Twelve Kisses

by Lindsay Townsend

  “Say mine is best,” he drawled, “or I will drop you into your effort and improve it.”

  “Yours has no nose!” she protested, laughing, snow dropping off her shoes and furs and mittens as he whirled her in his embrace. “Let me down!”

  “You're a nag,” he said amiably, “but I know a way to silence you.”

  He lowered his head, but she had a final snowball ready, and she smeared his chin with it, laughing as he mock-roared and fleeing when he set her onto the snowy ground to wipe his face.

  She raced back the cottage, slipping and slithering down the fields in puffs of snow, but she did not bar the door. She wanted him to catch her, after all.

  * * * *

  “Little madam!” He had forgotten how good it was to laugh out loud, to jest and lark and play. Memories of war were far away now, not hovering anymore, not invading his nights. She had done this for him, his Alis, his wife.

  He hurried back to their little house on the edge of the wood and hammered on the door, not caring that more snow spilled onto his head from the roof eaves.

  “You!” Standing in the door, he shook snow from his hair, hands on hips. But where was she? He took a step inside.

  At once a pair of warm hands covered his eyes. “I will take another Christmas kiss now,” he heard her say. “Unless you want your breakfast?”

  “Take or give?” he asked, recalling an earlier conversation between them. She had said she would not give him any kisses.

  She dimpled a grin at him, the little cat, clearly remembering, too. “You shall guess which,” she answered, leaving him to make what he would of that. “But in what order?”

  “Kiss, then breakfast.” He coiled an arm around Alis' middle and kissed her slowly in the doorway, with her standing on tiptoe.

  * * * *

  She taught him how to make oat cakes, while huge fluffy white flakes poured past the window shutters. They ate the cakes, drizzled over with honey and washed down by warm blackberry tisane, and then he suggested a game of merrils—his challenge for the day.

  “With one more rule,” he added.

  “Each time I win a line, you take off a piece of clothing,” she said, blushing even as she suggested it. “And the other way about.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but secretly he was pleased—he had been about to go for more kisses. “I will build up the fire first,” he said. “I would not have you cold when you are naked.”

  She wagged a finger at him, looking fourteen again.

  “White or red?” He offered her the two pegs as he lifted the board from a pannier.

  “Red. I must become accustomed, I suppose.” She gave a breathy sigh and skipped away to break sticks for the fire.

  * * * *

  Alis knew she was good at merrils. She may have been a poor maker of snowmen, but with any puzzle, any maze, she could see the shape of it. A skill she shared with David, she quickly realized, as, time after time, he stopped her winning a line on the board by a deftly placed peg.

  “Ah!” She slapped the table when he did it again, and he flicked a glance at her and laughed.

  “Do not fight so hard, then,” he said. “You always did want to win.”

  “Being brought up with Jerome, it was win, or listen to constant gloating.” Alis stopped and stared at the red peg in her fingers.

  “I am sorry,” David said after a space. “He was a good brother.”

  Alis nodded, wishing she did not feel comforted by his words, or the gentle hand he placed on her shoulder. They were sitting opposite from each other, and suddenly she longed to be closer, to feel his arms about her. Yet he had fought on the other side from Jerome....

  “You lost Thomas,” she said.

  “To fever, off the battle-field. Not a very glorious end, I fear, not the kind talked about in stories. He was far older than me, ten years. I did not know him, really.”

  David was staring at the white peg in his hand, but it was the longest he had spoken about the wars.

  “What was it like?” she ventured.

  “Ugly.” His broad shoulders hunched, and he would not look at her. “Why do you want to know?”

  “To understand, if I can.” She surprised herself by almost adding, to help.

  “Different from here.” He dropped the white peg into the board. “I like here better and my own forge. A freshly shod horse is real. Everyone needs horseshoes and knives sharpened and the like.” He tapped the table and raised his head, looking straight into her face. “I have a line.”

  “Indeed.” Alis hoped her expression would reveal nothing. She had swapped a peg a moment ago, to make his win possible. “What would you have me remove?”

  * * * *

  Everything, he longed to say, but he said simply, “Your coif.”

  She tugged off her new linen headdress, the one that showed her status as a wife, and her hair tumbled out of its fastenings. She scowled and moved to repin it, but he shook his head. “Leave it.”

  “Why should Sir Roger think me a danger?”

  She seemed surprised to have asked it, and certainly, her question broke the mood. Putting that worry aside for the moment, David leaned over the table and tweaked her tumble of black curls. “He is curious, no more.”

  “Or had he a marriage in mind for you?”

  She was quick and clever. His heart pounding within his chest, David crossed his fingers against the lie and said steadily, “He discussed the matter once. I refused.”

  In truth, his lord had talked many times—he had wanted him to wed another farrier's daughter. He had refused, many times, the last most vehemently. He would be his own man, or nothing—and he had wanted Alis.

  “He will not be angry with you?”

  Bless her for worrying! “Why should he be? His horses never go lame with my shoes.”

  To stop this, he unlaced his jerkin and drew it over his head. “It's warm in here.” He felt her eyes on his bare chest and rejoiced.

  Surely she loves me, just a little? We have these days, and I will tell her how I feel soon, very soon.

  Chapter Four

  The wind whistled outside, and Alis peeped through the shutters. “Should I go tend the horses? It is getting dark and sleeting and snowing very fast.”

  “I shall do that, my girl.” David was already stalking for the door as he spoke, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was half-naked. He put his hand on the latch and turned. “Time for bed, then, for we can do no more.”

  Had he winked at her then?

  “Supper?” she ventured, wanting to delay him before he stepped into the swirling murk.

  “Look in the panniers.”

  After he had marched into the dark, Alis stood for a moment. Should she move the merril board and set trenchers out on the table? Or be bolder and move along with her plan?

  She debated then did what she wanted.

  * * * *

  Two costly wax candles were burning at either side of the bed on each of the stools when he returned. Lit by them and the fire, Alis was already in bed and the whole room was scented with…

  He sniffed. “Lavender?”

  “From my nosegay,” she said. Propped against pillows and draped in her white furs, she looked beautiful. Enterprising, too, for she had turned the merril board over and loaded it with cups and bowls. She lifted a cup to him, and he caught a whiff of spiced wine. “There are the cheese and apples you like, smoked meats, and some pottage and frumenty is cooking over the fire.”

  He said, as all new husbands must, “All of it smells delicious.”

  “Tomorrow, if the weather is good, we should go out and cut some holly and ivy for a Christmas Bush to hang from the ceiling.”

  “And mistletoe,” he added mildly, stretching on the bed beside her and stabbing a morsel of meat and apple with his knife. He offered it to her, and she ate then speared cheese and slices of apple and meat herself, feeding him.

  The fire crackled and fell in on itself, and they fed each other gen
erously before David stretched his arms above his head, ate a final piece of cheese and said, “This whole day has been a kiss for me.”

  The instant he admitted it, he felt foolish, but to his horror, her eyes filled.

  “No, no,” she shook her head as he reached across the bed to embrace her. “I am not sad. I feel the same, David, the very same.”

  Tell her you love her, the cottage whispered, and he opened his mouth to speak when Alis slid out of her furs.

  “Warm, is it not?” she murmured, slanting a look at him.

  “And will be warmer,” he answered, picking up her half-challenge at once. At her start of alarm, he warned himself again to go slowly—steady and tender would suit them both best, for now.

  He picked up the jug and poured them a refill of warmed, spiced wine. “Wassail.”

  She drank to honor his toast, and he swiftly lifted the merril board and its array of dishes onto the table. Alis was still drinking, and he admired her long white throat, the snowy paleness of her breasts, the dark storm of her hair and intimate curls.

  “May I give you my fifth kiss?” he asked.

  She looked ready to dispute if it was the fifth, but he knew she was ready at either number, because she pursed her lips.

  He kissed her and one handed, drew her down into the depths of their bed. “The candles do you justice.”

  “I am glad you like them,” she said quickly. “I hoped you would, though I know they are expensive.”

  “Sweeting, the house and its running are yours.” He smiled at her—she was so easy to smile at—and watched the candle flame gild the lissome outline of her breasts. Then he pretended to drain his cup and encouraged her to do the same, rolling her empty vessel to the foot of the bed. “In summer, we shall do this again, out of doors, in full day.”

  “What of your work, or mine?” she quipped, gasping as he trickled a drop of wine onto her left nipple and tongued it off.

  “And the other.” He dipped his finger into his cup and touched her right nipple with the wine.

  She lay still as he suckled and kissed away the wine, though he saw a pulse racing in her throat.

  “You also,” she whispered, stretching out her hand for his cup, but he lifted it out of reach.

  “Tonight is for you, Alis.”

  It was delicious, drizzling her with wine, smoothing it off with his mouth. His lips tingled, and he became more and more aroused. She was so nubile, so pearl-fleshed, so salty and minty and sweet all together. Her nipples were pinker than roses, and the gentle swell of her breasts filled the palms of his hands perfectly.

  “David, David. “ Her hands were in his hair, rumpling his shorn locks. Candle flame and firelight—she glowed more than both. He licked her navel, and she kicked and moaned. “Please—”

  She was ready, but he entered her slowly, looming above her then half-turning, so he was partly on his side, and she was cradled beneath him. Slow and sweet as warmed wine, he sipped her and pleasured her until her hips began to jerk against his, signaling her release, and he rode with her, swift and sure, to their mutual end.

  * * * *

  Five kisses, Alis thought, lying on her belly in bed, David draped over her like a heavy battle flag. He never smothered her this way when awake, but she rather loved his weight. She felt pleased with herself and proud of her womanliness.

  Mother never mentioned this in all her talks.

  But Mother had said he should say he loved her, during or after. “Love noises,” she had called them. David had called her sweet, and he spoiled her, but he had not said he loved her.

  I do not care. I love him, and he wants me, and it is enough.

  He had not spoken again of his lord, but she sensed it had not been forgotten. She frowned in the dark, wishing he would tell her more. But then, since when did a man tell everything?

  Be content. Look for your sixth kiss. Which gave her an idea....

  Chapter Five

  David stirred from a dream of flying, stretched and realized he was already stretched—spread-eagled, in fact. Long ties of belts fastened his wrists and ankles to each corner of the bed-frame. And here came Alis, a pale shadow in the half-light, naughty as a mermaid, sweeping light, hesitant hands up his legs.

  “You are so long, so strong,” she mumbled, flicking her hair against his shoulders then his belly, teasing him.

  “Careful,” he warned.

  “Or else?” She tossed him a saucy look.

  His fingers and loins itched and burned, but he made himself wait. In less time than it would take him to melt gold, he could have torn his way through her bindings and smacked that pert backside of hers until she yielded, but he waited. She had a plot, the naughty wench.

  Alis kissed him once, there, on his manhood, then giggled and hastily kissed his mouth instead. He luxuriated in her shy ardor, feeling for the first time in his life truly handsome.

  His wife was a beguiling little witch, caressing and kissing and murmuring “wait,” each time he strained a little against his ties.

  “You must wear me down, madam, or I will take my revenge,” he warned, as she cupped his balls and stroked along his length.

  “I intend to,” she replied, cool as one of the snow drifts outside, then shattering her own illusion as she rather awkwardly mounted him.

  “Sorry,” she panted, thrusting an elbow into his ribs as she tried to drive herself onto his spear.

  He lifted her slightly and helped her until she was on top of him, her hands hooked against his shoulders, her mouth exploring his ribs and nipples.

  “You are so wonderfully hairy,” she admired. Then, “Oh!” as he stirred within her.

  “Do you intend to have me?” he asked, proud that his voice sounded as measured as it did.

  “Of course.” She began to move, jolting at first then settling into a busy rhythm he marveled at for a moment, until it swept him away. As he was ridden and rode her, he heard her mutter, “Hard this, but yes, yes! Sweet God—”

  He kissed her on her panting mouth as she climaxed.

  She dropped onto him, dewed with sweat. “Six,” she hissed. “Six kisses. My first given.”

  He patted her rump, allowing her this triumph; then he tensed and snapped the bonds, ripping through them to snatch her into his arms.

  “Not quite yet,” he answered. Freeing his right leg with a single kick, he rolled them both over with her now on her back and went into her again.

  Her eyes opened wide. “But you—you finished!”

  “Not quite,” he panted, and now he took her, pounding into her, storming her afresh, until she shuddered anew and cried his name, and they both were utterly satisfied.

  * * * *

  Seven kisses, Alis thought, in a doze sometime later, seven given and taken. Tenderness and heat but no love words. She tried to consider if she was sorry, or still hopeful but slept instead.

  * * * *

  The following morning, a bitter wind drove snow and sleet hard against the shutters, and David was soaked to his skin by the time he returned from the tending the horses.

  “Still enough hay for them,” he remarked, catching her worried look as she handed him a cloth to dry himself, “and we have the frumenty and pottage.” He picked a half-loaf from the table and scowled slightly. “Hard enough to break our teeth on, but we shall manage.”

  Alis nodded. She knew a trick or two with stale bread, and last night she had found onions in one of the panniers. “I hoped to go riding today,” she admitted. She had wanted David to take her on the back of his glossy chestnut, and they ride together.

  “So had I.” David gave a gusty sigh. “I have boyhood haunts to show you.”

  “Ones we missed earlier?”

  “Ones your parents would not let me take you to see, for they were most careful of your modesty.” David gave the hard loaf a final tap and smiled at her. “But we shall see them now, or later. There is no haste.” He draped the cloth over the end of the table and turned to her.
“We must entertain ourselves in other ways.”

  “I must wash the pots,” Alis said quickly, as he approached her.

  “Then I shall heat some water for you.” He brushed past her and hefted the biggest cauldron away from its hook over the fire.

  “I will come out, too.” Alis did not want him to think her soft.

  “No need, wife.” He tweaked her coif. “Stay warm for me, instead.” With that, he strode off into the pounding sleet.

  * * * *

  David shoveled snow, cut firewood, and filled the cauldron with well water. Alis, he noted with pleasure, was obviously watching for his return, for she dragged open the door as he blundered through the slush.

  He closed it before the snow fell in and lifted the cauldron onto its hook over the fire. “Onions?” he asked, inhaling deeply. He loved onions and ramsons, and she seemed to have both cooking here, in a gently simmering vessel.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You kissed me once with a mouthful of garlic.”

  “I did.” He remembered and recalling her fourteen-year-old indignation, stroked her cheek and chin with his thumb. “Forgive me?”

  Alis nodded, a half-smile lurking on her rosy mouth. “I may need to ask for you to forgive me, after you have tried our breakfast.”

  * * * *

  But all was well. David asked for second helpings of the bread, onion and cheese pottage and even scoured the crusted pots for her. She swept the floor and mopped the table, happy in such easy, shared domestic tasks while the wind hissed outside and sucked at their stout door and rattled the trees in the nearby wood. Never had she known a winter more cold and at the same time warm, for David had made this cottage so snug and safe.

  We are at peace here. We may be Yorkist and Tudor, but we do well together.

  If only he would say he loves me....

  She was humming a carol and scouring a spot where a raisin had been crushed into the boards when the room went black about her.

  Chapter Six

  She yelped, instinctively lifting her hands to the soft cloth David had used to cover her eyes, but he drew her back against him, trapping her one-handed.