Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) (12 page)

“Art thou certain?”  The prospect rattled him, as he had no experience in the questionable behavior.  “Forgive my ignorance, but I know not whither to begin.”

“Thither is not much to the practice.  Just polish thy longsword.”  Arucard shrugged.  “Given thy circumstances, which I suspect art dire, else never would ye have broached the subject, thou dost require no skill.  Yanking thy Franciscan monk’s bald head, back and forth, a couple of times should prove successful and alleviate thy discomfit.  But if thou dost have difficulty, just envision thy wife’s visage, pretend she dotes upon ye, and that should suffice.”

“I cannot believe how far I have fallen, in search of some sense of normalcy in this game called marriage.”  The company constructed the quarters with remarkable effectiveness, which seemed the perfect opportunity to make his move, so Demetrius dipped his chin, disregarded Arucard’s mock salute, and trudged into the thicket.

The ice and snow presented a hazardous trail, amid the coppice, and twice he lost his footing and almost ended up on his arse.  But at his rear the voices dimmed, so he chose a spot shielded by a large oak.  After a quick survey of the area, he removed his gloves, untied his breeches and braies, and drew forth his stout and stubborn man’s yard.

A cool breeze had him tightening his buttocks, and he shivered as he initiated the deed.  To his chagrin and consolation, on the second tug of his firm flesh, he found completion, and his seed burst forth in rapid-fire spurts that left him gasping for breath and leaning against the tree for support.

Thither was a time when he would have considered such behavior forbidden, as the church frowned on the practice of self-gratification.  But Demetrius harbored an ugly secret, which he shared with no one.  Not even Arucard, Demetrius’s closest confidant, knew of the foul reality.  At some point, someone would discover his game, but he would not reveal it on a whim.  Instead, he concealed the truth, and it festered deep in his soul.  For a moment, he stared at the sky and heaved a sigh of relief, as delicate flakes danced on an ever-strengthening gale, so he righted his clothing and returned to the encampment.

“Thy accommodation is secured, Sir Demetrius.”  Grimbaud Van Daalen, one of Arucard’s most trusted lancer’s, dipped his chin.  “I spread a rug, lit thy brazier, situated thy table and chairs, and set up thy bedframe and mattress.”

“Thank ye, sirrah.”  Demetrius locked forearms with the guard.  “Thou art a good man, and I wager thou art eager to see thy wife and newborn son, upon our arrival at Chichester Castle.”

“I would be lying if I indicated otherwise.”  The young father grinned.  “And I envy thy good fortune, given thy bride travels with ye, as I miss my sweet Isotta.”

“Well, we should reach the coast in the next few days, so thou wilt enjoy a happy reunion soon enough.”

“I pray thou art correct, as my bride will be quite irritated if I miss our babe’s first Christmastide.”  Grimbaud rubbed the back of his neck.  “Isotta was rather annoyed by our journey, so close to the holiday, and I promised to make amends for my absence.”

“I am sure whatever ye dost manage, thy lady will be appeased.”  And in that instant, Demetrius thought of Athelyna.  “Now I should assist Arucard with the horses.”

“Then I wish ye a pleasant eventide, Sir Demetrius.”  Grimbaud bowed and rushed toward the guard’s tent.

As Demetrius approached the Brethren, Arucard smiled.  “Well that did not take long.”

“Shut up.”  Demetrius drew a blanket from the wagon and draped it over his destrier.

“Whither is thy woman?”  Morgan waggled his brows.  “I am surprised ye can tear thyself away from her, as thou hast played the attentive husband like a past master.”

“Mayhap Athelyna wears the breeches in the family.”  With a hearty guffaw, Geoffrey elbowed Aristide.  “What say ye, brother?  Hath our comrade shrunk since his wedding?”

“Indeed.”  Aristide clucked his tongue and scratched his cheek.  “He appears to have declined in a particular aspect.”

“In that I will not argue, but it is not so bad as ye might think.”  Demetrius gazed at Arucard and arched a brow.  “Of course, they will learn when it is their time to marry.”

And so all humor ceased.

After feeding and watering the animals, wherein Arucard shared additional recommendations, Demetrius walked back to his small abode.  The wind whipped and howled, and when he slipped through the opening, he was disappointed to discover Athel had not returned.  Then it dawned on him that he could arrange the sheets, blankets, and pelts, as he waited for her, so he set about the task.  As she preferred the thicker pillow, he fluffed the cushion and rested it on her side of the bed, just as she summoned him.

“My lord, art thou hither?”  She sneezed.  “Pray, untie the flaps, as I bear our sup on a tray, and I fear I shall blow away.”

“Hither am I, now come inside, my lady wife, before ye catch a chill.”  He parted the canvas until she passed, and then he tethered the laces.  “The storm rages, once again.”

“I know, as we had a terrible time keeping the blaze going, so we could heat the blancmange.”  With a dusting of snow on her cloak, she bent, set the meal on the table, stood upright, and fiddled with the clasp on her outerwear.  “Oh, my hands are too cold, and I cannot unhook the fastener.”

“Let me do it.”  In seconds, he set her free and draped the damp garment over the back of the chair, to dry.  As she uncovered their trenchers, he loosened the laces of her surcoat.  “Lift thy arms.”

“Thou hast become quite skilled at removing my clothing, my lord husband.”  A ghost of a smile played on her lips, and her cheeks boasted a charming shade of pink.  “Mayhap I should employ ye as my maid.”

“And perchance thou mayest sleep in thy linen chemise, as I shall keep ye warm.”  Her playful tone signaled it was time to advance her knowledge of his body, as Arucard suggested.

“Of course, I shall indulge my knight, as an obedient wife should.”  Abiding his request, she permitted him to strip away the heavy wool apparel, until naught remained but her intimates.  Then she shivered.  “Oh, it is cold.”

“Get thee between the covers, while I serve ye.”  As on prior occasions, he situated the table to enable him to dote on Athel, and he should have enjoyed what appeared to be a relaxing eventide, yet something nagged at his conscience, when he joined her.  “May I ask ye a question?”

“I am thine to command.”  Opening her mouth, she accepted the portion of blancmange he fed her.

“Wherefore hast thou changed thy mind in regard to our union?”  In a flash, he recalled their heated exchange in the Great Hall on the eve of their ceremony.  “Thou were against our marriage, yet now thou dost sing another tune.  Art thou happy, Athel?”

“If I may offer ye candor, I would simply say that as I have taken the sacrament, I must honor our pact with Our Lord and the responsibilities invested therein.  To do less would be akin to committing the most grievous sin, and I would not jeopardize my soul to satisfy a girl’s dream.  Regardless of my onetime aspirations, those goals must perforce yield to the oath I swore before the archbishop.”  He held a goblet to her mouth, and she sipped the wine.  “It is my duty to obey ye, in all things, and I pledge to do so, until death do us part.”

“Well said, my lady.”  While he maintained a relaxed demeanor, inside he pondered her response.

In silence, they dined, emptying the trenchers and consuming the wine and ale.  After guttering the candles, he restocked the brazier, shed his tunic and breeches, and climbed into bed.  As usual, she turned into him, and he faced her.  And although he had planned to initiate an exploration, of sorts, of their respective bodies, his enthusiasm had waned.

When Demetrius spoke his vows, he had no interest in fostering an emotional attachment to Athelyna.  Rather, he intended to guard himself from her, to hold her at a distance.  Instead, she captured his attention, in a way he could not comprehend, and he wanted more.  The problem was he had no idea what that meant.

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A vicious battle raged, sword clashed with sword, and an unknown champion protected a group of innocent pilgrims, beneath the glare of a brutal sun.  With incomparable skill and speed the valiant knight charged numerous assailants, kicking sand in his wake and dispatching his enemies with lethal aim, until the enemy cowered in the shadows of the faceless warrior, but he was merciful.  Anon, as he walked amid the bodies scattered across the dunes, the sweet stench of blood hung heavy in the air, and he doffed his gauntlets.

And then everything shifted.

The encroaching night sky signaled the advancing eventide, and the defender entered a tent.  As he removed his armor, he revealed an intriguing mark etched into his flesh and barely visible in the soft light from the brazier.  It was the Crusader’s Cross, black in color, and marred by a distinct scar in the shape of a jagged spike.

Athel jolted awake and alert.  An inventory of her surroundings conveyed that she remained in transit with her spouse.  Just as quick, she stroked the brooch, which she removed only to secure it on a fresh chemise.

The quiet predawn hours offered precious time for reflection, in the peaceful solitude of the tent, before the guards proceeded to break down the camp.  As always, she attempted to discern the significance of the vision that visited every night, without fail.  Given her oh-so-modest knight refused to bare his back in her presence, she had yet to make a thorough examination of his torso, for the diverting mark.

Yawning, she stretched in her husband’s capable embrace and grazed something firm with her fingers.  After numerous conversations with Isolde, Athel understood the implications of the enthralling aspect of Demetrius’s body, even though they had yet to consummate their vows.  True to his word, he had not forced her to surrender her maidenhead, which put her at ease in his company.  But his chivalrous behavior inspired another response she had not anticipated—curiosity.

Yielding to an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, which burgeoned beyond her control in the wake of her departure from the convent, she traced the stout form of his man’s yard and reached lower.  So much about their respective forms were different, and she ached to admire his bare physique.

“Good morrow, sweet wife.”  Demetrius shifted his hips, and she almost jumped out of her skin as she halted her exploration.  “Nay, do not cease thy tender caresses on my account.”

“Thou art not offended?”  Ashamed, she burrowed her face to his chest.  “I have not angered ye?”

“Wherefore should I be offended or angry?”  He chuckled, and her anxiety abated.  “Need I remind ye we are married?”

“Nay, as I am well aware of our status, and that is what drives my inquisitive spirit, given thither was naught like ye in Coventry.”  When she risked a peek at him, he rewarded her with a broad smile, and she realized she had overreacted.  “My lord, although I am not yet prepared to relinquish that which is thine by law and the sacrament, to seal our union, I wish to know ye better, but I am not certain how to go about it.  I would not make thy acquaintance on the night we choose to do the deed.  Rather, I would have some familiarity with thy anatomy, to assuage my trepidation, which I must confess is mountainous.  May I touch ye?”

“Thou dost make excellent sense, and I am amenable to thy plan.”  But he closed his eyes and groaned when she resumed her survey of his most male member.  “Perchance thou wilt grant me the same privilege with thy person, as I am just as captivated by thy feminine curves.”

“Thou would have me return the favor?”  At the prospect, she gulped.  Then again, Demetrius had not hurt her, and she believed he never would, so she dipped her chin.  “All right.”

The instant he rested his palm to her breast, she gave vent to a half-smothered sob, but hers was not a cry of pain, sorrow, or alarm.  Instead, her audible exhalation manifested the wonder of so many delicious, virgin sensations, which she savored as he fondled her flesh.

To her surprise, he untied his braies, grasped her wrist, and brought her into direct contact with his length, and she almost swooned as he tutored her in an illicit massage.  And when he loosened her chemise and pressed on her enticing caresses, skin to skin, unlike anything she had ever before experienced, she flexed her fingers, and something strange happened.

Grunting and grimacing, he gritted his teeth, and a hot substance spattered her hand.  Sure that she had caused irreparable harm to her man, she tried to withdraw, but he held her fast.  At last, she could take no more, and the tears flowed.

“My lord, I am sorry.”  Now she shook with dread, as she might have forever ruined their chance at happiness and scarred him for life.  “Whatever I did wrong, I apologize.  Pray, forgive me.”

“Prithee, a moment, Athel.”  He kissed her forehead and sighed.  “But allay thy concerns, as thou hast done naught wrong.”  Still she wept, while he shifted and thrust his hips, until he exhaled and laughed.  “Oh, my lady, how I needed that.”

“Thou art not angry with me?”  Beneath the weight of his scrutiny, she faltered.

“My dear, I am relieved, as thou hast brought me to completion.”  He rubbed his nose to hers.  “Dost thou not comprehend what ye have done?”

“How would I know?”  With the sheet, he wiped her cheeks.  “Remember, I was raised in a convent.”

“But thou didst tend the sick and the wounded, did ye not?”  He toyed with her nipple, and she clenched her gut.