The Ever Knight (2 page)

Tomorrow he’d collect what he came for and they’d be on their way again. Once he’d delivered the package to his brother he’d find a town with a brothel and treat his men. They deserved it.

A sudden sharp pain shot through his leg from hip to knee. His knife fell to the table with a loud clatter. Quickly he picked it up again, laughing at his clumsiness. But the pain was worse. Sometimes if he sat for too long in one position he didn’t know if he would ever get up again. It was terrifying for a man who’d lived his life as a warrior, most of it in the saddle. He was no use to anyone if his leg gave out. Tonight the pain made him weak, a heavy sickness lying in his gut. A thin film of sweat coated his body and yet he was cold. He’d quietly asked one of the nuns who brought them food if she had a salve for infection and whether she might apply some to his wounded leg to draw out whatever poison was in it. She’d looked at him as if he asked her to put her wizened lips around his cock and suck it dry. Before he could speak another word to her she’d scuttled off, shaking her head and waving her arms.

Remy was surprised. He thought Christianity was about helping people, but then, what did he know? He was only good for battle and bloodshed. He let the clerics and learned folks decide what they were actually fighting for.

But the way she’d looked at him…

Perhaps it was the language. The English tongue did not come smoothly to Remy. Even after twelve years here he still made the occasional mistake. He was not nearly as fluent as his half-brother and when he made an error it was usually a very bad one, never something trivial. Days like these, when he was sloppy and restless with nothing purposeful to do, were particularly dangerous for Remy. On the battlefield with prey in his sights he was unstoppable, sure-aimed and fleet of instinct. Without the bloodlust of war churning in his veins, however, he faltered, finding himself lost, tripping over his own feet and likewise his tongue. Some men yearned for a life of peace; Remy thought that would be very dull. The nothingness would grind him down to a useless nub, whereas war kept his nerves sharp, like a whetstone on a knife’s blade.

If this wound in his leg stopped him from fighting, he may as well be dead.

He grabbed a flagon of ale and drank it down without stopping. If he could get drunk it would help numb the pain for a while.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve he looked around the room at the feasting men and thought again it was a pity there were no whores. He could make good use of one now. Swiving was the thing most on his mind tonight, after that wound in his thigh.

Chapter Two

They’d spent half an hour readying her for the mission, rubbing her skin with scented oil until she glowed in the lantern light, a banquet of flesh seasoned to tempt the weakest appetite. Even her pubic hair shone, the tiny curls gleaming with a rich luster. It was almost, so Deorwynn said, too much wasted on a Norman.

“I wish I had breasts like yours,” her companion added somberly, head on one side as she surveyed her nude body. “Mine are too small.”

“You have a year or two yet to grow,” Jisella replied. “I am older than you. Soon you will wish they were smaller again and not in the way so much.” She knew her friend was on the cusp of blossoming. Deorwynn was small all over, even fragile in appearance. It was misleading, because the girl was anything but meek and dainty in spirit. Some poor man would get a shock, thought Jisella, hiding another smile as she pulled on her cloak.

She stopped abruptly as footsteps approached along the stone passage. Someone had seen the lantern still lit and came to see who was in the scullery so late.

Jisella whispered anxiously, “Don’t forget to leave the ladder out for me.”

Deorwynn pushed her out through the side door, bolted it and blew out the lantern.

* * * *

He stumbled into the yard to relieve himself somewhere after his fourth flagon of ale. No one seemed to be about on this chill evening. Fortunately the blessed nuns were staying out of his way, locking themselves up with their prayers and leaving the soldiers to eat in the main hall undisturbed. He could almost hear the clanging of bolts reverberating throughout the drafty maze of buildings, keeping all those virgins secure. As if he had any interest in them.

No, what he wanted at this moment was a solid mare with strong legs and staying power. One who wouldn’t mind him taking her over a few hedges and making her sweat. He supposed he’d just have to wait for that.

The air was fresh, cold, hitting his face and then his bared buttocks like a slap of wet linen. Shoulder propped against the stable wall, he used one hand to hold himself and had just begun to let the stream flow when he heard a sound behind him.

“I brought you something for your wound.”

He looked over his shoulder. There were only a few rush torches around the yard, but the moon was full tonight, dropping a molten silver kiss on the solemn, pale face of a young woman behind him, wearing a black, hooded cloak. Where the devil did she spring from?

Her eyes were wide and clear, almost the same opalescent color as the moon itself and her lips were full, bee-stung, poised at the end of her statement with an endearing moue. Lord, she was young! He thought they were all ancient and wrinkled as old parchment in this place, but she was pretty, sweet-faced, fresh as a spring camellia.

That other nun must have understood him after all and sent this one to his aid. An angel-faced nurse, soft-voiced, dewy-eyed and…

Did his angel-faced nun just glance at his buttocks and lick her lips?

He swung fully around, drawing up, inhaling his already flat stomach, forgetting he still held his prick in one hand. “’Tis but a scratch.”

“It causes you pain. I am here to relieve you of it. No need for false pride.”

In the next breath she parted her cloak. Remy stared, transfixed. Cool moonlight caressed a plump pair of bubbies, a softly rounded belly, long curvaceous legs and a mound of downy curls at the juncture of her smooth thighs. He hiccupped.

A naked nun? He shook his head to clear his vision. She was still naked. Stunning. He breathed as if there were bubbles in his lungs.

The breeze ruffled her cloak, pushing it against her bare calves. She wore only a pair of boots that came up to her ankles. If not for that practical item, he would have thought her a pixie or a ghost come to haunt him for his lusty sinful thoughts.

His balls ached just at the sight of all that beauty offered to him without preamble, and his cock twitched in his hand.

“I can bring you ease,” she cooed, standing before him with her cloak still open. “If you’ll let me.” She rolled her tongue on her letter ls and it felt as if she licked him from sac to root to tip with the same motion. “But you must promise to take me away from here when you leave tomorrow.”

He made a low sound, deep in his throat, barely aware of it himself. She must be freezing cold like that, he thought, fumbling for sense through the fog of ale and sheer, red-hot desire. Even as he stared at them, her nipples peaked enticingly, teased by the icy fingers of this frigid October night. A shimmer of torchlight revealed goose-bumps on her belly, poor thing. But the little pelt of fur between her thighs promised all the warmth a man could hope for. He quickly raised a hand to his mouth, hoping his tongue wasn’t hanging out and drooling. It had been so long for him. So damn long.

His heart stopped beating and relied solely on his cock’s pulse. Oh yes, he thought with a happy grunt. His groin tightened. His sperm readied. It was months since he’d enjoyed anything beyond his own hand. He was not in the mood to ask questions. Why should he? They were the conquering heroes. She wouldn’t be the first wench to wonder what it was like to have the might of the Norman army inside her and she wouldn’t be the last.

* * * *

No sooner were they in the hayloft, than he was over her, spreading her thighs with his roughened hands while his lips closed over one nipple and tugged upon it like a half-starved babe. She felt the quickening in her core, even at the first suck. No man had ever touched her there, or even seen her breasts before. In the convent, when they bathed, they wore shifts, as the nuns did. No eyes, other than those of their husbands, were ever supposed to see their naked bodies. She and Deorwynn had examined one another out of curiosity, but even that, interesting and informative as it was, could not compare with what she would learn tonight.

He licked the swollen nipple, chuckling softly in apology. In French. “It is for me without too long,” he admitted, charmingly sheepish in his broken English. She wriggled in the straw, discarding her robe. Suddenly he knelt up and wiped his cock on the tunic he’d already pulled off over his head. “Will you take me in your mouth?” he asked, offering it to her, the full head bobbing eagerly at her lips. She was nervous suddenly, the idea of taking that all in, fitting it within her…

He straddled her waist, one hand stroking his cock, the other holding the saddle packs that hung beneath it.

Jisella licked her tense lips. He groaned, directing the tip at her mouth.

She would do it, she decided. She wanted to explore him fully, her Knight. Later she would have a tale for Deorwynn and the others—and this time the experience to back it up.

He shuddered when she opened her mouth and let his crest slide between her lips, onto her tongue. Slowly she accepted more, her tongue running over the ridges of his engorged veins, exploring. He filled her mouth and her throat, salty and yet sweet, a combination she’d never expected and quickly found she liked. When she began to suck hungrily he growled, grabbing her shoulders to steady himself, then wrapping his knuckles through her long loose hair. She grew bolder, her sucking harder, rhythmic. It was mesmerizing, the taste of him rich and luxurious. She stroked his firm buttocks, tracing the hard, tense muscles with her fingertips. Whenever her touch ventured closer to the valley between his cheeks, she heard him draw a harsh breath, steeling himself. His prick swelled in her mouth. Interesting. Out of curiosity she let one finger venture between his cheeks.

Abruptly he tried to pull away. Groaning in her throat, bossy and defiant, she sucked again, her finger prying. He panted, his back arched, his hips thrusting. Only when he tugged her hair hard and swore did she finally release his cock. As it pulled out over her tongue she tasted a bead of liquid and knew he had almost spilled.

Hands to her shoulders, he shoved her down on her back in the hay. His eyes were long lashed and, despite their darkness, full of heat. The intensity scorched her skin as she lay before him and spread her legs. He lowered over her, licking her stomach, his tongue delving into her navel, making her squirm, ticklish. He worked his way down to her vulva, licking and nibbling. His breath was hot, ale-soaked, coming in short hard bursts. He hadn’t asked her name or anything about her, she thought dimly. This is probably how it always was with him and women.

A few moments later, his close shaven head was between her open thighs. Jisella felt his breath on her sex, wild and unsteady. He whispered something in his own tongue, and when she lifted up to look down at him, he was studying her labia, hungry as a wolf cub. His gaze met hers over the softly furred mound and she knew his hard Norman lips were an inch or less from claiming her tender womanhood. She swallowed, still tasting him in her throat.

He scowled at her above the small thatch of downy hair, his shoulders holding her knees apart. Evidently he took issue with her making commands. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You are no nun.”

Cursing under her breath, she hitched further up on her elbows. “Of course I’m no nun. Are all Normans this stupid? I’m a prisoner here.”

To her relief she heard a husky laugh before he dipped his head again. She lifted her hips to meet his mouth, exhaling in a blistering rush as his tongue lapped at her firmly, three masterful strokes. The Norman’s fingers parted her folds to let his tongue slip inside. She writhed, the straw pricking at her back. His tongue stiffened, pressing up into her, reaching for buried treasure. Afraid of crying out, she quickly stuffed the hood of her cloak in her mouth. Having found something in her, he fondled it with that same questing tongue, tugging and playful. Her heart beat was beyond her now, recklessly racing, taking her at speed across new, unfamiliar terrain. She feared not.