One Snowy Knight

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One Snowy Knight Page 25

by Deborah MacGillivray


  “And you tell me this to say ’tis a bad thing, my lord?” A playful glint reflected in her huge eyes. She pushed up on tiptoes to brush her mouth lightly against his. “And when am I to get my much needed kissing lessons?”

  “You play with fire, lass,” he nearly hissed when she put her hands on his waist and slowly snaked them up his bare chest.

  He tensed, every muscle rigid as though he were turning to steel. The desire was too strong in him, overpowering any sense of control. A smart man, he wanted this first time with the woman he loved to be special, to brand Skena so that she would never want another man’s touch. Still, he needed more. He was determined to sear the memory of Fadden from her soul, rid her of the old memories and replace them with images of their being together.

  “Fire warms….” She pressed her lips against his again.

  He grinned. “Nay, fire…burns.”

  As he lowered his head, his mouth took hers. No more playful kisses. He let loose the rapacious force tearing at his insides. No gentle lessons as he had planned to share with her.

  He wanted. He took. And took.

  He feared shocking her by the near violence of his hunger. Undeterred, her fingers curled around the back of his upper arms as though seeking purchase to hang on. His embrace dropped around her lower back and arched her body against his, letting that soft curve at the apex of her thighs feel the throbbing need she provoked within him. Not frightened by the intensity of the kiss, or the blatant demand of his body, she twined her arms behind his neck and then used the leverage to rub against his groin.

  Breaking the kiss, she panted out, “Then, my love, burn me.”

  Noel felt he was the one burning! “So be it. I want to make all your wishes come true.”

  Kissing her again, he itched to reach down, grab her thighs, and wrap her strong legs around his waist. Though he was lost in the raging passion, he knew better than to do so; after carrying her down from the bastion earlier, the slightest movement saw his back remind him not to be so foolish again. The wound ached despite the unyielding mating drive taking the edge off the pain. Instead of following the impulse, he spun them toward the bed, nearly dancing her across the floor until her hips made contact with the high frame.

  He paused, staring down into Skena’s face, held enthralled by her pagan beauty. Not perfumed or bedecked as the fancy ladies at court, yet she was worth a hundred score of them. Skena was simple, honest, and loving. That love shone in her luminous brown eyes.

  The way she stared at him humbled Noel in a fashion he could not put into words. He wanted to fall to his knees and worship her, honor her for giving him something he had never had. Still, the awe of his love pulsed as a fever in his blood, expressing itself in a desire that was near blinding.

  As he put his hands around her waist, her mouth turned down at one corner. Troubled by her expression, he asked, “Skena, what upsets you?”

  One shoulder gave a small shrug, then she looked down to avoid meeting his questioning stare. “Tis naught.”

  “We are betrothed. We should begin as we mean to go on our journey together, thus speaking truths between us is a must.”

  Her chin lifted. Skena being brave. “You spoke I was too skinny. Worse, if I am in dire need of those kissing lessons, I fear what you will think of the…rest.”

  Noel could not help but laugh. It was soft, not mocking, a simple expression of his happiness bubbling forth. Her frown deepened. She looked to one side, then the other, ready to burst into tears. Instead, she lifted her fisted hand to his chest as if to pound on him; it fell with only the faintest of thuds.

  “De Servian…” His name came out with a choked sob. “You are an insensitive swine.”

  “I choose to ignore that. You are thin because you went without supping to save food for others to survive. Now there will be plenty of rations for Craigendan, I shall spend the winter plumping you up. And I pointed out the slightness of your body not because it was unpleasing to me, but simply because I was scared that you might be ill. I have promised you lessons in kissing. As for the rest, that tends to be a result of the kissing lessons. Lass, lass, oh lass…”

  He brushed his mouth tenderly against hers, savored the sweet taste with the hint of mead still on her lips. Lifting his head, he watched the reactions play out in the brown eyes, the awe, the wonder. He tasted her again, deepening it just a bit. As he felt her hunger rise from the contact, he once more pulled back.

  “Teaching you the ways of pleasure will be my greatest joy. Howbeit, it will require many lessons, long lessons.”

  Skimming his hands down to her hips, he squeezed the firm roundness of her buttocks, relished how his palms cupped the curves of her flesh. Then with a quick jerk, he lifted and gave her a small toss onto the bed’s plane. “Lay there, do not move, or I shall beat you.” He sat down on the bed and began unlacing his hose.

  “What if I wiggle my toes? That is moving. Will that require you to beat me?” She pushed the point by tickling the side of his thigh with her foot, toes squirming.

  “It might.” His eyes danced over her body caressed by the shadows. He climbed upon the high bed, moving to her on his hands and knees. Placing a knee on either side of her thighs, he loomed over her. The primitive male in him relished seeing Skena under him, hungered for her surrender. In the gossamer chemise, nothing was hidden from his hungry eyes. The darker tips of her breasts drew his desire to where he could hardly look to anything else.

  Finally raising his head, he said softly, “The first law of kissing is that kisses are not just for the lips.” He nibbled gently at the edge of her small, full mouth. “But can be placed anywhere.”

  “Anywhere?” she chirped.

  He nodded slowly. “Any…where.”

  To prove his words, he shifted down her body to reach the tip of her left breast. He kissed the stiff point, nuzzling it, then watched her eyes widen. Leaning back, he took the tip into his mouth and sucked hard. Even through the worn night rail he could feel the changes, signaling the depth of her arousal. As the tiny bud jutted more, he raked the edge of his teeth over the sensitive flesh, pushing her responses higher.

  Giving rein to the wildness pulsing within him, he took hold of the garment and ripped it from the neck down to her belly. Her full breasts lay bare before him, the deep shadows flowing around their perfection. Her breasts grew tighter, heavier, evidence of her deep desire for him; the dusky areolas were tight, pushing the nipples into tight nubbins.

  In stunned awe, he uttered, “Oh…so…beautiful.”

  His hands around her neck, his thumbs lightly stroked along the column of her throat, moving downward. Skena sucked in a ragged breath of anticipation, knowing where the path his hands were taking would end. They slid across her square, proud shoulders and finally to the upper slopes of her smooth breasts. Once again, she drew in sharply, her spine arching, almost as if offering the pale mounds to him in a silent plea.

  “You wish something, Skena?” he tormented.

  She swallowed hard and then nodded. “Touch me. Put your hands on me.”

  He smiled deviously, then leaned to her and touched his mouth against hers, then asked, “My hands? Or my mouth?”

  “Either…both.” She trembled with the need clawing its way through her body.

  “I intend to grant all your wishes, my lady.” His tongue swirled out and around the stiff peak. In response she shivered and then closed her eyes, obviously riding the crest of the conflagration he set loose within her flesh. He drew heavily upon it, suckling until her breath was harsh, raspy. Before moving to the other one to give it the same attention, he commanded, “Open your eyes, Skena. I want to share this joining with you, see the emotions reflected in your haunting depths.”

  Her long lashes raised, showing her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The warmth in her gaze bespoke of love, of a soul-deep need for him, almost as if her mind reached out and touched his, whispering to him with this kenning. He had not considered that until now
. When his wound had been lanced, he had invited her to walk in his mind. Would that ability increase the pleasure threshold for her, as she could also feel what he experienced?

  His lips closed over hers once more. Slanting his angle, he worked her mouth, giving her those lessons of pleasure, how enjoyable it could be between them. His control shattered as the kisses went on. And on. Noel felt a low moan echo within his chest, then another, yet was unsure if the second sound came from him or Skena—little cared as he kept kissing her, she kissing him. Her hand came up and fisted in the curls at the back of his neck, as if she needed an anchor not to be swept away on the storm of emotions.

  Heat rolled off their flesh, blistering them, as the kiss deepened, more demanding. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips, compelling her to open for him. Skena’s body flexed in shock, then desire, as she quickly learned the rhythm, the play.

  Leaving them both breathless, his mouth moved along her jaw, then down the side of her neck. He paused to lave his tongue against the spot where her pulse jumped in a pagan rhythm. A tattoo as old as time. Her heart slammed against her ribs, the force felt against his chest. The power of this magic between them was beyond measure.

  Sliding down the bed, he dragged her under him, his solid weight pressing her into the soft feathered bedding. Her body conformed to his solid planes, rounded softness meeting his hardness in perfection. He was heavy, he knew, yet she seemed to want the sensation, the total surrender.

  For an instant out of time, he paused to stare at her face. Then his fingers splayed over her belly and then snaked lower to shift through soft curls at the apex of her thighs. Damp from her body’s desire. Preparing her for his invasion. Kissing her, he moaned as he slid a finger into her, then two, then her hips bucked in reaction as he stretched her body.

  Almost an echo of the dream.

  “Please…” She seemed unable to gasp anything further.

  Taking Skena’s hands, he interlaced his fingers with hers and pushed them up beside her head, while aligning his body to hers. His throbbing erection nudged against her opening, moistening the tip with the silken honey flowing from her body.

  He tried to speak, but found the muscles of his throat would hardly work. “Look into my eyes, Skena,” he ordered, his voice rough. “You are my wish. I want you to see my face as I join with you.”

  His male hardness stretched her. Both agony and ecstasy, he pushed into her scalding heat. The fullness caused her to take short breaths; he kissed her over and over, easing her mind until her body accepted his blunt presence within her. Slowly she relaxed, and her slick channel allowed him to slide in even deeper.

  “Fire magic,” she gasped. “You indeed burn me.”

  “’Tis just the start, lass.”

  Lifting his hips, he set his swollen flesh to stroke inside her again, going even deeper. Each thrust strengthened, quickened. Her hands clung to his back, her fingernails biting into the flesh of his shoulders. Then clinging did not seem enough. Skena picked up his rhythm, arching to meet his frenzied thrusts. Their mating grew as wild and furious as a summer storm.

  Skena cried out at the same instant that Noel’s body exploded into a thousand white-hot cinders, nearly blinding him. Grabbing her tighter, he pulled her into a maelstrom of their passion, the scorching heat of his seed pouring into her body.

  It took many labored breaths before the racing of his heart slowed. To Skena’s surprise, he rolled again, taking her with him, until she was sitting astride his hips. He laughed at her befuddled expression.

  “Noel, your back?” she fretted.

  “At this moment I feel little other than the need of you.” He smiled as she blinked, confused until his hips bucked. “Ride me.”

  His sensual mouth curved into a grin as he pushed upward within her again. It caused Skena to reach her pleasure that quickly.

  She shuddered. “Tis like…shooting stars in my mind. Have…mercy.”

  Her internal muscles rippled along the length of his flesh, fisted about him. “Aye, sweet mercy,” he agreed.

  But mercy was not what he had in mind. He reared up and wrapped his arms about her back, driving relentlessly into her again and again, each explosion building into another. His back bowed, as his body slammed against hers, harder, more frantic, until she could only obey his command and follow him into the dark storm.

  Skena held back nothing, yielded everything to him. It was not enough. He demanded more and she gave. He wanted her physical release…but he wanted to burn her heart, brand her. Dark words of love he whispered to her, weaving his own magic.

  He kissed her. No gentle kiss of worship, this kiss was full of the passion, born of the fire of their coming together. Skena wanted to burn. And burn her he did!

  The perfection of being within her, knowing their joining was done with love, moved Noel so profoundly that he could hardly draw air.

  He rained kisses over her face, gasping. “Oh, sweet Skena, I love you….”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Do I still get my kissing lessons later?” Skena asked as she tugged the kirtle on over her head.

  Lacing up his hose, he leaned to slap her on the arse. “Greedy wench. ’Tis not enough you have made me a late riser this morn, already you beg for more kissing lessons. Never satisfied.”

  Taking hold of her hips, Noel pulled her close. He intended to give her a proper kiss good morning, only the knock at the door caused him to groan in frustration. “’Tis not the children. They never knock,” he teased. Going to the door, he opened it to find Guillaume holding a pail of water.

  “I am reduced to playing squire for you. I ordered you hot water to shave and told that sour faced cook to have it sent up. He told me to take it myself.”

  “Leave my cook alone. He knows the art of seasoning.” Noel took the bucket. “My thanks, Squire Guillaume.”

  “Do not tarry. I am most eager to enjoy this morning’s work.” With a wicked grin, Guillaume sauntered off down the hall.

  Noel closed the door and went to the table in the far corner, pouring hot water into the bowl.

  Skena set to straighten out the bedding. “And what is this morning’s work? You are not going out hunting again? You said you would rest and allow your back to heal properly.”

  “No venturing outside the pale this day. We plan to boot Duncan Comyn out the gates of Craigendan, then we shall have done with his mumming at being a ghost. I little understand what he hopes to achieve, but enough is enough.”

  Skena picked up his mantle from the foot of the bed and folded it carefully. She paused, fascinated with watching him lather and scrape his face with the razor-edged knife. “I have never seen a man do that before. Does it hurt?”

  “Only if the knife is dull or the hand is shaky,” he chuckled.

  “I like seeing your face, mind,” she reached out and ran two fingers over his newly clean shaven cheek, “but why do you do it?”

  “I mislike a beard. Itchy. Hard to keep clean. In winter, where the vapors from your nose hit it, they can actually form icicles. In summer they are hot. Besides, ’tis better, more pleasurable for kissing lessons.” His thumb stroked her chin, which showed dark abrasions from their loving. “Also, ’tis easier on your tender skin. From now on, I shall shave before you get to enjoy kissing lessons.”

  “I will put some of Bessa’s healing salve on the marks.” She blinked away her rapture, her mind returning to their former topic. “I wish Duncan to perdition, if that is possible, but what is this about him and ghosts?”

  “I would think it obvious. Have you noticed men of similar coloring, build, and wearing beards oft appear very much alike? Especially in poor light. I believe Duncan is your ghost of Angus, Skena. I have not figured out what he hopes to achieve, but he showed up around the time you started seeing Angus. Too much of a coincidence.” He wiped the knife on a cloth and stuck it back in the sheath, then leaned over the bowl to wash the remaining soap from his face. “I never had a moment to tell
you what we found yesterday when we hunted. Someone has been sheltering in the woods. There was clear evidence of crude refuge. Of course, there is the off chance it might be a runaway serf, who has taken to the woods to live off the land rather than under the hand of his master. Only, I find it telling someone was lurking about Craigendan right before the sightings of your ghost started.”

  Skena exhaled impatience, mayhap laced with fear. “I keep telling you that it is Angus. Duncan would have no reason to scare or harm me with the pretence of being my dead husband come back to life. It makes no sense.”

  “He wants Craigendan—and you,” he stated flatly.

  “Listen to yourself. He cannot gain possession of Craigendan if something happens to me. The property would go to Andrew….” Her words trailed off as panic flashed in her eyes.

  “Andrew is too young to hold the fief. Who would shoulder that responsibility?” He wiped his face with a cloth and then stared at her. “Well?”

  “I am thinking. Generally, it would go to the closest male to hold for Andrew. Since there are none, I would assume it would fall to Julian Challon to foster my son, to set a protector for Andrew if something happened to me.” Skena went to the bench and sat. “I still do not see what all this has to do with Duncan.”

  “Men oft lose reason when their pale aims are thwarted,” Noel insisted. “Ponder upon his brother, Phelan. He set an ambush to kill Damian and Julian as they returned from Berwick. His greed, his taste for revenge pushed him to madness. What says this taint does not also fester in Duncan’s mind?”

  She stared at him, her large eyes haunted. “I have no leaning to defend Duncan, for I would put little past him, only I see little purpose for his tormenting me as a means to win him Craigendan. ’Tis Angus. Not his ghost. Dorcas insisted he was alive. Surely, it was him living in the wood?”

 

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