no inhibitions. Whatsoever. He didn’t even seem to mind that she could see his private parts—enticingly, mysteriously male.

  He lifted his head and his green eyes drew her under his spell. “Come, join me.”

  This must be what Adam looked like as he lay in the Garden, naked, glorious, and unashamed. She tore her eyes from her perusal of his perfect form and busied herself with her own clothing. She couldn’t quite bring herself to dispense with her shift. She was out-of-doors, after all, beneath the full glare of the sun, and under the burning gaze of a hot-blooded and interested man.
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  She settled upstream from him, so she could see and admire his nakedness without his knowledge.

  It was cold, and strange, lying in the water—like being touched by hundreds of tiny fingers that trailed their way over one’s skin. But deliciously refreshing—in no time at all, she knew she had joined him on that plane where all that mattered were the satisfaction of the body and the calming of the mind.

  She closed her eyes, stretched her arms above her head, and delighted in the sun’s golden touch on her eyelids. She mustn’t linger too long, however, or she’d never be able to get her shift dry in time to get home before her parents started to worry.

  There was a splashing sound, and a shadow came between her and the sun. She knew it was Lancelot and kept her eyes closed. By appearing not to see, she was deliberately condoning whatever he chose to do. She was his plaything.

  She felt the slide of his body atop hers, the heated touch of his lips on her mouth, the fall of his long, wet hair on either side of her face. She immediately brought her arms around him, running her hands over the slick flesh of his broad back, digging her nails teasingly into the muscular shoulders. He laughed and deepened the kiss.

  Nothing mattered but her and the man. They were in a world exclusive to themselves, consenting, sharing, beautiful. She made no objection when he drew off her shift and trapped her wrists with one hand while he nuzzled at her breasts.

  She lifted her head. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced up at her—a wicked, boyish glance. “Do you want me to stop?”

  Not if he had any compassion. But the water was distracting—she only needed him.

  But she didn’t want to seem greedy. “Not necessarily. But I’m getting too wet.”

  “You can never get too wet,” was his cryptic reply.

  With a sigh that resonated through her body, he released her hands, rose to his feet, and stood over her.

  Not even the Colossus of Rhodes could have looked as magnificent as Lancelot did at that moment. Manly, massive, naked, and dripping. His manhood had changed, and now stood proud and fully aroused. She knew what, in theory, this meant. But had she the courage to find out from experience?

  A hot flush suffused her entire body. Might it be wise to remain in the cold brook a little longer?

  He reached down a hand, smiling his feral grin. Once again, she saw him as a creature of the forest, godlike in his dominion, animal in his power. And she craved to taste him.

  She sat up, took his hand, and found herself the next moment up in the air, with her hands behind his neck and her thighs wrapped around his waist and resting on his hips.

  “Not the ground,” he murmured against her ear. “Too many old holly leaves. Against a tree? Not for your first time. Mayhap for your second.”

  The friction of her female parts against his hard stomach as he walked sent sensation drumming through her. She squeezed her legs tighter and groaned. When he reached the oak, he paused. “I believe it’s customary to have your consent to wedlock before we proceed. As you are a gentlewoman with a reputation to maintain.”

  She chuckled. How could a man embody both the wild spirit of the forest, yet still sound like a gentleman? He had made great progress since their initial meeting, when something as mundane as an old sack had been a treasure to him.

  Love flooded her heart. “Oh, Lancelot, how could you even doubt me? I love you like my own life.”

  “A simple ‘yes’ would suffice.” His green eyes were bright with laughter. “But I was hoping beyond hope you might say that. Know that you have all I have to give—my heart, my life, my soul. Treat them well, I beg of you.”

  He held her, and she was blissfully aware of his hard manhood pressing against her. He hadn’t used the word “love” but she hoped it was implied because she was so thoroughly under this man’s spell now that she could deny him nothing.

  Darkness engulfed her as he kicked the old cloak over the top of the furze and laid her tenderly down. “Not the ideal bed,” he murmured. “But I don’t feel inclined to wait—do you?”

  She shook her head. His smooth, hard body covered hers, and his mouth sought her own in a kiss. This was a kiss of possession—deep, greedy, all-encompassing. She let her head tip back as his tongue plunged into her mouth, taunting, teasing, and exploring. He found a rhythm, and so did she, their bodies rocking as their kiss consumed them—and she wanted to feel him between her legs again, as he’d been when he carried her.

  When she tried to push his thighs apart, he broke the kiss. “Not yet. I may have lost some of my memory, but I’m certain I have never before tasted such a feast. I mean to take the time to savor it.”

  Lowering his head, he sought her nipple and rasped his tongue across the beaded tip. Something exploded in her belly—a powerful, fundamental urge to take him inside her, to complete their joining. Not to do so would leave her bereft and grieving.

  She was losing control. He suckled at one nipple while his hand toyed with the other, teasing it, running the firm tip between thumb and forefinger, squeezing and pulling until she rolled her head in delirious delight. Her whole body was a-fire—Lancelot covered all of her, igniting every inch of her flesh with incredible sensations.

  She wanted to touch him, know more of him, but he was too heavy, too strong to move, so she contented herself with running her hands up and down his flanks, rubbing her thumbs over his tight male nipples and digging her fingers into his hair.

  He smoothed his hands on either side of her waist, then over her breasts, and finally cupped her face, returning for another kiss, fast and hungry. Then, while one hand stroked her cheek, the other reached between her legs and he moved his knees farther apart.

  His stroking concentrated all her yearnings in that part of her, giving her indescribable pleasure. She bucked and pushed against his hand as he explored her slick, sensitive folds.

  But wait—there was something missing. She didn’t know what he felt like. Reaching between their bodies, she encountered his silky hardness and gasped. He swallowed her gasp with another kiss, then groaned aloud as she stroked her thumb over the nub of his manhood.

  “Does that hurt?” She withdrew her hand.

  “Quite the opposite.” His breathing was rapid. “Do you want me?”

  “More than anything.” She touched him again, running her fingers along the iron-hard length of him, overcome with wonder at the magical transformation, excited by the tension her touch aroused in his body.

  The more she rubbed and squeezed, the more he seemed to have difficulty breathing. So, she had power, too—a highly satisfying revelation.

  “Enough—I beg you.” He reached between them to remove her hand, then settled himself between her legs, hands gently lifting her buttocks.

  She quailed a little as his nub probed at her opening, but pressure and determination breached her defenses, and soon, after a brief stab of pain, he was pushing inside her.

  “Lancelot!” She couldn’t stop gasping his name as he began a rhythmic movement, pulling out, then pushing in, a little farther each time. Like an opening flower, she felt herself bloom around him, welcome him in, admit him to the very core of her body.

  Then she found she could squeeze, which she did with relish, as each contraction elicited a groan of pleasure from him. His head went back, then lowered again as he gazed at the point of their joining, before coming to rest on her face.

  Never before had she seen so passionate, so poignant a look on anyone’s face. It mingled triumph and tenderness, and at that moment, as if it were even possible, she loved him more than ever.

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “It’s not over yet,” he murmured back.

  Suddenly, his body began thrusting harder into her, his thighs thudding against hers. Pleasure slammed into her, and her concentration intensified as she squeezed in time with his thrusts.

  As he rode her, pleasure jolted through her, rising from peak to peak, and she writhed, and gasped, and cr
ied out, until ecstasy took her, holding her captive as wave after wave of delight crashed over her.

  Still rocking, he lost his rhythm but continued to pump into her, head tilted back, his powerful throat exposed, eyes closed as he joined her on a level far beyond their earthly bodies. Bit by bit, he eased his frantic movements, sighing and bowing his head, saluting her lips with a kiss and, finally, stilling his hips.

  As her heart gradually settled back to its normal speed and her breathing eased, he drew his arms around her and sat back, pulling her with him, so she was sitting astride his lap, facing him.

  Then he just held her close, his cheek nestled against hers, chest heaving.

  Now, they were one, a union that meant more to her than any church service, any wedding band. The trees of the forest were their congregation, the ancient oak their minister, and the clear summer sky their witness. She thought she had never felt truly whole until this moment.

  “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she whispered.

  “I wonder how long it takes to dry out a wet shift? Fancy wearing it when you went in the brook.” He rolled his eyes. “Foolish girl, to be so self-conscious with your future husband.”

  “We’ll have to go back and face everyone, though, will we not?” She didn’t know if she’d be able to hide her happiness. And her gleeful guilt must be written all over her face.

  His hands stroked slowly over her back, then began gently removing the tangles from her wet hair. “Aye, that we will. I must speak to Walter. Now, I cannot rest easy until I know what happened to Paris.”

  “Have you no more memories?” She smoothed his damp locks back from his face.

  He grinned. “They trickle back, like miniature paintings, and I tidy them away until they are needed. But all memory was eclipsed by what just happened between us. If I can only remember one thing throughout my existence, it will be the first time I made love to my beloved Clemence.”

  She smiled back at him and wriggled a little, determining that he was still hard within her. So, they could, theoretically, do it again? Suddenly, she felt too shy to ask. It was ridiculous under the circumstances, but how was she to know what almost-married ladies could or couldn’t ask?