The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Eagerly she pressed her body against his, and he felt himself grow harder. “We need to slow down,” he said in a thick voice, feeling the throbbing mass of his erection nestled against her thigh, begging for release.

  “I don’t want to,” Bronwyn replied, her fingers running up and down his spine. Lacing them through his short hair, she met his driving tongue, thrust for thrust, taking and giving back in turn.

  He had wanted to touch her, kiss her, take the time to explore her entire body in every way he could before their lovemaking became heated, fueled by need. He wanted to connect with her body and soul.

  Bronwyn closed her eyes and wished Ranulf would break free and take her like he had before. He tongued a path between her breasts and gingerly outlined them, bringing the pink tip to a crested peak. She quivered and arched closer to his lips until she felt his mouth take her nipple in. She moaned.

  His slow gentle approach was driving her wild, creating a torrent of desire that was taking over her body. She wanted nothing more than to feel him on top of her, inside her, exciting her to new limits. She writhed under his touch, begging him to take her into his mouth once again. When he didn’t, she slid her palm down his chest, across his belly, and lower.

  The moment she touched his flesh, he shivered violently and jerked back. “I can’t—” he began, but his body refused to listen and pushed forward into her palm.

  Bronwyn had never considered the idea she had the ability to arouse his desire. At least not like this. It was empowering. But just as she was starting to experiment, cradling him in her palm and stroking him gently, he pulled her hand away. Bronwyn was about to argue, but when the heat of his fingers pressed against her intimately, all ability to think stopped.

  As his hand closed gently around her, a deep tremor shook her and Bronwyn heard herself cry out. Slowly he stroked her, parting her with his fingers, opening her as he eased one in and out of her snug passage. The pace he had set was torment. She needed more of him inside her and started lifting up her hips until they pressed against his hand, demanding release.

  “Ranulf,” she breathed, going half crazy with need. Unmoved by her pleas, he continued to stroke back and forth, slowly drawing forth the wet heat, stroking the flames until she was writhing uncontrollably with desire.

  Ranulf waited until he could hold on no longer, and with a low groan, he eased himself slowly and deeply inside her. She closed around him, hot and wet and so tight that it almost undid him. Then he began to move within her, slow and careful and very, very thorough.

  Bronwyn called out his name, begging him with her voice and body to quicken his pace. And as her hips began to thrust, he obliged, bringing them into a passionate rhythm until their breaths turned into short gasps. His back was slick with sweat and his muscles trembled beneath his skin. He needed this. He needed to feel alive again, to block out past fears that she had abandoned him.

  He increased the pace until she clenched around him and any semblance of control he may have had was obliterated. Once, twice more he thrust deep inside her then she cried out in elation. Barely a moment later, her own name was uttered from his lips in an ecstatic gasp, and he collapsed in blackness. Nothing else existed. Only the feeling of being surrounded by heaven.

  Bronwyn felt him shudder inside her and then the slump of his body falling heavily atop her, his breathing still affected by the exertion. She smiled and closed her eyes. The crazed passion of before had not been present, but even so, she felt replete, with the throb of his last thrusts still echoing within her. Once again, he had moved her in ways she would not have believed possible before meeting him. Tonight had not been about a rush to quench a thirst. Ranulf had desired above all else to give, and as a result, he had made her feel special.

  “Thank you,” she murmured against his skin, placing light kisses across his shoulders.

  Ranulf flipped over to his side so that he lay next to her, enabling him to run his fingers up and down the soft skin of her arm and hip. “Imagine, angel, a lifetime of this…of you and me.”

  Bronwyn nestled her backside closer to him and nodded. She wanted that lifetime. She would never leave him, and even better, he would never let her go.

  Light from the morning sun poured through the window, revealing the long-healed burns covering Bronwyn’s upper back. Ranulf studied them thoughtfully, caressing the uneven skin with his fingertips, glad she could not remember the excruciating pain the fire must have caused. Slowly his thumb traced them down her spine. They were more widespread than his own, but her skin could not have been exposed to the fire for long for she had maintained the use of her muscles. Yet, the very scale of her injuries…it was a wonder she had not died. Any worse, and she would have.

  Bronwyn stirred.

  “Sorry I awoke you.”

  “Don’t be,” she purred, stretching her toes.

  “Nothing,” he vowed, “nothing like this will ever happen to you again.”

  Bronwyn froze as she realized what Ranulf meant. “It’s strange, I can’t remember the fire, or the pain. I can remember being trapped in bed next to my mother for long periods. My father remembered it all, and practically rebuilt Syndlear as a result. He never wanted his family going to sleep and being trapped in flames again.”

  “I can’t blame him. I would do the same,” he replied huskily, still outlining the contours of her back.

  “Really?” she asked, flipping over. “Spend your fortune on expanding a keep that provides no additional room, no added protection, nothing but tiny escape holes in the wall that couldn’t barely fit one adult, let alone a family?”

  “Does fire scare you?”

  “No,” Bronwyn murmured, shaking her head. “Accidents do.” She pointed to the dark red scab on his shoulder. “You were lucky. My mother died right after the North Tower was completed while she was helping arrange furniture on one of the floors. I am sure my father also met with a similar misfortune. I just cannot believe disease took him. No, something unexpected, something awful happened. So, no, not fire…accidents are what I fear. They have taken away those who I loved.” With a sigh, she turned back over on her side. “And among those who I love are my sisters. I need to know they are not destined for misery because of me.”

  Ranulf sat up and raked his hand through his hair. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, knowing what she was about to ask. “They married good men. Besides Tyr, I trust no one more than Garik. And Rolande…well, he will be willing to settle down as soon as he sees Lily. He has not spoken of it, but I know he has been wanting to cast off his reckless ways.”

  Bronwyn bit her bottom lip. “I already knew the men whom my sisters married were good; they had to be if you respected them. But none of us were raised like other noblewomen, to be compliant and quiet. Edythe, especially. She considers herself realistic and tends to prepare for the worst, often coming across as mocking. I have seen her cutting wit injure the pride of many a man.”

  Ranulf gave a short grunt and twisted around so he could look Bronwyn in the eye. “It doesn’t take long to understand Edythe, and trust me, Garik is just right for her. The man is intelligent and engages those around him. Edythe will be surprised to find herself liking him, but she will.”

  “But why not Tyr?” Bronwyn posed, rising to a sitting position. “He is quick and observant, and what’s more, he will test Edythe’s convictions and I think she would do the same for him.”

  “Ha! You mean that they actually search for ways to stump the other. Just listening to them is amusing and seeing them fight, with their height difference, is beyond entertaining and something I will be harassing Tyr about endlessly in the future. And,” he interjected, seeing Bronwyn’s mouth open with another question, “of everyone I know, Tyr is the most sincere about his declarations against marriage.”

  “You can’t be serious. He’s so…perfect,” she murmured, her eyes wide in astonishment. “I find it hard to believe that no one has ever caught his eye.”

  Ranul
f fought to suppress the twinge of jealousy darting through him, reminding himself that Bronwyn belonged to him completely, and that he—without any doubt—belonged to her. “I’ve never known him to take serious notice of anyone. Although your sister has come as close as any, I hope she understands that his vow is quite resolute. Don’t fear. Garik’s mind is just as fast and sharp. And he’s shorter.”

  “Well, that is a plus,” Bronwyn sighed. “But what about Rolande? Rumors don’t portray him as a man desiring marriage.”

  In one swift motion, Ranulf bounded from where he sat and straddled her hips with greater agility than Bronwyn would have imagined given his size. His hands nudged her back down onto the bed and he began to reexplore her silken flesh. “He’s my commander and nothing like me. Funny, outgoing, and quick to smile. Like Lily, his greatest asset can also be his undoing—he searches for the good in people and situations.”

  Bronwyn bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to let Ranulf see how his touch was getting to her. “Sounds like a bad commander. Don’t you want somebody fierce?”

  Ranulf paused. “Fierce? No. I want somebody competent.”

  “Doesn’t all that compassion get in the way during battle?”

  “I never said Rolande was compassionate, at least not on the field,” he murmured, leaning over her and nuzzling her ear. “But he is quite the focus of the ladies, although I think Lily just might capture his attention. Especially, since—and don’t take offense—these hills are not swarming with competition.”

  Bronwyn made an effort to shrug her shoulders and push him back. He only shifted his efforts downward. “Wouldn’t matter if they were,” she gasped. “If Lily wanted him, she would get him. She’s…lucky that way.”

  Ranulf’s mouth roamed to the valley between her breasts, chuckling as her body arched in response. “Mmm…maybe it just appears that she is lucky. She’s always had you”—he paused to give her a quick nip—“and Edythe giving her whatever she wanted.”

  “Ahh…” Bronwyn moaned, straining to put her thoughts together. “I…I will admit that much of what you say is true, but after you have been around her awhile, you’ll understand that it is not me…Lily really is lucky,” she managed to get out. His tongue was velvet torture and the conversation about the future of her sister’s well-being was no longer important.

  “Maybe, but luck often runs out. I just hope she can handle it the day hers does.” Groaning, Ranulf took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, sending a shudder of excitement through them both.

  Bronwyn felt herself liquefying and her hands started circling his broad back of their own accord. No longer able to speak or think, she crushed her lower body against him, rhythmically flexing and arching her hips.

  Stimulated by her response, Ranulf’s tongue delved lower, across the curve of her belly. His hands slowly caressed the insides of her thighs, stroking, teasing until she was trembling violently. Sinking down on his knees, he placed himself between her legs, ignoring his own sexual tension seizing his insides.

  Hot, burning breath fanned the juncture of her legs as Ranulf kissed the inside of her thigh and then again, higher. At the unfamiliar caress, she gasped and tried to move, but Ranulf held her hips in position, allowing him to give her the most intimate of all kisses.

  She couldn’t move or think as he continued to taste until she was writhing, reaching for him, begging for what only he could give. And then he was there, at the core of her body, driving deep, seeking release and reassurance that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her own body clenched around him with every stroke, craving the hot, thick feel of him inside her.

  Ranulf cried out at the intimate connection and instinctively pulled back and thrust again, sinking even deeper into the snug, tight channel of her body. Her nails dug into his back as he pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling her sweet rose and womanly scent. Unable to slow or control the rhythm of their lovemaking, he plunged harder and faster. She in return wrapped her legs around him, spreading herself as wide as she could to bring him in farther.

  Then he could feel her body seize and go into hard tight convulsions that carried her right over the edge as she cried out his name in surrender. Unfathomable feelings of possession slammed into him and he plunged one last time. Life stopped and eternity began. Never would he get enough of her.

  Ranulf had no notion of how long he lay weak and satiated, unable to move or feel anything but her soft kisses on his hair. He held her tightly to him as he regained control of his limbs, and slowly rose to his elbows, taking great pleasure in the dazed and replete blue eyes staring back at him.

  “Are you going to answer that, or should I?” Bronwyn asked, squelching a giggle, letting her hand slide downward over his body until her fingers curled gently around him.

  Ranulf’s body instantly responded. “Answer what?” he grumbled, as the sound of knocking penetrated his senses. When it did not stop, he roared at the intruder, “Go away!”

  “I will not!” came Edythe’s very short and surly reply. “The sun rose hours ago and we have been waiting patiently for Bronwyn’s help with the evening’s events.”

  Ranulf moaned. He couldn’t believe Bronwyn’s wantonness, teasing him when she knew her sister was on the other side of the door. Stilling her torturous fingers in a firm grip, he gritted out, “We’re still deliberating your fate since you were so kind as to determine ours. So leave us alone.”

  Edythe let go a single, but audible “hrmph” in disgust and retreated. Bronwyn arched a playful brow and said, “Shouldn’t we get up?”

  With unexpected strength, he grabbed her waist and rolled over at the same time, positioning her so that she was astride him. “I don’t think so.”

  Bronwyn licked her lips. “It is Saint Stephen’s Day. The people will be waiting.”

  “For their pots full of money.”

  “So you know the custom,” she purred, letting her fingers play with the hairs on his chest.

  “Of course,” he groaned. “I ordered the clay pots as soon as we got back after we went hunting. I’ll pass them out tonight.”

  “Did you know that you, too, get a present?” Bronwyn asked as she leaned down to kiss his navel, smiling with delight as his stomach contracted.

  Ranulf grinned back. “Really? And just what is in my clay pot?”

  “Your present doesn’t come in a pot,” she purred, smiling as her hand slowly moved lower, making a trail for her mouth and tongue to follow. “And even more lucky, you don’t have to wait until tonight either.”

  Chapter Nine

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1154

  SAINT JOHN THE APOSTLE’S DAY

  Saint John the Evangelist was a beloved disciple and his day is celebrated during Christmas to represent his closeness to the Lord. Although he was saved miraculously just before he was sentenced to die, his willingness to suffer death for the cause of Christ allows him the description of martyr—through will though not deed. In medieval times when celebrating Saint John’s Day, it was customary to collect the herb Saint John’s wort and hang it over doors and windows to keep evil spirits away. Another focal point of the celebration was the building of great communal bonfires, burning from dusk until well after midnight, to serve as a symbol of Christ himself—the burning and shining light. Feasts were enjoyed and songs were sung.

  Ranulf swallowed. Bronwyn was stretching in her sleep, her hand touching him innocently in ways that created an instant lesson in self-control. He curled his arm around her middle and pressed his lips against her forehead, causing her to remove her hand, roll to her side, and snuggle closer to him. The kiss had been a natural solution to her unconscious embrace, one he had performed without forethought, as if he had done it a hundred times over several years.

  One of her legs was lying haphazardly over his thigh, her foot nestled below his calf. Her hand now rested on his chest, tickling him whenever the tips of her fingers moved. Her nose was buried against his neck, and her hair, fr
ee from its braid, lay sprawled over her back and shoulders so that he inhaled whiffs of rose and witch hazel each time she moved. Ranulf was not sure if having Bronwyn in his bed provided more rest or less.

  Yet whenever she rolled to the edge of the bed, the sudden feeling of loss grabbed him, arresting him from his sleep. He had not realized how unbalanced his life had been, but he had finally found true happiness. And if he ever lost Bronwyn, he would no longer be able to survive the loneliness he had previously endured.

  He loved her. Fully and completely. She had, in just a few days, become his everything.

  Before her, the concept of love had seemed vague, and when described, it sounded like a child’s whimsy and not to be believed. Too many times he had witnessed a man or a woman swearing their love and then soon after moving their affections to someone else. So he had concluded long ago that love and lust were synonymous, a potentially powerful craving that, when satiated, disappeared. But lust did not explain what he felt for Bronwyn. He had been falling for her since the first night she had poured out her heart thinking him asleep. He had learned everything he needed to know then. She had captured his soul thoroughly.

  Finding happiness scared Ranulf, but knowing that he possessed the power to ruin it terrified him. For Bronwyn believed all their dishonesty was behind them. And while he had been careful not to lie to her, Ranulf had kept one vital truth to himself. A secret he intended to keep. At least for now. Bronwyn had feelings for him, deep ones, passionate ones, but they were not necessarily the emotions that bound one to another. Even if he held her tight, Bronwyn would slip through his grasp if she knew the truth. He needed to secure her heart before she ever learned the events of that awful day.