by Sandra Jones
Sayer grunted. He stretched out on his sleeping mat and braced his head on an elbow. His eyes looked heavy, and rightly so. He’d drained the last of the wine from dinner.
Eleri entered the camp again, coming from the opposite side of the fire with fur pelts in her arms she’d taken from the satchels on the horses. An owl suddenly fled a tree branch above them, making a startled whoop. The princess gasped, putting a hand to her heart. Then turning to meet Sayer’s gaze, she smiled broadly, laughing at herself—a lovely, unaffected grin which Warren longed to receive.
She threw a fur blanket in Sayer’s face when he laughed too.
Warren burned with envy.
The guard drew the cover over himself and rolled onto his side. His snores followed almost immediately.
Left alone with Eleri, Warren’s mind reverted back to where it had been a moment ago, to her tempting curves, her soft skin and fluid movements. She picked up the cooling vessel by the fire and strode toward him.
Sitting upright, he clutched his gut. “Nay. I’m full.”
Her eyes glittered with mirth. “’Tis not food. Remove your shirt, and I’ll show you.”
If she’d wanted to make overtures of a sexual nature, she wouldn’t do so in front of her guard, sleeping or not. Warren had no such qualms himself.
He doffed his tunic to put behind him.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, staring at his shoulder with concern. “I’ve brought you a different medicine. Father’s warriors swear it helps them heal faster for battles. There’s bruising where Gareth hit you, but the bastard didn’t reopen the wound. ’Tis a blessing and a wonder he didn’t.” She passed him the bowl. “’Tis still a little hot, but that’s when it works best. Rub it around the cut.”
The liquid was dark and smelled of pungent pine. “What are you about, Eleri?” He thrust the bowl at her.
She rocked back on her heels, refusing to take it. “Trust me. This is the answer to your healing until we reach the safety of the abbey.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “What is this sudden concern for my well-being?”
Her eyes flashed, but she smiled wryly. “You have nothing to lose if it doesn’t work…unless your Templar oaths forbid you from using pagan medicines…”
“So you heard?” He glanced at Sayer’s back, his body motionless and snoring beneath his blanket. Returning his gaze to Eleri, his cheeks heated. She would’ve found out sooner or later, but her knowledge of his shameful past stung. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Templars, but I’ve broken most of my oaths. I’ve severed my ties with their murderous kind. God has worse quarrels with me than what I do to myself.” He looked away, avoiding those sharp eyes.
“Good. Do it then, and I’ll plait your hair as Sayer wears his. ’Tis better to smell and look like one of our kind than Norman.”
Without waiting for his consent, she hopped up and came to sit beside him.
The instant her hands fell on his head, his objections died on his tongue. Not that he cared how he might look with the tiny plaits the Deheubarth wore to keep their hair out of their eyes—and he’d long outgrown the round-topped cut of his brethren Templars—but the braids seemed the very embodiment of a rebellious, untamed culture. That added to the strong-smelling ointment and he would be exactly as she’d said. Deheubarth.
Now who’s proud?
If his pride didn’t kill him, her close presence would.
He slapped the oily salve upon his wound, relishing in the burn. The effect failed to pull his attention from the lovely redhead whose dexterous fingers worked in his hair and whose soft, full breasts rubbed his shoulder as she wove the strands. From her kneeling position, the hollow of her throat stood before his eyes, smooth skin beckoning for his exploration. Forgetting the bowl, his task, and everything around him, he reached for her. Sliding his hand around her alluring neck, he held her still.
“Warren—” Her eyes widened as she drew in a breath. She stiffened but did nothing to resist, nothing to contest him. Her chest rose and fell as she stared back at him, and her lips parted, exposing the glimmer of her tongue within, the beckoning of invitation.
But he would taste her skin first.
He leaned forward and buried his face beneath her chin, darting his tongue to the very spot that had been the focus of his attention these past few days. He licked the concave softness, relishing the vulnerable point—perhaps one of the few the brash young woman possessed.
Her hands dropped on his shoulders, and she whimpered.
Yearning overcame him, making him want to explore every inch of her body for more such places. He would not stop until he conquered them all.
Desire slammed through Eleri. Warren’s lips and tongue swept along the crevices of her neck, while his thumb passed up and down. Her heart beat like the feet of an ensnared hare. Panicked, she backed away to restore her pulse.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Sayer—”
He peered over her shoulder briefly then reached for her again. “If we’re quiet, he’ll sleep well past dawn.”
She pulled from his hands even as waves of unearthly pleasure sprouted beneath his touch. “’Tis very wrong, and you know it. Let’s finish.”
His hungry gaze followed her as she moved to his other side. This time she kept more distance between them, stretching from afar to braid his hair.
He changed positions, his jaw clenching, but dabbed his fingers in the concoction without objection.
Idle conversation would surely help ease the tension between them. “Your hair is quite long, my lord.” She selected three small strands and set to work.
He rubbed the tincture in a circle around his wound. “My sister offered to shave my head, but I’ve found the length keeps the sun off. Helps cushion my helmet too.”
“You have a sister?” She imagined his eyes and hair on a beautiful young lady.
“And a half-brother, Dom. My sister Claire is ten.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m sure she meant well, but even if I wanted my hair short, I would not ask her. She cannot sit still for a moment. My brother and I took her fox hunting once. We came back with naught but saddle sores from trying to keep up with her palfrey and thorns in our legs from when she decided to chase a rabbit into the thicket instead.”
Eleri laughed, and he smiled. Sharing in the warmth of his story put a different sort of flame inside her. She eased behind him, starting a braid where she wouldn’t be tempted to stare into his dancing eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I have the wound covered, methinks. Verily, I will be green for days.”
“You’ve barely put it on at all. There’s still more in the bowl.” She smiled. Despite her better judgment, she crawled in front of him to wet her fingers in the bowl.
His skin glistened with the verdant color, making a perfect canvas she longed to fill.
Unable to stop herself, she put her moistened fingertip just beneath the cleft of his chin and made a curved line, creating a swirl around his neck. She repeated the stroke an inch lower. His skin was warm and smooth—a pleasure to touch—his chest rising and falling beneath her ministrations like a majestic warlord of old. She fell under a trance, certain she would be content to touch him thusly all day and night.
The next time she pulled away to re-moisten her fingers, Warren’s hand dropped on her thigh. Innocent enough…until she leaned over to trace a pattern beneath his neck and into the valley of his muscled chest. His thumb rubbed intimately across her pelvic bone, and his breath rushed out, stirring her hair. She met his gaze and found him watching her with a predatory look.
He might’ve been full, but wasn’t sated. His transparent hunger filled her with excitement.
He leaned forward slowly and took her willing lips. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid inside.
He built a rhythm with each stroke of his tongue,
while his hand came to hold her side, just beneath her breast. She relaxed her tongue against his, savoring the expertise of the kiss and the sinful pleasure of his hand on her body. His touch was everything she knew she should not abide, and yet everything she craved. His fingers fanned across her breast, and she heard a sound escape her throat, only to be swallowed by his kiss. If he could make the rest of her body sing as well…
She shifted, giving him more of her breast for his exquisite handling. Vaguely she felt his movement as he set aside the medicine, and then his other hand flattened against the small of her back while he pushed deeper into her mouth. Guided by his actions, she leaned against him, wanting more, needing to feel his skin.
His hand eased down the slope of her back, cupping her buttocks. Gripping her, he moved back, pulling her atop him before he leaned on his elbows. The juncture of her thighs touched the hardened staff between his legs, and she jerked away in alarm.
“Warren—”
He put his finger against his lips, silencing her. Then, he settled back on the fur beside her. “Finish your healing. I won’t touch you, if you don’t want me to.” He slid his left hand into his breeches. Stroking himself slowly, back and forth, his gaze held hers.
Her heart jumped in her throat. She had caught her husband giving himself relief in such manner when he thought no one was around, but he’d never done so with the intention of her seeing.
For Warren to do so here? In her presence?
Ignore him!
He withdrew his hand to take hers and pulled it close until the turgid flesh beneath the material filled her palm. “You’re driving me mad. You see? ’Tis all I can do—” he broke off, swallowing.
She glanced back at Sayer. Still sleeping. Then she looked upon Warren’s face, his expression tight in the firelight. Light and shadows danced over his muscled form as he made himself more comfortable. Her unguent on his tan skin made him look primeval, raw and strong in the flickering firelight.
She yanked her hand from his, curling her fingers into her palm. To cover her lack of experience, she feigned interest in his scar and the taut muscle running over his chest, rippling over arms marked with other intriguing pale scars from long past. His motions drew her attention, however, as he stroked his flat stomach.
Fascinating. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She told herself it was the fire, but the real heat was coming from the man lying next to her.
Putting one arm behind his head as a pillow, he angled himself to watch her, leering as if he’d heard her thoughts as he continued to touch himself.
She dragged the bowl closer with a shaking hand and trembled as she applied the mixture in another swirl against his collarbone.
“Like what you see, Princess?” He laughed breathlessly.
Aye, she longed to respond, but the scoundrel needn’t hear it from her lips.
“You tease me,” she accused in a tiny voice.
She took another dab of herbs and reached for his stomach, but his rough grunt stopped her.
“Move your hair off your shoulder,” he rasped.
Her gaze shot to his, and she found him snarling, his eyes hooded. He slid his hands beneath his waistline and pushed the fabric down his lean hips until his organ appeared, long and engorged.
Her hand shook as she did as he instructed, exposing her neck to him as she strained to keep her eyes fixed on his face and the upper half of his body. She didn’t want to think about the way he held himself, working as he admired her.
“Your skin is so pale against your hair. Beautiful. I imagine your thighs are, too, against your curls.”
Her breath caught at the candid remark, and she swayed mid-reach for him. Her legs parted in the movement, drawing his gaze.
He made a strangled sound in his throat. “I would chafe you there with my teeth. I’d like to see your skin flush. I’d chase it with kisses, then watch your eyes drift closed.”
She held her breath. Aware she’d allowed her eyes to do just that, she forced them open.
He bit his bottom lip. Then his knees bent and his hips canted. His hand followed his now-glistening cock to the dark hair at the base, and he groaned with his broad stroke.
“The way you’re looking at me, Eleri… One word from you, and I’ll haul you into the woods right now.”
Her gaze descended along his glistening torso as her stomach somersaulted. He was perfection, and he wanted her. She could have him with a word…
Guilt licked her cheeks as she sat frozen in indecision. Searching for something chiding to say instead, she moistened her lips, and Warren responded with a low growl that vibrated a chord deep inside her—a note of pleasure she wished he’d pluck again.
He panted, “Tonight, before you sleep, touch yourself and think of me and what I long to do to you.”
Her inner thighs ached at his suggestion, keening for fulfillment. Dare she do as he said? She wanted to. Damn him!
His gaze locked with hers, dark as night and as unreadable as the man’s soul. Hard and fast, he convulsed with the explosion of his spilling seed, the final lash striping across his stomach.
She rose unsteadily, for the first time not brave enough to meet his eyes. Her shaky thighs felt damp with her own unrequited need as she made her bed on the opposite side of the fire. Mayhap that had been his intention all along—a cruel trick on his captor—making her lust when he knew she could not ease herself. It was almost as if he knew what she’d been denied in the marriage bed—passion—and he could so obviously provide it for whomever he wed.
But he was her enemy, was he not?
Whatever the cost, she must avoid touching him until they reached their destination.
She spread out a blanket and in doing so, glanced at the front of her tunic. A green handprint fanned across her breast, where the echo of its owner’s weight branded her again.
Chapter Seven
When the tidy stone walls and rooftop of the monastery appeared on the horizon, Eleri noticed that Warren’s shoulders relaxed, in contrast to Sayer, who exchanged a tense look with her. They had visited Bodin Abbey two years before when she had first moved south from her homeland with her betrothed, along with Nest. Now her friend rode ahead to greet the abbot’s gatekeeper and let the monks know they were travelers from Deheubarth and not a band of brigands come to plunder.
Sayer would also inquire about Lord Vaughn or Gareth, in case they’d arrived ahead of them. She prayed their foes were long gone.
She had already washed and combed her braids out, and had donned her feminine bliaut beneath her cloak, making herself as Christian as she could in case they met any monks along the road. Gerald de Gernon, the abbot, disapproved of the ancient ways of the Cymry, but he found her reputation for ethereal visions even more repugnant. His welcome wouldn’t be warm.
Upon seeing Sayer’s wave to them, Eleri and Warren drew closer to the gate. She became aware of Warren’s horse lagging behind her—the first time she’d been alone in the man’s presence since their intimacy the night before. She hadn’t been able to sleep, recalling what she’d witnessed, remembering the ecstasy of his kisses on her skin and his comment about what he wanted to do with her.
Madness. If she’d only been of her right mind, she would’ve scolded him for his actions, or at least left him alone to his pleasures. But she hadn’t. She’d been too enraptured by his release, too spellbound. And now she only wanted to experience more.
“Princess,” he hissed suddenly, his voice cool behind her, sending a quiver down her back. “You said we would be staying at an abbey, but you didn’t say whether it was Welsh or not.”
“Does it matter, my lord?” She kept her gaze fixed ahead.
“Aye. It does if it’s Norman. Tell me this is not a French order.”
The solemn architecture became more apparent as they approached the four stone buildings behind the
wall. Romanesque with arched entries, the abbey was a far cry from the crude tribal fortresses and wooden buildings at Castell Dinefwr and the Glamorgan coast.
“I would think you’d be glad to see a familiar Savigniac house.” She watched him from the corner of her eye.
He stiffened, his hands tightening on the reins. “You mean to hide my identity amongst French monks?”
Eleri smiled to cover her trepidation. Mayhap she’d gone too far this time. Mayhap he would turn on them.
She allowed herself another glimpse of the man. Pride and righteous anger hardened his expression. Beneath his unshaven chin, he wore a layer of pagan medicine running down his neck to disappear beneath Sayer’s borrowed tunic. That, along with the braids in his hair, seemed a waving emblem of Welsh dissonance and rebellion against all things Christian, Norman and civilized. She’d marked him as the enemy of the Church, and now the wary brothers would doubt him if he claimed otherwise.
She prayed he would not retaliate with violence. Not only would he be a difficult adversary, but she also didn’t wish to kill him. They’d saved each other’s lives, after all.
“You forgot one thing.” He smirked.
“I did?” Her brows went up.
“When I speak, they’ll know I’m not your kind.”
She mirrored his aloof expression. “Oh, but you won’t speak. You’re my captive. Know your place, Warren. We’ll say you’re a mute.”
After a pause, considering, he finally nodded. “If I cannot speak to them, I also cannot speak to you. So be it. But…I’ll need another name. You cannot call me Warren de Tracy.” He glanced at the white-robed priest at the gate, and his eyes narrowed.
Eleri rubbed her temple where a headache had begun. He had agreed too readily. He didn’t want to be recognized. Being an excommunicated Templar would make him ashamed, of course, but she felt it was more. Something else made him hide from these countrymen.
What if it had something to do with his assassin? Might the monks also consider him an enemy of the crown?