Twelve Kisses

by Lindsay Townsend

  “The eighth kiss is one of darkness.” He nipped her ear between his teeth and feathered his tongue along her ear lobe, causing her to drop her washcloth as sensation flooded into her. “A dark and secret kiss, a trusting kiss.”

  He deftly tied the cloth around her head, and she made no efforts to remove it. A trusting kiss echoed in her mind as he guided her, gently coaxing and suggesting, “Step over a log here. Good! Keep close to me.”

  A stool scraped along the floor, and then she was being led again.

  “A few more paces. Good!”

  Alis knew where she was, yet not. The world had shrunk to the feel of David’s arm around her and his hand around hers, the musk-salt-and-leather scent of him, the moan and swish of the wind and snow, bleating to be let in.

  “Sit, sweeting. Good!”

  She felt the stool and breathed out when she settled on it, absurdly pleased, although only a few days before she might have thought he was ordering her like a hound and objected. Now she knew better—this was play.

  David was moving beside her. She felt the amazing shock of his skin against hers as he knelt and wound his arms about her middle. He had stripped to his braies, she realized, trailing her fingers up his naked arms and shoulders with delight.

  “A kiss of peace.” He embraced her softly, his lips light and tingling as a snowflake on her mouth. “A kiss of gifts.”

  She heard a rustling then felt something cold dip into the front of her bodice. Flinching slightly, she relaxed as David gently hung a chain about her throat. Her roving fingers traced the jewel suspended on the chain.

  “I made it for you,” he said, sounding almost shy. “Copper and garnets.”

  “Thank you.” She shifted slightly to embraced him and found his lips meeting hers.

  They kissed, and though she was blindfolded, Alis closed her eyes, reveling in it all, her girlhood dream and desire finally made real. He was so hard and powerful, yet so gentle; it made her feel both helpless and strong at the same time.

  We cherish each other. She found her eyes were wet.

  “Eight,” she said softly, when he drew back a little.

  “Eight,” he answered and hugged her tightly.

  Soon after, he untied the cloth across her eyes and slipped out to check on the horses again, while she stared at her copper jewel. It was as bright as his hair, she thought, and most delicately made, a curving D and A intertwined. She looked at it until her eyes blurred afresh with tears before releasing it, feeling the copper bouncing gently between her breasts, warming her there, just over her heart.

  Overwhelmed by the quiet, compelling kiss and the gift, she felt shy again when David returned, though he seemed to notice nothing. He built up the fire then asked if he might check over their saddles.

  “'Tis your house,” Alis answered, but he shook his head, surprising her.

  “The house is your kingdom,” he said.

  “Yes, then,” she said, adding, “May I help? I am a saddler's daughter.”

  She noticed a sudden glint in his eyes, as if that was what he had intended, all along, but he answered as mildly as a summer's day, “Go to it.”

  * * * *

  David carried his saddle over to the fire and beckoned to her. She hesitated, sensing he was up to wickedness, no doubt, but finally she came. He gave her no time to reconsider, but scooped her up and over the saddle, face down with her skirts up.

  “The best way to clean any saddle is to drape a sinful wench across it and let her wrigglings do it for you,” he gloated, pinning her down with one hand and smacking her with the other. She writhed and kicked, but he had her now.

  “One. Two. Three. Four.” He counted the light, playful spanks, and she squirmed and gasped, but she did not protest, his young new wife, rather when he paused for an instant to flick a spitting twig away from her skirts, she lifted her hips toward him.

  “Aye, aye, you are right, we should be closer,” he murmured, and he lifted her off the saddle and carried her to the bed. The saddle would give them a stage for rough play, but he wanted her tight against him, and he wanted her comfortable. He settled on the bed and put her over his lap, with her upper body and head comfortable on the mattress.

  Her skirts had fallen back across her thighs, and he stroked her through the cloth. She clutched the pillow but said nothing.

  He fondled her slowly. This was a pleasure he had lusted after for many years, and he intended to make it last. “If you wish me to stop, say 'stop' or 'no,' Alis.”

  “I will.” Her voice was an echo of her marriage vows.

  His hand traced her ripe, pert curves. The cloth of her gown clung over her, and he was content to caress her this way, remembering a moment, years ago, when he had accidentally stumbled across Alis about to be paddled by her mother. She was fourteen and in the dairy. Her mother had made her bend over a table and was about to slap her with a spoon. I burst in to stop her.

  He was glad, too. No one hurts my Alis, including me.

  He leaned over her now and kissed her face. “More?”

  “Go to it,” she whispered, using his own words, and then whimpering, as if to deny what she had just said.

  David smiled and continued to caress her legs and thighs and bottom. She rocked against him, her eyes half-closed. “More,” she mumbled, burying her face in the pillow.

  He drew back her long blue skirts, rolling and tucking them around her waist. He pinched her bottom lightly, and she laughed.

  “Pretty Alis.” His head was buzzing with desire, and despite his time out in the stable, he was burning again, lust tempered by care.

  Let her smart and sting but not too much, pleasure not pain.

  “Kisses, but a different kind,” he said aloud and began again.

  He spanked her lightly and fast, glimpsing often at her face as her bottom changed color from white to pink to deep rose. By now, she was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, jerking with each smack as her breath came in great spurts.

  He could smell her rising desire, and now he slapped her rosy behind with more force, alternating spanks on each cheek. “Here the ninth kiss. The tenth. Eleventh…”

  She gave a great moan and thrashed across his lap. He laid her fully on the bed, and she twisted round at once and opened her arms and thighs.

  She was ready for him, more than ready. Sliding into her was like quenching a sword after smelting, a fast, starry cooling, a wondrous transformation. He sank into her embracing, pulsing depths, thrusting so hard and fast he feared for an instant he was hurting her.

  “More,” she cried, wrapping her legs around his middle, drawing him in still deeper. “Davey!”

  Her calling him was enough. He hammered them together and knew he was complete.

  Chapter Seven

  “The mistletoe is there, look! I can see it!”

  Even as she spoke, Alis was clambering the tree in the old apple and pear orchard, scrambling like a squirrel. Snow shuttered down over David’s head and shoulders, and he laughed and mock-roared.

  I feel so happy, she thought, weaving along a branch. It was the twelfth day of their time alone. Finally the snowstorms had stopped, and they had gone riding. Today they had ventured into the drifts of snow to gather winter greenery for the cottage. Impatient to be out and unable to find her mittens, she was wearing a pair of David’s gloves, far too big, but she did not care. She had always been a good climber.

  She missed her footing, slithered on the snowy side of the branch and dropped, in a slow, horrible glide that she could not stop—

  “Oof!” He caught her, knocking breath from her and him. It was like being snared by a statue come to life—he was as firm as a stone. Though she plucked at his hands, she could not shift them until he chose to let her down.

  “Idiot. Did I not say there was no hurry?” David took the mistletoe bough she had managed to grasp before she fell and tucked the end of the bough into his jerkin, the waxy leaves and glossy white berries hanging down into the snow. “You
need a man to take care of you, that is for sure.”

  He tugged off her coif, ignoring her protests as her hair tumbled out.

  “I like your hair that way, it reminds me of bedtime.”

  “It is not noon yet, and we are gathering greenery.”

  He gave a low bow, drawing a semi-circle in the fallen snow with his sweeping arm. “At my lady’s request.” He capered for her, and she had to stifle a giggle. These past few days, David had become more open, more playful, less of the hardened warrior and more and more the lover.

  If only he would tell me he loves me.

  “Idiot,” she said in turn, pretending to ignore his antics by looking about. “We really are in a world of our own.”

  He came behind her, dropping the ivy and other greenery they had already gathered, and hugged her. “Fine to me.” He rested his chin on the top of her head.

  She almost said, “You grow bristling,” for fair as he was, his stubble was beginning to show but did not want to spoil the moment.

  They looked over the snow-clad valley and fields. The fire in the cottage behind the old orchard issued a long plume of smoke, but otherwise, there was no sign of habitation nor of other human beings. The road was lost behind a stand of trees and the bells of a distant, unseen church drifted to them in the still air.

  David dropped his hands from her middle. He stepped in front of her to shield her. “Someone comes.” His voice was clipped, grim again.

  Now she heard it, a rush and yapping of hounds then the growing thunder of horses.

  “A dozen men, no more, not in armor,” said David. He pulled her behind a holly bush growing in the hedge at the edge of the orchard. “Let us pray they do not see our tracks.” He squeezed her hand. “They shall not hurt you, I swear. I would die first.”

  “Hush!” Quickly, Alis made the sign of the cross against such ill fortune. She felt about for her eating dagger, prepared to defend herself, if need be. I will not be a burden to David. I may be a Yorkist, but I can fight, too.

  “Hello? David Haveton, the farrier?” called one then several voices.

  “David!”

  David stiffened. “That is Sir Roger!”

  “David,” Sir Roger shouted. “Devil take you, man, where are you? I would see this wench of yours, the one you broke a betrothal pledge to marry!”

  Now David turned to face her, his blue eyes dark, his whole face stricken, as if he had aged by years. “That is not true!” he protested, his voice low as if in pain. “I never promised another!”

  Sir Roger called out again. “I have Margaret here, for she is your true wife.”

  “Never!” David dropped to his knees before Alis. “He lies! He wanted this marriage for politics, for usefulness, but I did not! Before God, Alis, I swear it! I love you! I have loved you since you were but ten and four, and I have always loved you!”

  At his impassioned, desperate declaration, emotion stormed through her so strong it made her sway on her feet. David caught her, and Alis wrapped her arms around him, feeling a hard shudder run through his body.

  “Alis, please—”

  She longed to soothe him, but at the same time was tempted to shake him for making her wait so long before he spoke the love words she had so wanted to hear. Now, though, was not the time to scold her husband. He needs my support.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “We must meet them. I love you, and all will be well, I promise.” She hugged him tightly then let him go. She hated the thought of such an encounter but knew they must. The woman here, too! Is she pretty? Is she blonde?

  “Alis, I swear to you, I do not know this Margaret. She is a name to me, no more.”

  She lifted her hand, and he fell silent at once. Her heart twisted within her, to see him so confounded, so unnaturally humble. “They cannot un-marry us,” she said. “I love you, David.”

  She held out her arm to help him up, but he rose and took her hand in his again. “Then let us go down,” he said. “Together.”

  Chapter Eight

  The woman was indeed blonde and very tall and skinny. A tall, pale icicle, thought Alis, marking how Margaret never looked at David, or at her. Sir Roger raged, and David answered. Through it all, Alis clung to the simple, wonderful fact—David loved her. David had always loved her.

  They were outside the cottage since David refused the newcomers entry to his house. Sir Roger and the silent, stately blonde remained on horseback, his men dismounted, steam from the horses rising and tempers, too.

  “I am my own man,” David said. “I never agreed to any betrothal. Your pardon, madam, if you were told otherwise.”

  Margaret looked down her long nose but said nothing. They might have been discussing the weather she was so indifferent.

  She does not care for any of this, Alis thought. She is here to support Sir Roger in this scheme, but she wishes no more than that. She neither knows David nor cares a penny for him.

  “I gave no ring, nor any vow,” David said. “Let the lady speak and prove otherwise.”

  “And I do have a ring,” Alis said, stepping forward. Conscious of her bare head, she walked proudly around the circle of followers and right up to the pale blonde, stopping by her stirrup. “My lord is my husband,” she said, looking straight into the woman's narrow eyes. “Can you say the same?”

  “Your family are Yorkists!” snapped Sir Roger, a red-faced, corpulent beefy fellow, perched like an angry crab apple on top of his black horse.

  “As is the queen,” answered Alis mildly. “Would you say our king regrets his choice?”

  There was a moment of absolute silence. Sir Roger's face was frozen in mid-shout, and the blonde woman, Margaret, no longer indifferent, looked ready to faint.

  “I will take any test,” Alis continued. “My husband is my lord, and I am his wife, married before witnesses at the door of the church. I will take any ordeal. Will you do that, Margaret?”

  “Enough!” growled David. He stamped across to her and reclaimed her hand. “We are handfasted and wed, and any who say otherwise must fight me.”

  “N—” Alis bit down on her objection, torn between horror and pride. David will fight for me. She clung hard to his hand and prayed desperately for his protection, clenching her teeth as a warrior stepped forward.

  “I accept your challenge for our lord,” he said. “I have my sword ready.”

  David glanced at the tall, tanned soldier. “Let me find my dagger and stave.”

  “Folly!” Sir Roger was now as white as the York rose. “Wood and a dagger against steel? You would do that, David?”

  “For my wife, I would fight the devil himself. When we do begin?”

  The instant David spoke, the warrior yelled, charging at him, and Alis screamed a warning. Her husband released her with a firm push, and she tottered a few steps to regain her balance, desperate to twist around and see David. If I can watch him, hold him in my eyes, pray God he will be safe.

  But David was faster and more nimble than the soldier. He pivoted sideways, ducking under the man’s chopping blade, and booted the fellow, catching the older man off-guard and knocking him sprawling into a snowdrift.

  “Stop this,” Alis pleaded, unable to keep silent as the warrior cursed and flailed in the snow, rising with a look of murder on his bearded face. “My lord husband, my lord Roger, please! Has there not been enough killing?”

  She thought her heart-felt wish had fallen on deaf ears, but Sir Roger spurred his horse between David and his adversary. “Enough!” he bawled so loudly Margaret flinched.

  “No more, please,” Alis said again, steeling herself to remain still.

  Sir Roger stared at her and then at David, who looked prepared and willing to fight for her barehanded, ready even after his opponent had dishonorably charged too early. After a tense, hanging instant, Sir Roger sighed, whether with exasperation or resignation Alis dared not speculate, but she kept her countenance calm and prayed.

  Sir Roger was the first to look away. “Dav
id, this was not my plan. If you are determined—”

  “I am,” said David.

  “We are,” said Alis.

  With a brief nod to Alis, Sir Roger addressed her husband. “So be it, David Haveton, and mayhap you deserve each other. Come!”

  Sir Roger spurred his black horse and cantered off, leaving the hapless Margaret and his men to trail after him.

  * * * *

  “How did you know?” David asked, when the road and the surrounding fields were silent again.

  Alis smiled, light-headed in her relief, but still sure. David said he loves me. That he has always loved me. “For her, I knew it was false because she never looked at you, not once. As your wife, I cannot take my eyes off you.” She swung his large hand in hers. “My handsome man.”

  He gave a sharp bark of laughter and kissed her wedding ring—the twelfth kiss, she understood at once. “And for me? How did you know for me?”

  “You told me you loved me—by your words and by your deeds.”

  As she spoke, Alis understood something else. His words were the promise, but his deeds were the proof. By his deeds, by keeping her warm and safe and entertained—in all ways—David had proved his love.

  “You give me honor,” she said.

  He closed his eyes and rocked slightly. “Thank God. Truly, I never thought Sir Roger so determined to win his own way, so outrageous—and the poor woman, too.”

  “Forget her,” Alis said quickly. “He will find her another husband soon enough. But she cannot have mine.”

  “Thank God,” David said again.

  For both of us, Alis thought, but as a good wife, she said nothing, allowing her husband to take her into his arms and to kiss her, most heartily.

  Their twelve days, their twelve kisses, were complete.

  About the Author

  Lindsay Townsend is fascinated by ancient world and medieval history and writes historical romance covering these periods. She also enjoys thrillers and writes both historical and contemporary romantic suspense. When not writing, Lindsay enjoys spending time with her husband, gardening, reading and taking long, languid baths – possibly with chocolate.