The Maiden and Her Knight (13 page)

She knew this was wrong. She must not kiss him. She belonged to another.

Another who was not here. Who cared for her family's property, not her. Who did not—could not—kiss her like this man did.

She took his face between her palms and kissed him with fervent need and growing desire. She wanted him, and the freedom he promised with merely the touch of his lips upon hers.

Leaning closer and wrapping her arms about him, she let her mouth taste his in a slow, sensuous dance. He even smelled better than Rennick, of fresh air and plain wool and leather—simple, comfortable things.

She reveled in the sensation of being held in his powerful arms. Her hands moved slowly up his back, and the taut muscles roiled like waves upon the ocean as he pulled her even closer to him. The ends of his long, waving hair brushed her fingertips. She ran her
hands through the thick, marvelous mass of his hair and relaxed against him, as if her bones were butter, melting beneath his passionate touch.

He abruptly broke the kiss, startling her as much as a pinch would have. “My lady, forgive—”

“I do not want to forgive you,” she whispered. “I do not want to be forgiven. I want to be with you. I want to kiss you. Please, Connor, kiss me again.”

“Allis,” he whispered, making her name a caress as he moved his left arm, slipping it out of the sling. He did not raise it, but put it gingerly about her waist before he kissed her as she yearned to be kissed, with desire and tenderness, with equal passion and need, as if he, too, found what he was seeking in their embrace.

So different from Rennick, who took her mouth possessively as a sign of conquest, not love, or even affection. Rennick groped her body to assuage his own desire, not to inflame hers.

She must have more of Connor. Feel more of him. Taste more of him. Her whole body shook with primitive need as she plunged her tongue between his lips.

He wanted more of her, too, his kiss growing more demanding, just as hers was. But he did not seek rough conquest. As he lifted her onto his lap, he requested her willing surrender.

She was very willing.

He was hard beneath her, and she knew what it meant. He wanted to make love with her. His body was ready. So was hers. This moist heaviness was startlingly new, yet every instinct told her what it meant.

He grunted, a small sound of pain deep in his throat, and she instantly drew back, looking at him questioningly.

“A little pain is a small price to the pay for the plea
sure you give,” he murmured as he pressed light kisses along her throat.

She tried to focus on his injury and not the delight of the whisper of his lips against her skin. “You may be doing lasting harm.”

“I will risk it.”

And so would she, for never had she felt this way, as a woman in love must feel. As if she must be with him, or she would wither and die, and that death would be welcome, because she was alone.

His right hand slid beneath her skirt and, splayed against her skin, traveled slowly, slowly up her leg. Gingerly she wrapped her arms about him and surrendered once again.

His left hand spread along her waist, before meandering along her ribs, then moving with tormenting leisure to cup her breast. His thumb brushed across her pebbled nipple. Ripples of passionate excitement expanded and she squirmed, anxiously pushing forward to increase the pressure.

There was pressure lower, too, and when she moved, she felt him respond. She yearned to feel that virile length inside her, to be joined with him and feel the power of his passion as he thrust.

“Have you seen Sir Connor?” Edmond called from somewhere beyond the garden wall. “I've been waiting for him.”

They both went perfectly still, like a statue of two lovers in the garden.

“Not today, my chick,” Merva called from further off.

Flushed and breathless, ashamed and still excited, Allis pulled away. “You have to leave.”

Connor's blushing, gasping frustration was a mirror of her own. “Aye.”

Neither one of them moved. She had never wanted to stay anywhere as much as she wanted to linger on Connor's lap, his arms around her, making her feel cherished and safe, and no longer alone.

With a gentle tenderness and a sad sigh, he tucked a stray lock of her hair back beneath her scarf. “I had best go before your brother calls out the guard to search for me.”

“Yes.” As she looked into the dark, shifting depths of his eyes, it was like that first night when she had believed he could see into her heart. But this time, she could see into his. He wanted her with a passion equal to her own, yet beneath that, like the strong rock that withstands the surges of the ocean's waves, there was something more. Something stronger. Something better. Something eternal, like the rhythm of the sea, or the beating of two hearts in unison. Even if they were not together, that bond would still be there.

She wiggled off his lap and got to her feet on trembling legs. “People might start looking for me, too. If they found us together…” If they were found together, nobody would care about her feelings, least of all Rennick DeFrouchette.

“It would not go well with you,” he confirmed. “Go you through the hall, my lady, and I out the gate. I will be careful.”

Yes, he would be. She could trust him. She knew that as if it were carved on that sturdy rock in the midst of the crashing waves. “I know.”

He rose and began to ease his arm back into the sling. She lightly touched his left shoulder. “I didn't hurt your shoulder more, did I?”

His grin was as sudden and delightful as the first spark from flint and steel on a cold day. “If you did, I
would not complain.” He raised his arm a little. “No, not more hurt. In fact, you might have helped.”

Once again, his charming, rakish grin nudged away her sadness and made her smile. “I doubt that.”

He stepped close and leaned toward her, whispering in her ear, his voice low and seductive. “Have you never heard that kisses have healing power?”

She closed her eyes and let the passionate warmth of his presence flow over and around her. “No, I haven't.”

His right arm encircled her. “I haven't, either, but I think somebody should start a rumor.”

His soft, moist tongue licked and fondled her earlobe, and she couldn't stifle the low moan that began deep in her throat.

“I must go.”

“Yes,” she sighed as he nuzzled her neck.

“I don't want to.”

“No.”

“I must.”

A part of her heard his words, and part of her agreed. But another part—stronger, more primitive than reason—anchored her in his embrace.

He moved back and once more his lips turned up, not in a merry grin, but in a smile that warmed her to the tips of her toes and touched her heart anew.

“I really must go,” he said firmly, as if trying to convince himself, too. “Until later, my lady.”

Yet even then he hesitated and doubt clouded his features.

“Until later,” she promised. Until Rennick returned and she must again be the dutiful Allis of Montclair.

Connor paused at the gate and gave her another beautiful smile before he opened it and was gone.

As one day he would be gone forever, and this lovely dream would be at an end. Surely her heart would shatter like his lance when he left Montclair. Would he feel that way, too? Would he curse her for leading him on, or would he understand that she had not been strong enough to conquer her longing and stay away from him?

But duty was bred in her bones and love for her family was the core of her being. She could not ignore that love, any more than her breaking heart could be torn from her chest and she be expected to live. Duty could not be forgotten any more than she could stand without a spine.

When the time came for him to leave Montclair, she hoped he could understand that, and forgive her.

Perhaps she should hope he did not. Let him hate her for giving in to her selfish desire, and let him find another, better woman to love and comfort him.

Let her know his love, his tenderness, his compassion. Let her share his days, and his nights. Let her bear his children and call him husband. And let
her
hear that he was happy, for that would be a fitting punishment for her sin.

 

As Connor strode across the cobblestoned courtyard toward Edmond, who fidgeted with impatience beside his roan, he tried to climb out of the bliss of passion Allis inspired, and think.

He could no longer delude himself that what he felt for her was something he could conquer. It was too strong, too powerful, too all-encompassing.

And she cared for him, too. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. When she was in his arms, there was no coyness, no sense that this was merely a game
to her. She wanted him as he wanted her, and when they were together, that yearning became potent and overwhelming. Yet for the sake of her beloved family, she had pledged herself to another and he knew her well enough to believe that even if she loved him, her sense of honor and duty would demand that she do what she must to protect them. Could he expect less of her than he would demand of himself?

So when Baron DeFrouchette returned, this pleasant dream must come to its inevitable end. To make that moment bearable for both of them, he should try to loosen the ties of longing and affection already binding them, no matter how much it tore his heart.

“Where have you been?” Edmond demanded as Connor halted beside him.

He had heard that tone of voice before, from a certain king he had once admired. Did this boy have any idea what sacrifices his sister made for him? Or was he already like Richard, taking with no thought of what it might cost the giver? “That is no way for a squire to address a knight.”

The lad had the grace to blush. “I'm sorry.”

No, not like Richard yet, and with such a sister, perhaps never. He ruffled the lad's hair. “Apology accepted. Come now, let's get that shield and spear.”

He gave no explanation for his tardiness and told no lies to Edmond. Nor, as the next few days passed, did he find the strength to stay away from Allis, or loosen the bonds that already wrapped about them like the strongest rope.

“Y
ou're a marvelous teacher, Sir Connor,” Isabelle enthused from her place on Connor's camp stool in the inner ward.

“Thank you,” he replied, barely glancing at her as he watched Edmond riding while holding his shield.

She had come again to watch Edmond's knightly lessons, or so she claimed, but he knew she spent more time watching him. He had not said or done anything about that so far, yet perhaps the time had come to speak to Allis—another excuse, perhaps, to be alone with the woman he was fast falling in love with.

His affection and desire grew stronger every time they were together. Sometimes, they were brief, intensely passionate encounters, like the time he waited for her in the pantry after hearing her speak of getting some bread for her father to eat before he slept. His
loins tightened as he remembered the feel of her body against his as he pressed her back against the shelves, fervent longing exploding within him. Softly moaning, stroking and caressing him as her mouth took his, she arched back, thrusting her hips toward him, as bold in her passion as she was in everything. Love, need, heat exploded and careered through him like sparks from a forge. If they had not knocked over a basket of leeks, he might have made love to her then and there, with no heed to the consequences.

Once she had invited him to join her and Lord Oswald at the high table, as coolly and calmly as she might any other guest. Only the flash of affection in her eyes betrayed her, and only, he was sure, because he knew to look for it.

After the meal, Lord Oswald had excused himself and disappeared with the accommodating Merva. There was nothing untoward in Connor's remaining at the table, and under the eyes of the servants, they talked. She spoke of the birth of Edmond, and the great rejoicing that had followed, not hiding that she had felt distinctly snubbed. Her mother found her weeping in her chamber, and told her she must not take the celebration of her brother's birth as meaning she was less cherished or beloved. Indeed, her mother had confided, her father indulged his daughters in a way he never would a son, so in fact she should pity little Edmond. Allis clearly had not completely agreed with the last, but Connor heard the love for her mother in every word she spoke. It was not only the earl of Montclair who had been heartbroken by her death.

He told her of his parents, and then the Crusade. He talked of things he had never told anyone, of the misery and horror, and his growing despair. Even then,
and despite the undercurrent of compassionate understanding, he could not bring himself to describe his final humiliating meeting with Richard.

Nor could he help reaching for her slender hand beneath the table. He had done no more than touch her, and yet that was enough to set his heartstrings singing.

Firebrand whinnied. With a guilty start, Connor came out of his reverie. Fine thing for a teacher to do, daydreaming! What if the lad had fallen or been hurt?

Then he realized why Firebrand had whinnied. “Not too tight with the knees, Edmond, or you'll break his ribs.”

It was an exaggeration, but the boy was gripping with his knees so hard, the horse looked annoyed.

Edmond relaxed a little and Connor smiled with approval. “I think that's enough for today.”

Edmond nodded at the spear leaning against the pole at the entrance to Connor's tent. “Won't you let me try it once with the shield and spear both? I won't fall. Firebrand is being very good.”

“No. Not yet. Walk the course first before you run. Study the battleground before you engage.”

“You did better than I thought you would,” Isabelle called out.

“He's doing very well. He has a very good seat, and his balance is excellent.”

“You hear that?” Edmond demanded. “I'm very good.”

“A knight truly skilled and confident has no need to brag. Now take Firebrand to his stall and rub him down well, and make sure he has plenty of food and water. He has worked hard today, too.”

Edmond slipped from the saddle. “We have grooms to tend to the horses.”

“No,” Connor said firmly. “
You
must do it. Remember what I said about a knight and his horse? Granted, Firebrand is not a destrier, but you must begin to understand horses, especially your own. What do they like to eat best? Where do they prefer to be stroked? Do they like you to whisper in their ears, or does that make them anxious? Horses are like women, Edmond. Every one of them different, and every one needs to be treated differently. It is your task to find out what pleases them most.”

Abashed, Edmond nodded, and Connor noticed that Isabelle was blushing to the roots of her hair. He should have thought of a better comparison.

“One more lesson.” He got the spear and gave it to Edmond. “Stand to the right of Firebrand. Good. Now, take his reins in your shield hand and the spear in your right.”

Edmond did as he was told, resting the butt of the spear on the ground, the tip in the air.

“Tilt the spear so that the tip is pointed at the ground, the shaft under your arm, most of it above and behind your shoulder. You will have to let the shaft slip through your fingers to do that.”

Connor took hold of the back of the spear and gently guided it. “Good. Now you are ready to leave the field.”

Edmond's face broke into a grin as understanding suddenly dawned. With pride in every step as if he just defeated twenty knights, he headed for the stables.

Which left Connor alone with young Isabelle.

She rose and came toward him, twisting the end of her long blond braid about her fingers. “I wish I could be a knight,” she said bashfully. “Even though it is dangerous.”

A lighthearted approach would, perhaps, be best with her. “Where would knights be without lovely ladies to impress?”

“I suppose you've known many beautiful ladies?”

“A few,” he allowed.

“Were they as pretty as…as pretty as Allis?”

He suspected this was a roundabout way to ask if he thought her pretty, too. It might not be wise, but he didn't have the heart to deny her a little compliment when she still seemed so sad and fragile. “Very few are as pretty as your sister, or you.”

“Then other men will ask to wear my scarf in tournaments, and I will let them.” Her eyes flashed with sudden fire, and he thought that something of Allis's spirited vitality might lurk within her, after all.

“While you regret not letting Percival wear your scarf, speaking as a man and a knight, I would rather have a lady refuse my request than give me reason to believe she feels more than she does.”

She slid him a coy and questioning glance. “I daresay you've worn lots of ladies' scarves.”

Time to end whatever fantasies this girl was entertaining. “I have never asked a lady for her scarf.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why not?”

“There has never been one I cared enough to ask.”

“Not ever?”

“No, not ever.”

“Some day you might.”

He shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose.”

She blushed and looked at the hem of her gown. “I would be very honored if you asked for mine.”

“My lady,” he said not unkindly, but firmly, too, “I am too old to be asking for your scarf. You should hope to win the affections of a younger man who has
his whole life ahead of him. However, I am very aware of the great compliment you have paid me, and I shall cherish it always.”

Isabelle planted her feet, and took a deep breath. “If we were to have a tournament today, would you ask Allis if you could wear her favor?”

“No.”

There could be no doubt of his sincerity, because he meant what he said. He could not, no matter how much he might want to.

“Because she is betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“What if she were free?”

He did not wish to discuss that possibility with anyone except Allis. “Lady Isabelle, the hour grows late, and my shoulder is aching. I think I had best seek out Brother Jonathan and see if there is something he can do. Please excuse me.”

With that, he took the wiser course and quit the field.

 

Allis hurried toward the dispensary. Her father's head was aching, and she needed more of the potion Brother Jonathan made out of willow bark for that complaint.

When the new cathedral, cloisters and chapter house were completed, Brother Jonathan would be moving there, along with his medicinal paraphernalia. She was going to miss the busy little physician and having his medicines so close by, but her father had promised to build a hospital near the cathedral, and on this one point, he had remained absolutely firm, much to Allis's delight and the baron's dismay.

She would also miss the dispensary, a homey place with its strange jars and strange smells from the herbs
drying overhead. In the corner was a small hearth Brother Jonathan used to heat his remedies as necessary, and that cozily warmed the chamber in winter. In front of that was the scarred, stained table where Brother Jonathan did the mixing. A variety of dishes, pots, mortars and pestles stood there, along with a bottle of ink, quills, glue and small pieces of parchment for labeling the jars and clay pots lining the shelves.

Hoping Brother Jonathan would be alone and therefore able to prepare the draft quickly, she entered the dispensary.

The little man was not alone. To her surprise and secret delight, Connor was there.

She took a moment to survey his naked back, and the dark, waving hair brushing his wide shoulders. His left shoulder was still very bruised, the skin an angry purple, red and yellow.

Her gaze drifted lower, to his trim waist and narrow hips. Memories of the time he had surprised her in the pantry burst into her mind, and her body warmed as if he were once again kissing her passionately against the shelves.

Brother Jonathan peered at her. “Lady Allis?”

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but my father's head is aching.”

“Ah. One moment, and I shall prepare his medicine.”

She strolled closer, and spoke as matter-of-factly as she could. “Have you hurt your shoulder again, Sir Connor?”

“I have a bit of an ache,” he replied in much the same manner, and only the flare of emotion in his eyes betrayed that there was more than mere courtesy between them.

“He has been doing too much,” Brother Jonathan
said with more than a hint of disapproval as he went to his work table.

She wasn't the only one reddening at the particular moment, and she turned away from Connor and his roguish grin. She studied a pot labeled
Tincture of Wormwood
as if fascinated.

“I do not know why men will not listen to my advice,” Brother Jonathan muttered, his head bent over his work. “It is not as if I give these warnings out of spite, you know.”

“Yes, I do know, Brother,” Connor said. “I am very sorry. I have been distracted of late.”

It was a good thing she wasn't looking at Connor's face. She could well imagine his contrite expression belied by his merry eyes. If she met his gaze, she would surely start giggling like a besotted girl.

“Fortunately, I see nothing terribly amiss with your shoulder—yet. There is no sign of infection, and the swelling is reduced.”

“The bruising still looks terrible,” Connor said.

“That is a nasty injury, and you must be patient.”

“I shall try.”

Believing she had her emotions under more control, she looked Connor in the eye. “And you mustn't think of leaving until Brother Jonathan gives his approval.”

“Very well, my lady, and again, I thank you for your generous hospitality.”

“We are happy to have you stay.”

“You could lift a little weight with that arm, Sir Connor,” Brother Jonathan noted. “A bucket with some water in it to begin with will be sufficient. Only about a quarter full, and no more. Once that becomes easier, you can add a little more water, and so on.
Again, however, let me counsel patience, or you will do more harm than good.”

“And again, good brother, I shall try. Now I fear I need some help me with my shirt and tunic.” He glanced at her in a way that made her heartbeat quicken even more.

“I'll do that, Brother Jonathan,” she offered, unable to resist such temptation.

Brother Jonathan hesitated.

“I promise I shall be very careful of his shoulder,” she said, not sure if the reason for his hesitation was fear that she might further injure Connor's shoulder, or fear of impropriety in the dispensary.

“Yes, I'm sure you will, my lady,” he replied, obviously reassuring himself. “I shall be only a moment.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to take his time, but she refrained. For one thing, her father needed the medicine; for another, what would Brother Jonathan think? Clearly she could be granted a certain leeway with a half-naked Sir Connor because she had nursed him before, but she dared not sound too keen. That was very difficult when Connor grinned at her.

“I am grateful for your assistance, my lady,” he said, his tone one of absolute respect and deference which might fool Brother Jonathan fussing with his pots, but not her, not with that devilment in his eyes and the fires of passion lurking below their dark surface.

“I am going to put your shirt over your head,” she explained, taking it and standing in front of him, inches from his body. The tendrils of delicious tension between them expanded, wrapping around them in coils of yearning.

He leaned forward as if inexorably pulled toward
her. She eased the shirt over him, taking her time and letting her hands slide over his warm skin. “I shall try to be gentle with you.”

First the top of his head reappeared, then his face. “And I with you,” he whispered.

For a moment, she both hoped and feared he might kiss her right there in the dispensary, until he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and pouted, as if he read her mind and replied, “Not here, unfortunately.”