by Karin Tabke
“I will do it,” Rhys said, stepping forward. “I but need a sturdy thread and a needle.”
“Hah!” Wulfson said stepping back from the young knight. “I saw the botched job you did on poor Ioan last month. I will do it myself before I allow that ham fist of yours near me. Rest easy. Rolf will see to it when he finishes with the horses.”
“Come to my chamber and I will see it done,” Tarian said, exasperated, and wheeled from the men and proceeded back to her room. ’Twas not out of concern for the knight she offered to sew him up; nay, she would press her case more. In private. Nervous tension set her temper on edge, and her demeanor, usually amicable, was sorely tested. She felt as if she walked a narrow gap high above a churning sea.
She swung the door open with a clatter, forgetting Brighid. Edith started in her chair, dropping her distaff. Her sister’s maid dropped her own embroidery, and Brighid murmured something unintelligible.
Softly Tarian called to her nurse, “Where is the needle and thread?” Edith’s brow furrowed in question. “A man needs his leg sewn. Where is it?” Tarian asked.
Edith rose and walked to the great chest of drawers, and pulled the bottom one out. She reached in and extracted a flat basket. “Would you have me do it?” Edie asked.
“Nay, I will see to it.” Tarian moved into the room and took the basket from her. As she walked back to the chamber door she had left open, the knight appeared.
“Back to the hall if you please, my sister sleeps. I do not wish to disturb her.”
Wulfson stood silent for a moment not moving. “My chamber, if you have no objection, Lady Tarian. While I have no great modesty, I don’t wish to be seated amongst the populace in the hall in just my braies.”
Tarian heisted for a moment. She glanced back over her shoulder to Edith, who had that same knowing smile on her lips as she’d had last night and this morn. Tarian whirled around. “Very well, but your door remains open.”
Wulfson stepped back and swept his arm for her to pass. “Of course.”
Tarian swept past him down the hall and stopped outside his chamber.
“How did you know ’tis where I sleep?” he mocked.
“’Tis the only other solar with a bed large enough to bear your weight,” she snapped back.
He smiled and pushed open the door and allowed her to stride through, and when she did, the night she spent there came flooding back as if she were reliving it. His scent filled the room. Spicy, with a hint of sandalwood and leather.
Good to his word, Wulfson did not shut the door, but his squire Rolf did as he entered. “Sir, I was told you were in need of me?”
The boy stopped short when Tarian turned to him. Perplexed, he looked to his master. “Sir?”
“Who told you I needed your assist?”
“Thorin, he said you—” Rolf looked to Tarian, who cocked her head and raised a quizzical brow. He had the intelligence to pinken under her sharp eye. He turned back to his master and swallowed hard. “He implied you might find a sword to your throat and that I should watch your back.”
Wulfson threw his head back and laughed with carefree glee. He slapped the boy on the back, nearly sending him across the room. “See to the Viking! I can fend for myself.”
Rolf hurried from the room, slamming the door solidly behind him. Wulfson turned to Tarian, who stood rigid near the cold hearth. “The Viking was right to send the squire. One wrong move from you, Norman, and you will find your throat slit.”
“As you did to Malcor?” His eyes glittered.
“Aye, as I did to Malcor.” She pointed to a short bench. “Strip down to your braies so that I may take a look.”
He nodded, and as he undressed, Tarian unpacked the basket. But she needed fresh water. She called for a maid in the hall, who set about bringing a pail each of warm water and cool water, and clean linens. When Tarian returned to the room, she noted the knight had indeed stripped to just his braies. He stood with his back to her, and she noted a weeping cut just below his right shoulder. She also noticed the deep scars of a lash. Without thinking what she did, she pressed a fingertip to one that crossed his shoulder blade. His body stiffened.
“How came you by these?”
“The same as you. A barbaric bastard.”
She traced her finger down to the small of his back where another deeper scar marred him. “This one?”
“Iberia, fighting the Saracens.”
She touched the raw wound of earlier that day, and he flinched. “You will have two more to herald your battle with the unruly Welsh.”
He turned, and his eyes swept hers. She reached up and pressed the palm of her hand to his chest, resting it on the scarred tissue. “Tell me true, how came you by this?”
“I told you. A reminder of who I am.”
“Who made sure you never forgot?”
“The man I was paid to destroy.”
“Did you?” He cocked a brow. “Destroy him?”
“Aye, with the help of my brothers. We all bear the mark.”
She reached up and touched the crescent-shaped scar on his chin. “And this?”
He grabbed her hand and slowly brought it to his lips. Instead of kissing her, he sank his teeth into her palm. She cried out and pulled away from him.
“My mind is weary and my body fatigued. No more questions from you.”
A servant knocked on the door, and, given permission, strode through the open door and set the bucket of steaming water on the floor next to the bench, along with a pitcher of cool water on the side table. Tarian dismissed her and pointed to the bench. “Sit. I will tend your shoulder first.”
From the moment she cleaned the wound to when she bit off the last thread after the last stitch, he did not move even a muscle. And her hand did not waver or shake. ’Twas easy, his back was to her. But when she steeled her body between his hewn thighs to get the proper angle to sew up the larger of the two wounds, she immediately felt his body stiffen and his manhood rise against her side. She steadied his thigh and looked up at him, the needle poised, to caution him against any movement, but the words stuck in her throat. His green eyes blazed and his nostrils flared, and she felt like a hare in the sights of a wolf.
“Sir, please, I cannot concentrate when you look at me thusly.”
“I cannot concentrate with you between my thighs thusly.”
“But—’tis the best angle.”
“So you are to say Rolf would have had to sit between my legs to adequately tend me?”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “I—he—no, ’twould have been awkward for you, I am sure.” She repositioned herself more toward his knees. “Let me sew the wound.”
He nodded, but his eyes did not waver from hers. Hastily she broke his gaze and set about the chore. As when she tended his shoulder, he sat perfectly still. But she felt the tension in him, and his erection had not subsided. Indeed, it had grown. When she bent down and bit through the last thread, his body flinched. But it was not from the pain of the wound. Slowly she sat up and did not dare move. Her heart thudded hard against her chest, and her breaths came out in short shallow bursts. Wide-eyed, she looked up at him. His intense gaze sent warm shivering waves of desire across her skin. When she pressed her hand on his thigh to steady herself, he hissed in a sharp breath.
He brought her chin up higher with two fingers. “Lady Tarian,” he said hoarsely, “you try my patience and my desire more than any woman I have encountered. I beg you, if you do not want to keep me at constant swordpoint, do not touch me as you do. I am a mere mortal and find you most difficult to resist.”
“Really?” she breathed, and moved more fully against him. He hissed in a breath, and she could feel the thick length of him against her breast. She closed her eyes, parting her lips for the briefest of seconds, remembering the delicious feel of him inside her. Her eyes flew open and she cried out when his hands yanked her up and she found herself straddling his good leg in a most unladylike manner, his lips hovering above her. Their br
eaths were warm, the air was warm, and their skin was warm.
“Do not toy with me, madame. Continue with your play and you will find yourself on your back with your skirts pushed up and me buried to the hilt in you.”
Her pulse quickened. ’Twas what she wanted! She gasped at her wanton thought. Her eyes locked with his. She licked her dry lips. He growled, pulling her closer to him. His manhood pressed against her belly and his bare thigh pushed against her wet opening. She bit back a moan, and steeled herself, fighting the overwhelming desire this man instilled in her. His fingers dug into her arms. “’Tis actions such as that, Tarian, that will see you on your back,” he gritted.
Breathless, she hung in his arms, using every measure of restraint she possessed not to move against him. Only the linen of his braies separated what made them man and woman. “How could you take me with such abandon when your king wants my head?”
“My king is not a fool,” he softly said, his lips lowering to hers. “Nor am I.” Then he kissed her.
Thirteen
Tarian stiffened in his arms, wanting desperately to melt into him and allow him to take her to that place again in one passionate thrust. But, she told herself, if she allowed him this time, then there would be another and another, and…
She stilled, and when she did, his lips rose from hers, his deep green eyes intensely searching her face.
“How can you, Tarian, sit so hot and creamy on my bare thigh when you know why I am here?”
She gasped, his question shocking her. But her answer shocked her more. “I too am no fool, my lord knight.”
His eyes widened and she felt him surge against her. “What are you saying?”
She pressed her hand upon his chest and felt the hard thud of his heart. “I am not a wanton woman, sir knight.”
His arms tightened around her waist. “Nay, you are not.”
“Despite the sins of my father and my forcing Malcor to wed with me, I am not evil.”
He traced his nose along her cheek to the bend in her neck, inhaling her. “Nay, you are not.”
“I have feelings as any other woman.”
His fingers swept her breasts, molding them into his hands. She arched into them and moaned. His lips sank into her neck and his hips moved up against her. She squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in his ardent touch. For so long she had merely existed, never knowing the true meaning of living, of lust, of passion, not until he touched her. She craved it as much as she craved life.
“I have feelings as any other man, Tarian. I want you, here and now. Give yourself to me.”
“I—I—” She could not say the words. She shivered, and pressed her hands to his chest. “I—”
He shook his head and untied his braies. Standing with her in his arms, he pushed them down his thighs and sat back down on the bench, bringing her down with him, where she straddled him. His hard smooth heat slid against the soft inner flesh of her thighs. She hissed in a breath and looked at him. His eyes blazed in passion, his body was tense; he waited only for her signal to proceed. God’s blood, she wanted him. She wanted him to fill her as he had the night past, as he did in her dreams, as she had envisioned earlier in the rain.
She felt as if she stood on the edge of a great cliff, and that if she jumped there would be nothing below to catch her but the craggy rocks or the deep swirling water. But the fall would be freeing, exhilarating, unlike any other experience; and should she survive it, she would be stronger for it.
Tarian closed her eyes and arched into him, her hips thrusting forward slightly. “Look at me, Tarian,” he softly commanded. She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she would see. He lifted her slightly, and said again, “Look at me when I enter you.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and it was as if last night never happened. She was as nervous as a virgin; but unlike a virgin, excitement and anticipation buzzed through her, mayhap so much so because she knew the sublime pleasure his body could give hers.
His dark eyes full of passion and promise, he lowered her gently onto him, and when he slid his fullness into her Tarian realized she would crave him always.
He groaned in primal satisfaction as he slowly filled her. His eyes never wavered from her face. Hers widened at the sublime sensation of him filling her. She fought the urge to close her eyes and just allow him to take her to flight, but she could not let herself become so vulnerable.
“Tarian,” he whispered. “When you are ready.”
Perspiration moistened his brow, and she knew he exercised great control not to gallop away with her astride. At the thought, she smiled. “I had a vision today of us riding together thusly.” The instant she made the confession she regretted it. He smiled and moved into her. He caught her off guard, and she did close her eyes and soaked up every sensation as if it would be the last time. A sharp tug of regret needled her. ’Twould be the last time: if she allowed herself to give into her cravings, then they would control her. And she could not afford to be manipulated by desire…or any other force.
“You are shameless, Tarian Godwinson.”
“Aye, and you are dangerous.”
His cock flexed inside her and she felt her muscles embrace it. He hissed in another breath.
“I am ready, milord. Let us ride.”
He galloped away with her. It took her only a few tries to synchronize with him, and when she did, she felt as if her body would come apart. She hung onto his wide shoulders; his hands gripped her hips, moving her up and down, back and forth, and he filled her so much, touching her in a place so deep inside her, that every time he did she bit back a cry.
His lips pressed to her throat, and his teeth nipped at her skin. His body pushed in and out of her with the force of a battering ram, and in the midst of it all, she lost her breath, lost control, and experienced a sensation so sublime she nearly fainted from the intensity of it. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him in surprise. He smiled tightly and increased his pace as she melted around him in one desirous wave after another.
She felt the shift in him. His fingers dug into her bottom, his breath came sharper and shallower. His eyes narrowed. Tarian dug her nails into his shoulders as she desperately hung onto him, and tightened her muscles around him. “Jesu!” he harshly cried. Thrusting hard and high into her, he filled her with his seed. She clasped her thighs tightly around him, wanting every bit of it.
Raggedly they clung to each other. She licked her dry lips and he pulled her face down to his and kissed her deeply, his tongue moistening hers. She swelled and pressed into his embrace, molding herself to him, wanting to hold onto his strength forever.
He flexed inside her, and she spasmed against him, catching her breath.
His kiss deepened, and he pressed his forehead against hers. “What just happened to me?” she gasped, still trying to come back to earth.
“A complete release. ’Tis similar to what happens to a man.”
She stilled and looked at him, her eyes questioning. “Does it feel the same for you?”
He grinned wider. “Aye, ’tis the best feeling in the world.”
She frowned, suddenly feeling as if she had made a colossal mistake. Not the deed, but experiencing it and wanting more.
He traced his knuckles across her bottom lip. “What bothers you?”
She nipped at his hand, catching a finger between her teeth. His body surged in hers, and she wondered how soon he would be ready to go again. She laved her tongue across his skin, feeling quite the vixen. Sex, she decided, was not something to be whispered about behind closed doors, but something to be shouted about from the rooftops. She opened his scarred and calloused hand and pressed her lips to his palm. He hissed in a sharp breath. She looked up at him and smiled like a coquette. “I have heard from many women that they find the act distasteful. That most certainly was not.”
His intense eyes did not waver from hers. “Was it distasteful with Malcor?”
Tarian stiffened, and her flirtatious mood instantly dissolved. Sh
e used the break in mood to disengage from him. She slowly stood, and when he slid from her she cried out. He reached for her, but she spun away from him, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable. “Please do not ask me about my dead husband. He caused me great pain and humiliation. I would put that time behind me.”
Wulfson stood and grabbed a linen and wiped himself clean, then hitched up his braies. “My pardon.”
Tarian stood for a long time and watched him dress. She wrestled with the conflicting emotions and feelings swirling so crazily about inside her heart and her head. She did not regret her tryst with the knight, despite everything. If he slew her at that moment, he alone had given her a pleasure she had never dreamed existed and that in itself justified the deed. Nay, she had no regrets. But it could not continue.
“Sir, it seems you have caught me at a weak moment.”
He tied his chauses to his braies and looked over at her. “Do you regret it?”
She answered honestly, “Nay. I do not, but please do not press me again. I have no desire to become your leman.” He scowled but nodded. “And I would ask that you do not share what just occurred with your men.”
“I am not a knave, madame.”
“I did not imply that you were—it’s just that—well, men have a penchant for crowing their conquests.”
Wulfson bowed, then slipped his undertunic over his head. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.” Tarian grabbed up the sewing basket and strode from the room.
When Wulfson returned to the hall his men stared at him as if they could see the thoughts in his head. He scowled. Angry with himself, angry over the situation, but mostly angry at the Welsh witch. He was a seasoned warrior whose self-control, though tested regularly, had never fallen, but at every turn he found his will tested and breached by the lady. He cursed himself for his weakness for her. She had gotten under his skin the moment he set eyes on her dirty, bloody body in the bowels of this place, and she continued to haunt him, so much so that he would have staked his life on her having come to his chamber in the night and seduced his will from him. And what was that to what had just transpired? He felt the blood heat in his veins and his cock rise. Jesu! He could not have resisted her for the lives of his men!