Angie Arms - Flames series 04 (24 page)

He stood there, his hood f
laring in and out, as he breathed heavily.  “You don’t want to love me,” his voice was louder again, raspier.

“Why?”

“I am no longer a man,” his voice was whispered, and she heard pain.

“Why do you say such a thing?” she asked
, taking a step closer.

“Because I’m a monster.”

“Do you lurk about at night and kill poor wretched souls who find themselves unfortunate enough without the light of a fire to chase you away.”

“No!” he sounded annoyed
, before he began to cough.  “I am unfit to look upon,” he said, in a whisper again.

“You are a
medusa
and will turn me to stone?”

“I am scarred!” he snapped at her
, followed by another bout of coughing.

“Scars?  I can show you scars,” she said
, and lifted her tunic up to her hip.  “Remember the rope we would swing out over the water on?”  Grace looked at him, and was pleased to see his attention was back on her, riveted to her, she didn’t even see him breathe as she stood before him, with her hip bared to him, her stockinged legs well defined by her clinging hose.  A thought flashed through her mind she was playing with fire.

“I was scared the first time
, and wouldn’t let go of the rope.  By the time I couldn’t hang on any longer, I was over the pile of brush that was always there.  A stick nearly impaled me,” she said, pointing to the long jagged scar, and drawing out her last words so it sounded as if it truly was a life or death experience.  She knew he knew what rope she spoke of.  All the kids from the village and nearby manor used it at least once.  It was anticlimactic however, since it did not swing very far off the ground.  Jumping off the giant rock was the more fun of the two, but there was something about the rope that terrified her. 

Cyrille continued to stare at her for several minutes
, before shaking his head.  “That is just a little scar,” he snapped, his voice rasping.  He lowered it to say, “I wear this hood because I have many.”  She continued to stare at him blankly.  “I have no eye,” he yelled, and his voice failed on the last word.

“How did this happen?” she asked calmly
, because he did not move to turn away, or advance.  He continued to stand straight and tall, looking down at her.

“I was taken prisoner
, they were sadistic, and cut my eye from me, and tried to burn me.”

“Who took you prisoner?”

“An Emir in the Holy Land.”

“You fought in the Crusade?” she asked
, and a sense of pride ran through her.  She knew this man, had loved this man, who went to fight for good and right alongside their king. 

He only nodded.  She had the urge to throw her arms around him and tell him of her pride
, but suddenly his stance changed, and he turned his head away.

“Please cover yourself,” he said
, his teeth clenched.

“Do you not like what you see?” she half teased
, but another part of her was terrified it was true.

His head swiveled back toward her
, and she saw the passion in his eye, mixed with pain. 

“Perhaps you need to see more to decide?”  She pulled the rest of her tunic up
, so both her legs were bared, all the way up to just below her breasts, so he got a glimpse of her flat stomach.  She herself liked the feel of her stomach, the firmness of the muscles there.  The other women in the troupe had soft stomachs, but hers was different, and she liked to be different.

She watched Cyrille’s hands clinch and release
, and she wished she could see his face, to see the extent of the emotions she was creating.  She was at a large disadvantage with the hood over his head.  Was she pleasing him, or angering him?

“You do not know what I look like.”  He was angry, she could hear it in his quiet voice.

“Then show me.”

He stared at her.  The man was a true mystery.  He was far different than the boy she knew.  The boy was fun, she knew thi
s by watching the other boys, Cyrille was always included in whatever they did.  This man was silent and watchful, she guessed the hood taught him that.   

  He turned away, stalking to the end of the aisle, his limp pronounced.  He was distracted, he
would normally try to hide the limp she realized.  He turned and stared at her still holding the fabric bunched beneath her breasts.  “Come here,” he demanded, before turning away.  He grabbed a stool from the corner, and entered the stall at the end of the stable.

She dropped the cloth and hurried forward.  Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt faint.  At the same time she felt exhilaration like no other coursing through her.  She turned to enter the stall
, to find Cyrille sitting on the stool, watching her.  She advanced to stand in front of him.

After several moments that left Grace nervous
, he said in a whisper, “Let me see you again.”

She reached for her tunic and lifted it again
, as high as she had before.  He stared at her stomach, his face level with it, before finally reaching a tentative hand up to place his palm flat on it.  He lifted his head to look up at her, and she offered him a smile.  After a moment he moved his hand, sliding it across to her side, his fingers gripping her, before pulling her forward, to stand between his legs.  He leaned forward, and she felt the soft cloth of the hood touch her stomach, and his lips on the other side.  Then he wrapped both arms around her waist and held her tightly for a moment.  He kissed her.  Cyrille kissed her!  She felt as giddy as she did when she was a child and he stopped the teasing.

He released her, using a hand on her stomach to push her backward, at arm’s length.  He looked at her another minute
, then nodded.  She let the fabric of the skirt slide through her fingers, to fall back into place.  She took a step forward and reached for the string at his throat, holding the hood in place.  She felt it give with her light tug, then the string came unwound, and she let it slip through her fingers to fall against the fabric at his neck.  She sank to her knees in front of him, forcing him to drop his gaze to look down at her.  She saw worry written plainly in his one eye.

She raised her hands, took hold of the edges of the hood
, and slowly began to lift it.  His neck was revealed, and the scars there matched the scars she saw on his hands.  They were so thick here she knew the flame reached his face.  His wonderfully handsome oval face, his crooked smile, she envied the baron’s daughter that day when he turned it on her.  His square chin.  Did she want to see?  She remembered exactly the way he was.  Did she really want to change that?  Nothing could ever change that, she decided, lifting the hood further to reveal his chin.  It was the same, only different, and she couldn’t help herself and rose up to kiss him on it. 

She heard him suck in a breath
, and his massive chest stilled as he held it.  She lowered herself and met his gaze, only then did she hear him breathe again.  She lifted the hood further, revealing the lips that were full, but not too much.  She remembered dreaming of his lips, even before she knew what sex between a man and woman was.  With his mouth she uncovered more scars, not just from the flames, but a blade.

“They were going to cut my tongue out,” Cyrille whispered
, as she looked at his scars.

Her eyes went to his again
, before she raised the hood more, up to his nose.  Her eyes fell back to look at it.  It was an attractive nose, full but not large, strong and rounded at the end.  It remained, and she almost laughed out loud because she feared it might be missing as well.  Her eyes went back to his.

“Are you ready?” she asked
, knowing the next would reveal the eye he was missing.

“No,” he replied
, honestly. 

Ignoring him
, she stood up again, and with one motion, whipped the hood the rest of the way off his head.  She gripped it in her hand, and she wanted to cry.  His beautiful face was a myriad of scars, deep scars, and intensive scars.  The pain he must have endured brought her forward, and she flung her arms around him. 

“It must have hurt so badly,” she sobbed
, as she clung to him.

“Not that bad,” he whispered
, as he tried to pull her arms from around him.

“You lie,” she said
, continuing to cry and cling.  “Who nursed you back to health?”

“My sister.”

It should have been her.  She sobbed harder because the touch of a sister could not replace the tender care of a lover.  “She did all she could,” he insisted.

She shook her head.  “I was supposed to be there.  It was a part of my vow that I would comfort you and keep you well.”

Finally, Cyrille’s arms snaked around her, and a moment later he was holding her.  Cyrille was holding her.  She was touching him.  She didn’t believe for a minute there would be anything to come of this beyond tonight, but she would accept it as everything else that came and went.  She raised her head, taking his head in her hands, she began to plant kisses on his face.  She wanted to take it all away and perhaps by touching him, kissing him, it would at least for a moment.

Suddenly Cyrille stood and pushed her away.  Grace was devastated.  “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“One night.  Only a night.”

“I cannot,” he stated firmly.

Anger rose in her chest.  “Are you like all the others?  Am I not fit to wipe your boots on?”

“No,” Cyrille said
, appalled.  “You are far more than a man like me deserves.  You should have a husband, someone who cares for you.  Not me.”  Cyrille shook his head, his face sad. “Not me.”

“I know you could never feel for me what I feel for you.  But I have loved you from that first day
, and I will love you until my last.  Please Cyrille.  Can you not spare one night?”

“Do you know how long it has been since I had a woman?  A real woman?  I can’t even get a whore to lay with me.”

She was beginning to notice his voice did not rasp or crack as long as he whispered.  “But a troubadour will.  Is that what you are saying?”

“No.  I’m saying you are a real woman.  I never let myself believe I could ever have a woman such as you in my bed again.”  He studied her for a moment.  “Think about this before you give me an answer.  Do you want to be that close to me?”

Grace nodded without hesitation.  She did not need to think about it.  She spent years thinking about it.

“It will be my greatest pleasure to have you for a night.  But I don’t want it to be here.  You deserve better than a stall in some stable.  I will get a room at the Inn.”

“I do not want to put you out.  A room costs money,” she tried to protest.

“You have given me a night.  It cannot be a long night on the floor of a stall.  Besides,” he replied with a wink of his good eye
, and the same crooked smile she saw behind the scars, “I can afford it.

Cyrille felt as if he couldn’t breath as he stepped back to allow Grace into the room.  She entered slowly, looking around herself.

“I’ve never been in an Inn before,” she said
, as she looked about. 

“Does your troupe not travel?” he asked
, stepping into the room and quietly closing the door behind them.  It felt as if he was sentencing her to torture, wasn’t that how the other women acted?

“We do, but we sleep outdoors mostly.”

“What if it rains?”

He watched her shrug as she sat down on the edge of the bed
, and bounced up and down twice.

“Where do you go in winter?”

“We travel then too.  We just try to find places that will let us sleep indoors.”

Cyrille studied her as she looked up at him.  He knew not many places would allow a troupe such as theirs to sleep under their roofs, especially with the woman
performing with them.  Slowly he moved forward, and stopped in front of her, before slowly sinking down into the floor.

“Here,” she said
, quickly jumping up from the bed and taking his arm, pushed him off balance so he had no choice but to fall onto the bed.  He was left staring up at her.  She reached for the hood he put back on for their trip back to the inn, and he squelched the need to push her hands away.  She lifted it from his head, and flung it into the floor. 

She took a step back and lifted the bottom of her tunic
, as she did earlier.  He watched her, the fabric slowly slid upward.  He felt he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, as she slid the fabric up higher and higher.  She paused at the bottom of her breasts, and he licked his lips, trying to get some feeling into them, some moisture in his mouth.  When he lifted his gaze to her, she smiled, and lifted the tunic on up and over her head.  He tried to draw in a breath, but it caught in his throat, as she continued to unclothe herself.  He watched her, each movement was like a song she danced to with her graceful body, until she stood gloriously nude before him. 

Her little body was perfection as she came to him, cupping his head in her hands to bend over him
, and kiss him gently on the lips.  It was like she broke a spell, and suddenly he knew it was okay to touch her.  His hands came up to take her by the hips, where he held on to her, as if she would still flee.  Her lips were gentle, her fingers gentle, as she dug them into his hair.  She planted her feather light kisses over his face again, and he let a sigh escape him.  Then her fingers were trailing down his neck, to tickle across his chest, before she began kissing him there.