Swallowing, a wave of almost unbearable anticipation rising in her, Lyssa lifted her head and met his gaze. "A cherry," she echoed, and went still as his lids went heavy, and he bowed his head, and when he still could not reach her, lifted her higher, and closed his mouth on the place.
Lyssa gasped, and when she flung back her head again it was so she could let this flow through her, this bright red heat of his silky tongue and hot mouth and plucking lips that took on a rhythm of suckling and swirling. She arched closer to him when he suckled the place, and each time he let go, and took hold, there came a little echo of sensation between her legs, wild and growing, a thrumming restlessness. It made her ache to move against him, and she did, a little.
In answer, Thomas let her slide tight against his sex, and rocked her in time with his exquisite play, and Lyssa felt a growing tide gathering at the feeling, all the feelings, a burn and a pulse. A dizzy green, the color of grass and leaves, leaked into the place behind her eyes.
All at once, a rocking pleasure exploded in her, radiating through her body like waves of light and heat, and she arched instinctively against him, pressing herself hard to him, trying to absorb the shocking explosion. Thomas simply rocked, slowly, slowly, and his tongue swirled and slowed, and when the shuddering blaze finally burned down to embers, he lifted his head, and kissed her, and Lyssa kissed him in return, tears running down her face. She clasped his face between her hands, and breathed his name, Thomas Thomas Thomas.
She reached for the hem of his tunic, knowing what he needed—that much she did know—but he halted her and raised his gaze, near black with desire. "A bed I'll have for the rest," he said, and swept her easily into his arms. Lyssa let him carry her down the stairs, feeling wicked and wanton and deliciously heedless with her breast exposed and her body yet pulsing, and a second wave of building desire growing quickly in her limbs.
He carried her to her chamber, one floor below, and set her on her feet while he closed the door behind him. Lyssa stood in the center of the fine carpet and watched him flip the bolt, thinking she had never imagined a man could be so beautiful, or that she would ever feel this violent need to touch him.
He swung back, but did not move, only looking at her hungrily. "None need ever know," he said, and Lyssa cried out, running toward him. He caught her close, kissing her and swinging her, and then they were on the bed, side by side, his height no trouble when they lay together. He kissed her neck and her chin and her cheeks, his hair falling around her face, and trailing on her chest above her bodice.
He touched her and kissed her, and she let herself flow into the wonder of it, letting herself become part of the gold sunlight falling on her, and on him. She smelled the scent of his skin, all forest and leaf and air, and she breathed it in deeply, trembling, a deep, radiating sensation moving through her body.
He stopped and Lyssa cried out in protest, coming half into a sitting position, opening her eyes. "I want to see you," he whispered. "Touch all of you."
Lyssa stared at him, the knowledge striking her anew that it was Thomas, beautiful and brave and big, who touched her with such joy. Shyly, she bowed her head, but lifted her arms so he could slide the tunic upward, over her arms and head. Her hair fell down around her, giving some cloak, but Thomas tossed the tunic away and reached for her, pushing her hair behind her shoulders, his hands upon her collarbone, tracing that line, falling down the swell of her breast, to the pearled and waiting tip. With a groan of deepest pleasure, he lifted her and kissed her shoulders, her neck, her breasts, her chin, his hands moving on her back.
He yet wore his own tunic, and the velvet over his hard body rubbed against her flesh, against her belly and inner thighs, and as she had so often imagined, she opened her palm over the mingled textures, and touched his chest, then his hair. His mouth on her body was exquisite torture, gentle and fierce by turns, and his fingers teased down her spine, light as feathers, then drifted over her hips, and up again to the wings of her shoulder blades.
And Lyssa reveled in it, in the press of his mouth against her throat, and the hard length of his body against hers, and the gentleness of his elegant, long hands. She closed her eyes, touching him, exploring with her fingers the shape of his ribs and shoulders, only finally realizing that he trembled with restraint.
"Now you," she whispered, and moved away with effort, to help him off with his clothing. He shed his tunic, showing his broad chest and the rippled belly, and his organ thrust up against his braes like a thick stick. She smiled and brushed a hand over it, feeling deliciously pagan in her nakedness and the pure female power of having him, at last, in her bed, as aroused as she or more, his breath a shallow thing as he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. She tugged his braes away and shifted to her knees to admire him in all his splendid perfection. Lifting a hand, she touched his noble head, and then his dark hair, and his face. She stroked the breadth of his shoulders and his chest, scattered with dark hair, trailed her fingers over the flat of his belly, and down to his sex, and farther still, over his thighs and his knees and even his long, elegant feet with high arches and toes as graceful as his fingers.
"Thomas," she whispered, feeling something shatter in her at the expression in his eyes, hot and needful. It frightened her, suddenly, that he might think she was more skilled than she was. "I am not well-trained," she said. "I do not know all the pleasing tricks."
His face very sober, he sat up and kissed her. "I need no tricks. I need only you." His hand cupped her breasts, gently, and his thumbs brushed her nipples. "Touch me, Lyssa, as you wish, as you are moved to touch." He angled his head to press a kiss to her neck, and the rippling need came rushing back to her. "Or touch me not and let me feast myself upon you."
And face-to-face, they touched and explored and kissed, hands sliding, teasing, swirling. Mouths open and hot, their soft groans and murmuring caresses growing less patient, less gentle, until Lyssa thought she would die of the pleasure.
Then he halted, pulling her over him, gripping her buttocks tightly. "I will explode if you do not mount me, Lyssa. Now."
Shyness bolted through her, and she lifted a little. "I cannot!"
"So you do not get too much of me too fast," he said, putting one of her hands over his sex, as wide as her wrist.
Seeing the wisdom in that, Lyssa let him guide her, a trembling deep inside of her. She gasped at the feel of him, and settled slowly, slowly, taking a wild pleasure in his low, long groan. And when he filled her, Lyssa felt a wide, rolling pleasure at the feeling. It was not like it had been with her husband. It did not hurt, but only seemed to give her what she ached to feel, a feeling of fullness, completeness, a joining.
He lifted his hands to her breasts, and she saw the muscles of his neck go tight as she took him, all of him, inside of her. And there, she paused, absorbing this, taking not only his body, but this moment in the gold evening—Thomas, dark and beautiful below her, fighting to restrain himself as she grew used to him.
He opened his eyes and found Lyssa looking at him, and for a long, moment, they only gazed at each other, joined. Then a sultry look bloomed on his face, and he lowered his hands and put his thumb against her sex and the heat came through Lyssa again, rushing hard and deep, and they were moving together in the ancient dance. At last he gathered her close and shifted till she was laying on her back, and kissed her, deep, and thrust against her until her blood boiled and the spiral of heat grew, and grew, encompassing all of her.
And then they were lost, kisses and bodies and hands, until release burst over Lyssa again, with a violence that made her cry out, and clutch hard at him, as if to absorb him into her somehow. As if waiting for her, Thomas followed, bucking hard, holding her against him, his head thrown back, his neck corded with veins.
Sweating, panting, they fell together into a kiss that sealed the joining more completely than any word either could have uttered.
* * *
Thomas rolled to his side, holding her close, and lay in the pool
of late sunlight, touching her hair, pressing kisses to her face, his heart thrumming. He could not even speak for the emotions crowding into his throat.
Soberly now, they looked at each other, speaking a thousand things without saying a word. He stared deep into her green eyes, noticing the darkness of her lashes, the flecks of color scattered through the green like the first yellow leaves on an oak tree. He saw more, too—the sorrow of her recognition that this was more than either had believed, and that there was no hope for them.
Love, pure, deep, and clean as the river, welled through him, through every limb and fingertip, and he could not speak it aloud. Instead he touched her delicately. Now that the first brutal heat of their passion was spent, he saw what he had only felt. Her breasts, none too large or too small, but pert and white and tipped with copper. Her broad hips and smooth legs, her black hair, streaming everywhere, all around them.
He took a handful and spread it over himself, over his chest and belly and thighs, and it made a blanket that covered them both, a gossamer glazing of privacy beneath which he smiled at her. "I ached for that, so many times."
As if wounded, she closed her eyes, a pained expression marring the smooth brow. She moved closer and pressed her face into his chest, and kissed him, fervently. "Oh, God, Thomas. What have we done?"
He knew what she meant, but was not eager to end it so soon, to have it shattered. "In time, my love, we'll think on that, but for tonight, can we not just lie together, as would any man and woman?" He gently clasped her breast and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Just be."
"I do not think I know how."
"This way," he said quietly. He shifted and cupped her pretty face in his giant hand, and bent over her and kissed her. Softly. "We kiss." He met her eyes as their lips touched. "And kiss." He angled his head and kissed her more closely, feeling her relax, and meet him. "And kiss," he whispered.
He fell adrift in the taste of her, in the sweet play of lips and gentle tongues, feeling a soft, wide joining that seemed as real as the hay in the fields, a promise no church or king or husband could replace. His heart swelled with it, and he kissed her to show it, and before long, there was new heat growing between them, none so urgent as before, but more luxurious now, and rich. To please her, he kissed every inch of her flesh until she trembled and shivered and arched. To please himself, he drew it out until she near writhed, her back arching; he discovered which places drew shivery cries and which made her quiet with surprise and delight. He teased and kissed and touched until she was near mad with need, then slowly, slowly, he brought her to release, savoring the randy leap of his own flesh at his deprivation, knowing she would find ways to ease him. He would teach her. Everything.
And he would teach her to laugh while she did it, to have no shame in her pleasure. It was what he could give her, the one thing he had to offer.
As the sun set and the moon rose, they made love. And he coaxed her to laughing, and even once to surprised screaming, and it was right. It was right.
And as he cradled her smallness close to him, smelling lavender and sex, as he stroked her long, long hair, Thomas counted the moments more precious than any he had known. In this fierce, duty-bound lady, he'd found his only love. Come what may, he'd never regret this night.
* * *
'Twas near morning when Lyssa stirred and found her limbs thick and tired when she moved them. Unfamiliar muscles tugged and ached, and with a start, she felt a long-fingered hand against her hip.
Thomas!
She looked to the sky and saw it lightened at the very edge of the world. She turned urgently, meaning to rouse him and send him away before the entire castle knew where he'd spent this night.
But when she looked at him, sleeping in her bed, she had no will to make him go. In the grayish light, he was silvered, as if sculpted from the finest metal in all the world, his limbs flowing in perfect beauty, one to the other, his arms round and powerful, his chest broad, his waist and hips narrow. Long black hair scattered over his pillow, leaving an oddly vulnerable slice of neck and shoulder revealed, and Lyssa nearly wept with the beauty of that spot. Her mind filled with a whirl of images: his heated kisses, his skillful hands, his laughing pleasure in the things he did, his groans at the things she had learned to do.
She had so little knowledge of the way things were between a man and a woman, but it seemed there had been some special magic between them, that somehow the physical joining of their bodies made the world new and cleaner, that somehow it was a better place with them together in it. For all that he was so tall and broad, and she so small, they were well-met—their mouths and bodies blending and fitting and mingling till there had been times in the night when she could not tell where his body ended and hers began. Nay, deeper than that even. She'd felt his body part of her, and hers part of him.
She ached to touch him again, but restrained herself, content for the moment to let him sleep while she admired him. No man on earth had been more beautifully made than Thomas of Roxburgh. What cruel thing had God planned in making him a peasant? How could the angels have given him that wicked laughter and resonant voice and eyes of sapphire, then bid him die too young from too much work and too little joy?
And it was not only the shell of the man, for one day, he would age, and mayhap lose his hair, and grow wrinkled. His teeth would not always be so white in his flashing grin, but she would wager her life that even then he would find cause to laugh.
His heart was as big as the sky, as warm as the sun, and true honor dwelt in his soul.
Here was a knight worthy of a troubadour's song, a man both strong and warm, a man who did not kick dogs, but saved them special treats. A man who did not take offense at the ill-tempered comments of a boy, but won him over with equal parts discipline and good humor.
A man who did not treat a woman as if she were some article to be used and tossed aside, but unlocked the secrets of pleasure for her.
She ached with love for him, and in that moment, understood why she had so fought against this. Her heart had known the truth of it. As long as she could keep him an arm's length from her, with the barriers of clothes and class between them, she would have been able to pretend she had no more than simple lust for him.
But they had removed those barriers and pressed their flesh together, and bound each other closer with each kiss, with each brush of a hand, and with each joining, until there was now, this soft morning, no hope they would ever be unbound.
She loved him. And there would be no other in her heart no matter how many husbands she outlived. This peasant with jeweled eyes had hostaged her soul.
The knowledge burned her so deeply that she cried out softly against it, wondering if any pleasure they found together, any joy, could make their eventual pain worthwhile.
And then, Thomas opened his eyes, and saw her gazing at him. Surprise and remembrance crossed his face. He reached for her, pulling her close, and kissing her with a low, happy growl. "I feared 'twas a dream," he said, and hugged her with true joy. "My Lyssa, my love, let me have you again."
Gladly did Lyssa give herself, and partook, and knew that even if she were drawn and quartered for her part in this deception, 'twould be worth dying for.
Chapter 16
The heat grew daily worse as August wore on, and Isobel despised it. The days passed in cloying stickiness, each the same as the one before, a round of numbing chores and witless tasks. She bit her tongue near to bleeding more times than she could count, knowing she had to restrain herself whilst Stephen lingered at Woodell.
Stephen. For a time, she'd thought she might find in her some kindness or attraction to the knight, but he bored her to distraction, following her hither and yon, ridiculously earnest in both speech and manner until her only urge when he appeared was to give him a sound cuff.
But if the days were wearing, the nights were worse. Next to her in the bed, Nurse snorted and sweated, and Isobel would awaken to find her arm pressed against the hot skin of t
he woman and want to blanch. It seemed nary a breath of wind ever stirred, nor ever would again. She thought she would go mad.
The first time she'd gone wandering, it had been innocent. Nurse had been snorting in her sleep, and Isobel wakened with a snap to a pool of intoxicating moonlight spilling over her body. She lifted her eyes to see an enormous full moon washing the sky clean of stars, and it seemed, suddenly, to be calling her. From some distance, she heard the sound of drums and a faint pipe, and Isobel rose to see if she might glimpse the fire of the villagers.
Dressed only in her thin shift, she wandered to the embrasure and leaned on it, and looked out. Here it was cooler. The night air kissed her skin and the moonlight caressed her, and without thinking, Isobel donned a tunic and wandered down the steps, keeping close to the shadows on the south wall when she discovered a handful of soldiers playing dice in the great hall. Her bare feet made no sound against the cool stone floor, and she slipped through the buttery into the yard.
In the thin, dry, night air, she halted and breathed in deep, filling her lungs with the scent of cow and fire and some herb she couldn't name, on air as cool as the river. Her restlessness eased a little, and she walked to the orchard, where she would be hidden.
The soft laughter of a woman startled her, and Isobel ducked behind a tree, waiting until she knew from whence the sound came. A low, warm male sound followed the laughter, and a rustling, as if there was some game of chase being played through the orchard. Isobel made herself small in the shadows, thinking it was some guard and his leman. She did not wish to be sent back to her chamber, nor—even worse—to have Stephen called to keep her company.
The sounds halted close by, and Isobel chanced peeking through a crotch of branches to see if she might spy the pair. They stood in a pool of moonlight, lit as brilliantly as day, and Isobel's heart dropped to her feet.
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