by Sahara Kelly
She raised her hands slightly, pulling her nipples and rolling them between her fingers, eyes closed, and body throbbing around his.
She moaned, and slipped one hand away and down to her woman’s hair to further increase her arousal.
It was incredible.
Guy’s breath almost stopped as he tried to drink in the image of Mechele loving him, clutching his cock with her inner muscles, and giving way to her own passions as she rode him.
His heart thundered, his pulse roared in his ears, and his awareness of the rest of the world totally disappeared.
There was nothing but her. Mechele. His woman.
It was almost too much.
He sat up abruptly and struggled to resettle her in his lap, pulling and tugging her legs until they were crossed behind him, her heels digging into his buttocks.
“Guy…” she murmured, quickly finding the advantages of this new position.
“Yes,” he answered absently, concentrating now on the slide of her body as he moved himself within her.
It took no time at all for two hearts to race towards their goal. Two bodies fell into the coordinated rhythm that led to the final measure, and shortly thereafter, the rooster was rudely disturbed from his morning routine by the cries of completion echoing from the open doors to the barn loft.
He crowed in response, but his call lacked the passion of his competitors.
The rooster couldn’t have cared less, but Guy and Mechele cared—almost too much.
Collapsed in a sweaty tumble, their breaths finally began to slow.
“Guy,” breathed Mechele, burying her face into his chest. “You make me feel so—so wanton.”
Guy’s chuckle rumbled through him, bringing a smile to her lips.
“There’s nothing wanton about our pleasure, Mechele. It is beyond all words.” He turned her head gently with his hand and forced her hazel eyes to meet his gaze.
“I find this a moment for honesty between us, sweetheart. Your touch, your loving, your body, and your mind have claimed me, as surely as an invading army conquers an unprotected castle.”
He dropped a soft kiss on her lips to stay her answer. “Let me finish.” She sighed and subsided again, listening and watching and answering his touches with light touches of her own lips.
“I think I knew from the first that you would be—would be—different,” he said quietly, praying that the Saints would send him the right words, and that she’d not be frightened by what he was going to say. He was frightened enough for both of them.
“But last night, and now this morning, I realized something very important. Something that changed my life. Something that has changed me.”
He raised up on one elbow and looked down on her lovely face, flushed a little from their earlier bout of pleasure.
He stroked an errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear in a gentle movement that pleased him and brought a sigh of happiness to her lips.
“I’m in love with you, Mechele. So head-over-arse in love with you that even now, minutes after taking you, I want you again. I can’t imagine not wanting you. I want you in every way there is, and not just your body, either…”
He grinned, running his hand lightly down over her hips and back up again.
“Although a very nice body it is, I must say.”
She stared at him and he could read the questions in her eyes.
“I’m a Knight. I number almost thirty summers to my life. I have fought in many battles, and killed my enemies as knights must. I have had many women. But none, not one, has made me feel like this…”
He stroked her face.
“None have made me feel something precious, something special, in a place I never knew existed. None made me want to hold them all day and all night, waking the next morning to spend a new day holding them all over again.”
Mechele eyes filled with tears and she sighed.
“None,” he continued, “have made me want to fill them with my babes, cherish them, make them laugh and dry their tears. You’ve done all this, my love, and you’ve made me realize that I truly do possess a heart. It is filled with you.”
He lowered his lips and claimed hers, gently, possessively, and let the tremors of his emotions free to shudder through his body.
Mechele dashed the tears from her eyes.
“Guy…” she whispered, pulling his head to her breast and laying it down, tucking her chin into his hair. “Guy, I could not love you more had I an eternity to try.”
Guy’s heart beat strongly as a rare contentment flooded his brain and his body. The North Wind had been softened by a pair of hazel eyes.
She was his. All his.
Chapter 11
As the leisurely Sunday morning routines unfolded at Maltby Abbey, Guy and Gilles returned to their barnyard quarters and dressed for the day, after a restorative dip in the cool waters of what they now regarded as their private bathing pond.
They’d left their ladies to their duties, lingering farewells having taken more time than either of them had thought, and Linnet had sent a message to the local cleric asking that church services be held an hour later that day in honor of some Saint or other’s birthday.
Mechele had laughed at her. “Good grief, Linnet. What will everyone think?”
Linnet had grinned back. “Do you worry?”
“Not in the least. In truth, an hour’s grace will be most welcome. I’m in sore need of a bath.”
The girls had shared a chuckle at that one and hurried to their chambers, leaving their men sharing identically satisfied smiles. Which they had, of course, immediately wiped off their faces as soon as they’d realized it.
“So,” said Guy, from the depths of his shirt.
“Well,” said Gilles, struggling into his breeches and hopping on one foot.
“It looks as if we’re truly defeated, my friend.” Guy’s words were accompanied by a smile that belied his nickname. There was nothing cold about those grey eyes this particular morning.
“That snapping noise you hear is my white flag of surrender flying in the breeze,” chuckled Gilles. “She’s my mate, Guy. Linnet Aylmer has laid siege to my heart and last night the barbican tumbled, the portcullis rose—did it ever— and her victory was complete.” He paused. “And never have I felt better about anything.”
Guy slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I too, Gilles. Mechele is—is—”
He looked up and laughed as he watched an eyebrow quirk over a pair of merry blue eyes. “I know. The North Wind never stutters. That’ll tell you how deeply I feel for this woman. She’s mine, Gilles. No question, no negotiation. She’s mine.”
“So now, before we claim our prizes, all we need to do is settle this mess with Lymington.” Gilles brought them back to earth with a thump.
“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard, knowing what we know now. About the amount of the tribute. I certainly would like to get a good look at Lymington’s accounting. Lord Benstede has never mentioned receiving anything above that man’s set tribute, so I’ll bet my warhorse that he’s withholding a lot of it for his own coffers.”
Gilles frowned. “I wonder at Benstede. ‘Tis out of character for him to leave such a man in charge of a shire like this.”
Guy shrugged. “It’s a big country, my friend. Since peace finally arrived, there’s been much sorting out of properties to be done. No one can be everywhere at once. And you know the journey we’ve been on. It’s taken us months just to visit and observe four shires. Now multiply that by I don’t know how many other shires, and you’ll see why one Lord cannot possibly keep track of every single estate.”
Gilles nodded. “Sometimes, I suppose, it’s easier to let those in charge remain in charge. They are supposed to know the land and its people, and…”
He paused, lifting his head slightly as a breeze blew in through the open doors.
Guy, pulling on his boot, also stopped dead.
“Do you smell that?”
“S
moke.”
Before the word was out of his mouth, Guy was down the stairs with Gilles right behind him.
They’d fought in too many battles to mistake the smell for a cooking fire, or anything other than what it was.
Somewhere, somewhere very near, a building was burning.
*~~*~~*
With unthinking coordination, Guy ran for the pump next to the house, while Gilles ran for the courtyard and yelled “Fire”.
His battle cry echoed around the tranquil morning air and brought people to the doors of their homes.
“Fire, Fire,” he bellowed, running to join Guy at the pump and hunting for the source of the smoke.
His steps took him to the rear of Maltby Abbey.
There, leaning against the stone foundation, was a large pile of logs, burning with a fierce crackle and shooting flames upwards towards the wooden floors above. The windows had been left open during the cool early summer night, and smoke must even now be filling the rooms.
Guy gasped as a flickering tongue of flame found a new home in the overhanging eaves.
Sparing a prayer of thanks that this was not a thatched house, he turned to the pump, and began working it for all he was worth.
Within moments a flood of people clustered around him, and Gilles spent the next precious minutes getting them organized.
In next to no time a line of buckets stretched the short distance from the fire to the pump and water was being thrown frantically on the logs and the smouldering shingles above it.
The blacksmith ran up with his ladder and daringly placed it against the house, diverting some of the buckets to his hands as he climbed and bravely coughed his way through the billowing smoke to attack the flames from above.
Guy’s shoulders were aching with the speed of his movements, and Gilles was about to relieve him when they both realized something.
“The girls…”
The two men blanched.
“Guy, Gilles…” a frightened voice called out from the crowd. “We’re here…”
Breathless, Mechele and Linnet came flying up the line of buckets to their men.
Linnet’s hair was unbound, and Mechele’s dress barely laced.
They panted, and their fear was plain to see.
“We’re all right, Gilles. Just smoke filled. The upper rooms are just awful, the stench is powerful and the air thick. But…” she choked on her words.
“Sir Dunstan,” gasped Mechele. “Sir Dunstan and his servant, Guy. They’re too slow…we can’t help them…”
Without a second thought, Guy passed the pumping duties to the second man in line and he and Gilles ran flat out to the burning house leaving two terrified women in their wake.
Pulling open the large front doors, a gust of smoke welcomed them, but not, as yet, any hot jets of flame.
The sound of coughing led them through the murk to the main staircase, where two figures were struggling to make haste and failing. It was the work of but a moment for each Knight to shoulder a frail burden, and stumble back out the front door with their precious cargo.
Their women awaited them, buckets of water and wet cloths at the ready.
Gilles gently laid Sir Dunstan on the trestle table that remained on the courtyard from the night before.
The old man coughed and laboured for his breath, as his servant leaned next to him, fighting to hold his own weight and clear his lungs of the smoky residue.
“Any more in there?” snapped Guy.
“I think not,” answered Mechele, trying to catch her breath. “It was only the family on the second floor. The servants were below and all were able to get out before…before…the smoke filled the upper rooms first, you see.”
Guy nodded and heaved a quick sigh of relief, making him cough.
“Tend to them, Linnet,” rasped Gilles. “We must go back to the pump.”
Linnet and Mechele nodded, bending over Sir Dunstan with worried looks and murmurs.
The two men ran back to the pump, and for the next chaotic hour took turns filling and carrying and pumping for all they were worth.
The fire had tried hard to devour the fuel lying in its path, but eventually, the smoke died down, and there was naught left but ash and charred blackened timbers to mark its passage.
Several men had latched ropes to the logs remaining in the woodpile and pulled them away from the house, leaving a dark smear of soot on the stone foundation.
By this time, the entire crowd was hot, sweaty, smoke-stained and exhausted.
They sank to the ground, almost too tired for thought, let alone conversation.
A horse cantered into the courtyard, its hooves clattering on the cobblestones, and an elderly priest dismounted, concern written across his wrinkled face.
“I saw the smoke from the church. What on earth happened? Is everyone all right? My word…”
His voice trailed off as he surveyed the limp and weary throng, and his eyes betrayed his relief at seeing Sir Dunstan, Linnet and Mechele amongst their number.
Linnet rose tiredly to her feet, followed by Mechele.
Their men were behind them instantly, in a move of support and protection that was not lost on the sharp-eyed man.
“We are all well, Father Michael. Thank you for coming.”
“My dear, that is good news. I cannot believe that this should happen now, on top of your other disasters.”
Guy and Gilles took a long look at the priest.
He was tall, with broad shoulders that might well have once worn armour like theirs. His eyes were shrewd, calculating, and looking them over much as he was being evaluated in his turn.
With a little nod he glanced at the structure. “Any idea what set it off?”
“Good question, Father,” said Gilles respectfully. “My friend and I smelled the smoke first thing, and sent up the alarm, but it was burning quite strongly by the time we got the pump going and buckets to it.”
Mechele spared a moment to introduce the men to each other, and with a mere raised eyebrow, Father Michael nodded and crossed to the still-smouldering pile of wood.
Under the watchful eyes of the tired crowd, he poked his toe amongst the ashes and carefully withdrew a singed branch.
“That wood was green, Father. Shouldn’t have burned like that. Wasn’t ready for use for at least another season.” A firm voice came from the crowd, as a smoke-stained man stepped forward.
Linnet nodded. “Edwin has the right of it, Father. We’d never stack seasoned wood against the house. That would be the height of foolishness.”
“Some of those logs came from our orchard not more than a couple of months ago when a storm took so many down,” added Mechele.
Guy and Gilles frowned, as their thoughts moved inevitably to Lymington.
The Father raised the wood to his nose and sniffed. “By the Saints,” he muttered, and beckoned the two men to his side.
Without hesitation he offered them the piece of wood. “What think you two?”
Guy sniffed and his eyes narrowed.
Gilles took one whiff and jerked his head up.
“Greek fire.” The words spilled from both men at practically the same moment.
The men looked at each other, recognizing that particular stench.
Father Michael nodded. “Last time I smelled that foul odour was in the middle of a siege. Many years past now, I thank the Lord, but once encountered it can never be forgotten.”
Gilles eyed the man respectfully. “I take it you’ve not always embraced the cloth, Father?”
“And I take it you two are no field workers?”
The quick parry brought a little smile to Guy’s face.
“It seems we all share a history of engaging in the service of our Lords, Father.”
The ice had been broken and the three men spoke quietly as the crowd moved to disperse. The immediate danger was past, and now the clean-up would begin.
Linnet and Mechele joined the men by the woodpile.
“You
are lucky to have such strong arms at your service, ladies,” said Father Michael, clearly not missing the quick way in which Guy’s eyes searched out Mechele’s or the automatic lifting of Gilles’ arm to encompass Linnet’s waist as she moved to his side.
“Indeed we are thankful, Father,” she said, trying to stem the little quiver in her voice.
“And they saved Sir Dunstan and Bodkin as well. Carried them from the building. I cannot even begin to think what would have happened…” added Mechele, tears trembling on her lashes.
Guy’s strong arm circled her shoulders. “It’s over and we must look ahead now. There are some questions to be answered here, Mechele.”
Gilles nodded his agreement. “Some very pertinent questions, I think.”
Father Michael strolled around, stroking his chin, and watched by four pairs of curious eyes. He moved through some bushes and disappeared for a moment, only to reappear with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Gentlemen, ladies, if you have a moment…” He beckoned to them and disappeared once more into the brush.
Curious, the four followed his steps and found themselves at the side of the small lane that led from the homes surrounding Maltby Abbey to the fields.
The grassy verge was muddy in places, and they moved as one to examine the spot to which Father Michael was pointing with a long finger.
Linnet and Mechele squinted in confusion at the churned and muddy patch, trying to make heads or tails of what they were supposed to be looking at.
To Guy and Gilles, however, squatting interestedly by the dampness, the signs were clear.
“Two of ‘em, I’d say,” said Guy.
“Yes indeed. And look here, only one lightened the load on the horse. So the other must have held the reins and played lookout while the other did the deed.” Gilles leaned even closer. “And this—see this?”
Guy’s eyes narrowed. “I do indeed. ‘Tis a poor blacksmith that uses cracked horseshoes for his customers.”
“What’s the betting we’ll find such a shoe amongst Lymington’s horses?”
“Or those of his men.”