She drew closer, skirts catching in the hay. ‘My lord, it is Emma.’
‘Emma?’ There was a blankness in his voice, too, as if he had never even met her, let alone chosen her to be his mistress.
The hairs rose at the back of her neck. Richard’s brow was gleaming with sweat. How odd. To be sure, the animals warmed the stable, but it was nowhere near as warm as it had been in the inn. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Tentatively she reached out, touched that clenched fist. ‘Can you not sleep either? Richard, what is it?’ Remembering the way he had called out, she added, ‘Did you have a nightmare?’
He blinked, shook his head and stared for a moment at her hand, before slowly uncurling his fingers and linking them with hers. His grip was like iron, grinding her bones, and she had to brace herself not to flinch. She sensed, rather than saw, the moment he came back to himself.
‘Yes, since York I…Never mind, it was just a dream.’ The dazed look had gone, he was fully awake. ‘Just a bad dream.’
Recalling that isolated bedchamber in the tower of Winchester Castle, Emma looked up at him and wished she could see into his mind. She wriggled her fingers and his grip eased. It could not be easy bearing his heavy responsibilities. As a commander, so many looked to him for decisions from dawn to dusk. He deserved some peace. And, yes, he had long been in the habit of coming to the stables for snatches of it, she realised. He did not like people to know about his nightmares and the animals would not mind if he shouted in his sleep.
Hadn’t she found him in the stables with his animals when she had come in search of work at the castle? Animals do not pester you with questions or, as she had done that day, with petitions for help. They accept you as you are, just another man. The powerful man she had chosen as her protector was, it seemed, not completely invulnerable. But he had his pride; he would not want to discuss it.
She made to pull away. ‘My lord, you are tired. I shall leave you in peace.’
He laughed and, releasing her, flexed his shoulder. ‘Tired? You might say that, but I doubt that I shall sleep.’
‘Your shoulder disturbs your rest also, I think.’
His head tilted to one side as he reached out and took the lantern from her. ‘Emma, why did you follow me?’
‘I could not sleep, either. I thought perhaps we might talk, but I see you need rest.’
‘Talk? I would be more than happy to talk.’ Richard found a hook for the lantern and turned back with a grin. The strange mood brought about by his dream had lifted—helped by Emma’s appearance in the stable. He stared down at her. She looked lovely. Beneath the hood of her cloak her hair gleamed like gold. She had removed her veil and loosened her braid when she had gone to bed, but she was still wearing the heather-coloured gown.
‘I am not the only one to find sleep elusive. You are nervous of sleeping among strangers,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Her smile was shy and very beguiling. And it was astonishingly powerful, reaching deep inside him. Emma of Fulford looked beautiful tonight. But then she always did, whether standing by the Itchen in rough work clothes or standing in his bedchamber in Winchester in that pink gown. ‘It would not matter what you wear,’ he muttered.
‘My lord?’
‘Richard, remember?’
She gave him another of those exquisite smiles, shy yet flirtatious—the combination was lethal—and Richard felt his thoughts beginning to scramble. Did she know what she was doing?
He had dragged her out of the Staple, concerned that already Emma of Fulford had become one of Hélène’s girls. But all day he had been studying her and he had come to the conclusion that he might have misjudged her. It was obvious she had needed money; perhaps she had been selling the gown. Just the gown.
It would be good to know for sure. Perhaps, if he tested her, he might learn the truth. He would not go too far, Adam would never forgive him if he took advantage of her, but a test, a small test. And she was amenable, she had asked to become his mistress…
The brooch at her cloak winked in the light. Beneath the cloak her breast rose and fell. Yes, Richard thought, a little test…
Gently, he touched her cheek. ‘Perhaps, as I do, you think it is time.’
‘Time?’ Emma’s heart began to race, her stomach tightened. Richard’s pupils had darkened, they looked almost black, save for a rim of silver. Did he mean what she thought he meant?
‘Our agreement. It is time you fulfilled your…obligations.’
She bit her lip. He was standing with the lantern beside him and while she stared up at him, he shifted so his broad shoulders blocked out the light. She could no longer see his eyes. His fingers had found her ear; they were busily tracing the shape of it, gentle but determined. ‘I…I…so soon?’
‘Soon? It does not seem too soon to me, ma petite. Today has dragged as though it were an eternity.’ A strong arm reached for her and Emma found herself pulled against that broad chest. ‘I can wait no longer. You had a reprieve last night because of Henri, but I have need of you tonight, and since you have so fortuitously sought me out…’
Heart beginning to pound, she lifted a brow, and tried for a lofty tone. ‘Here in the hay, my lord?’
‘Yes, Emma, here in the hay.’
‘With the animals?’
‘I promise you they are very discreet.’
‘But, Richard, I—’
His mouth came down on hers and her objections were left unspoken. He gave her no chance to protest. Indeed, her legs went swoony in an instant; he scattered her protests to the four winds. Pushing her cloak aside, his hands were on her hips, pulling her securely against him. But objections remained, swirling in the back of her mind. It was unexpected, it was too soon, she hardly knew the man—mind you, she had known Judhael her whole life, she had loved Judhael, and what good had that done her?
Emma liked the feel of Richard of Beaumont; his certainty dizzied her. He was so tall, so strong and—she could feel him, hard against her belly—leaving her in no doubt that he wanted her.
Thank God, this was her safe time.
Emma’s friendship with Hélène had made her privy to many women’s secrets, and chief of these was the knowledge that certain times of the month were safer for the indulging of carnal appetites. She had been woefully ignorant when she and Judhael had become lovers, but since then she had taken the trouble to learn. That was why she knew that this was her safe time. Henri was a great blessing in her life, but a second child out of wedlock? No! Of course, last night in Winchester Castle Richard had promised to take care of any child they might have, and she believed she could trust him in that regard, nevertheless…
‘Love me, Emma.’ His voice was dark with desire.
‘Someone might come in, and the…the dogs,’ she protested, weakly.
Sighing, he looked at the hounds and clicked his fingers. Immediately they left the stall, passing out of her line of sight.
‘They will sit by the door and act as our guard. Better?’
‘Yes…no…that is…’
‘Kiss me, Emma. This time you must kiss me, I want you to woo me.’
‘You want me to woo you?’
His smile was crooked. She had the strangest feeling he was observing her most intently. ‘Yes, that is what you do, is it not? Seduce me, show me what you learned at the Staple.’
She swallowed, paralysed by shyness. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, Emma, now. I want your hands on me.’
There was no point repeating that she was not used to this—he did not seem to believe her. Besides, it was too late, she had accepted his protection, the passage to Normandy, his coin. She was bound to him.
Reaching up, Emma pushed her hands into his hair. It was easier than she might have expected, though her hands had begun to tremble. His hair was thick and silky and as she ran her fingers through it, he leaned into her caress, grey eyes watchful. That slight smile lingered on his lips, and when she stroked the back of his neck, his eyes half-cl
osed, like a cat’s. There was not a trace of the vulnerability she had glimpsed when she had followed him into the stables.
‘You like touching me, Emma, don’t pretend otherwise.’
Murmuring agreement, Emma was fast discovering she did like touching him; her hands caressed his ears, his cheekbones. Tentatively she found his mouth, tracing the shape of his lips, a shape that had attracted her from the first. Turning his head, he drew her finger inside, teased it with his tongue. Tingles started up in her stomach, her breath was becoming uneven. And always he was watching her through those half-closed eyes, observing her reaction.
His request for her to woo him was hardly surprising, given the agreement they had made. But Emma did not feel ready for this. Surely one should know a man before…before…
However, Richard of Beaumont was not an easy man to gainsay. He had pushed her hood back and his hands were playing in her hair, loosing it, spreading it over her shoulders like a second cloak. And, for all that he was such a powerful man, taller and stronger than Judhael, his movements were gentle and unhurried. The way his eyes, dark and almost black at this moment, were looking at her…the word reverent came to mind. But underneath the gentleness she glimpsed ruthless determination. He would not be crossed in this. They had made their agreement, he had bought her, and he would have her.
Going up on her toes, Emma pressed her lips to his cheek. She could feel stubble on his chin, she could smell him, that purely male scent that was Richard. She recognised it from his pillow last night and from the kisses they had shared in the tower room.
‘You are elf-fair,’ he whispered in her ear as he nipped at her ear-lobe, her neck. ‘Hair like moonbeams.’
It was hard to breathe here in the stables. And, as Emma sank down with Richard on to sweet, clean straw, she wondered if he expected her to protest. Shame on her, but she wasn’t going to. Apparently, it wasn’t simply her body that was conspiring with him in this seduction, her mind was too. The shame of it….
Her cheeks were burning. He was covering them with kisses even as he lay her in the prickly straw. He was muttering incoherently in French. She caught the words, ma belle, chérie, as he stroked her breasts through the heather-coloured gown. Her breasts swelled. She wished he was touching her naked skin, she wished she was touching his naked skin. Yet more shame. Richard made her feel wanton; with him she was wanton. Lust, this was lust. How dreadful. Emma did not love this man, but his touch was firing her blood. Saints.
‘Roses,’ he muttered.
‘Hmm?’
Smiling, Richard drew back to look at her even as his hand swept her body from breast to thigh and she shuddered with pleasure. Straw shifted. ‘You smell of roses, exotic roses.’
‘Cecily gave me some scent.’ Why was it so hard to speak? ‘I…I do not think it was made in England.’
‘Mmm.’
He had lost interest in the rose scent, he was tugging at the hem of her skirts, eager fingers were sliding up her calves, over her thighs…
Richard was desperate, desperate to have her. It was becoming increasingly hard to remember that he was only testing her, that he must not bed her in truth. His thoughts had never been so tangled. Mistress in name only. Adam. Must not take advantage. As he dragged up her skirts, he pressed his face into the fragrant warmth of Emma’s neck, kissing every inch of skin that he could get at. Which was not much. The neckline of her gown was ridiculously high.
Pulling back for a moment, he scowled at it. She had chosen a remarkably modest gown. Had she chosen it deliberately to keep him at bay? Oddly, it was having the opposite effect on him. He burned for her, he burned.
Richard dipped his head again, cupping a breast through the heather-coloured fabric while he fumbled with increasing impatience for side-lacings. He did not want to shame her by taking her naked in a stable, not when a stable-boy might walk in on them, but he ached to touch more of her skin. Must not take advantage…
‘Damn.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No lacings.’
She bit her lip and the flush on her cheeks went a couple of shades darker. ‘They are at the back, my 1—Richard.’
‘Safely out of reach, eh?’
‘Y-yes.’
Her bashfulness was adorable, it had him utterly disarmed. Was it calculated? He did not think so. Somehow Emma of Fulford had kept her innocence, which was extraordinary in a woman who had born a child out of wedlock. Still he had to be sure, he did not want the test to end quite yet….
‘It’s a good trick, the innocence,’ he said.
‘Innocence?’
‘Never mind.’
Richard found her shy seduction of him completely enthralling. When she had gone up on her toes like that and had kissed him so tentatively, she had shifted his mood abruptly from that of a man who needed a woman but who could control his needs, to a man who needed a particular woman: her. As for control…his mind clouded, he was all need.
Worse, she was making him feel that there might be a real connection between them, that the physical act with Emma of Fulford might be more that the mere spilling of his seed. Richard could not recall anyone else making him feel like that.
His mind was no longer under his command. He was only testing her, and he was guiltily aware he ought to stop, but even his hand had developed a mind of its own, moving without him willing it. ‘It must be a knack,’ he muttered, watching as his hand traced the fascinating warmth of her inner thigh.
‘Hmm?’
Confused, Richard looked into her eyes and the sense that this was not simply a roll in the hay intensified. Those blue eyes were focused entirely on him, her pupils had dilated in the lamplight and, for a second or two, he knew—he knew—that if he were the only man in her world, his life would be so much richer. ‘Madness.’
‘Hmm?’
‘You are a clever woman, Emma of Fulford.’
Her fingers had crept to the ties of his hose and as they trailed tentatively over his stomach he shuddered. ‘Lord!’
She snatched her fingers back. ‘No?’
Taking her hand in his, he returned it to his body, to that part of him that was straining for her touch. ‘Yes,’ he managed. The promptings of his conscience were by now mere whispers in the back of his mind, he could hardly hear them. ‘More firmly, sweetheart, more firmly.’
Hot, he was too hot. Wrenching off his cloak, Richard tossed it behind him and only then noticed that Emma was still wearing hers. Perhaps if it was unfastened, it would seem as though he could get at more of her. He tore at her brooch and shoved the cloak aside.
‘Richard.’ She stroked his cheek, and a small, work-worn finger touched his upper lip. But all the while her other hand, her other hand….
‘Mon Dieu!’
He hiked her skirts up to her hips and she bit her lip. It made him want to kiss her and he followed his instincts, losing his tongue in her mouth, playing with hers, pressing his body against her. Her beautiful hair was spread out over the straw; her eyes held him in thrall. He was panting, she was panting.
It was most unsatisfactory. Richard couldn’t get at her properly, and he wanted to get at her. She couldn’t get at him—he suppressed another gasp—except for a certain part of his anatomy. He continued exploring the tantalising shadows between her legs. Straw shifted. Heated sighs. She moaned, and his insides tightened. Her body told him it wanted his, and he pushed towards her.
And yet, he was not entirely happy. He longed to free her body from her clothing, but he couldn’t. They were in a stable; because anyone might walk in on them, this coupling would have to be one of the quickest and most basic of his life. That damn gown, Richard thought, as he moved over her, kissing the tiny part of her throat that was accessible, there was simply too much of it; a nun’s habit wouldn’t be more chaste.
But those fingers of hers, they were clever, they knew what they were doing, Emma was helping him, easing him into position, as if she sensed how impatient he was to be
in her.
He lifted his head, his conscience forgotten. She liked his touch. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks were dark with colour, and her head moved from side to side with each panting breath. Shorter and shorter, her breaths were getting shorter and shorter…
Opening those eyes, she raised her other hand and brought his head down for a searing kiss. She kissed a lot once she forgot to be shy. Richard rather liked it. Nudging her legs apart, he allowed her to put him where he most wanted to be.
He gave a swift thrust. She gasped as though he had surprised her. Startled by that gasp, not entirely lost to reason, Richard held back, but one of her arms wound round his waist and he forgot everything except that he was inside her.
‘Richard.’ Acceptance, even satisfaction in her tone.
Richard still longed to be out of his tunic and for her to be out of that damn gown, but that no longer seemed so important. They were one. Her body was fully clothed, but it was firm and it had welcomed him. He drew away and pushed back. Her other hand fisted in his hair, keeping his head next to hers, not that he was in a mind to move away. She was kissing his cheek, his neck. Breathy little moans warmed his ears, moans which came and went in time with his movements.
Moans which would, if he were not careful, have this finished in a moment. Think, man, think. Make this last.
Richard managed to snatch at a stray thought, moving faster despite himself. Her apparent innocence…her shyness…it must be genuine. Confusion clouded his mind and he pulled back, smiling at her moan of protest.
Her hair was beautifully disordered, silver skeins trailing about her. Bits of straw everywhere. He found the rhythm again while her fingers clung, urging, helping. No, not innocent. There was Henri, of course, but…
Blue eyes smiled into his and Richard felt his control slipping. There it was again, that peculiar sense of connection. It was in his mind; such things only existed in the old ballads.
‘Richard,’ she murmured.
Richard was finding it increasingly hard to think, never mind speak. There was an ache in his chest and the tension was building to an irreversible peak. He framed her head with his hands and kissed her into silence.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 12