To Touch The Knight (13 page)

Read To Touch The Knight Online

Authors: Lindsay Townsend

BOOK: To Touch The Knight
4.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“I do.”
“And folk who are too ill to harvest their crops and so starve.”
“I do.”
“And bondsmen tied to harsh masters, and pig-men seeking justice in vain, and farriers and smiths whose tools are taken from them—”
“Which makes the better blade, iron or steel?”
“Steel, but it is most hard to fashion.”
She stopped pacing, staring at him with wide, wary eyes, and he nodded.
“Truly, there are many surprises about you, and many mysteries I would examine.”
“I am no witch to be examined.”
“A gentle inquiry only, Princess.”
The signal he had been waiting for happened. Outside the tent, his squire cleared his throat loudly and now marched in. “Your bath is ready, sir,” he announced, red-faced. “Shall I bring candles and lanterns? 'Tis very dark.”
“We shall need none. Thank you, Edmund.” He offered his arm to Edith. “Shall we, Princess? We may bathe and take our ease under the stars.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You have not seen your gown yet, not in full light.”
“There is always tomorrow,” he said easily. “Do you not relish the thought of a hot bath? I know I do.”
She raised her dark brows.
“You are not alone in owning a bathtub,” he prattled on—he would prattle like a gossip if it won him what he wanted—“We shall be screened and private. Indeed, the evening is now so dim we shall see nothing of each other but our eyes.”
This was not true, of course, not when they would be under the arc of heaven, but it sounded convincing. When she said nothing he took her hand. “Let me serve you,” he said, very softly.
Taking her silence as consent, he drew close and lifted her into his arms, ready to bring her to the bath.
Chapter 18
Confidence is a fragile thing, as delicate as eggshell. Edith knew she was entirely too yielding, soft as copper, but it was beguiling to be cosseted. After what she had seen in the village of pestilence she felt tired beyond despair, craving comfort.
Ranulf was a castle of gentleness. He smoothed off her gown and shift, his fingers like thistledown on her, leaving her head and face veiled for the moment. He tugged off his own clothes in a brutal strip where she heard cloth tearing and eased them both into the warm, dark bathtub.
Supported by the steaming water and his arms, she realized he was sitting on a stool within the tub and she was on his lap. He was aroused, yet he made no move to grab her, enter her.
Her experience with Peter and Adam, her dead betrothed and dead husband, made her ask, “Should I give you ease?” Her own loins burned and ached, but men expected to be given relief. Adam especially had demanded it of her when he was too weary after a day's smithying to be troubled with coupling.
Ranulf in contrast clasped her wandering fingers, brought her hand from the water, and kissed it. “Nay, Princess Edith, maid of my heart, leave my sword. It shall be unsheathed tonight.”
Savoring the “maid of my heart,” Edith tried to interpret his face in the semidark and saw his smile.
“I do want to make love to you, again and again, but tonight is for you.”
“It would please me, too, Ranulf. I want to please you.” Even if their union was hasty and brought her no relief, as it had been too often with Peter.
“Bless you for that!” He laughed and touched the pin of her veil. “May I?”
She nodded and he released the pin, lifting the covering from her head and face and dropping it off into the dark. Before she could speak, his mouth ransomed hers, kissing her lips, her lower lip, her nose, her upper lip: light, sparkling kisses that made her tingle down to her toes. She sighed and he hugged her.
“I believe, in truth, that you know little of this sport, my lady, but never fret. I will teach you.”
“I am a widow. I know plenty,” she protested, afraid he thought her a virgin and so stop.
“Your mate was a smith?”
She nodded, then realized what she had admitted. “He was a prince who had an interest in such things.”
Ranulf brushed his hand along her shoulder bones and lowered his head. “You are naked and in my arms and sitting on my lap. I think the time for lies is past. You are the widow of a smith.”
Distracted by his touch, she said nothing.
“Was he a brute?” Another question and another distracting stroke, this time along her arms.
“He was decent. Why—?”
“Do I call him brute?” he finished for her. “Because it is clear he left you in need and you accepted this as his right.”
“No!” Edith protested, wanting to say Adam had been kind and good, rarely scolding her and only belting her if she was clumsy in the forge. She tried to put her words in order but her tongue was blocked by Ranulf, kissing her anew as he fondled her belly and flanks. His hand and the water made a double caress and his tongue lanced with hers.
“No man has kissed your belly or thighs before, I wager,” he gloated as they paused to stare into each other's eyes. “No man has pleasured you with his fingers and mouth and tongue. No denial, to say otherwise! I see the shine of freshness in your eyes.”
He lifted her slightly off his lap, roughly repositioning himself as if his own arousal was nothing. “Tonight is for you.”
“But what of you, my lord?” she whispered.
If we join, that will be very much for me, too,
she wanted to say, but dared not. She had never been shy before, not even on her wedding night, but then Adam had ordered and she had obeyed, as a wife's duty.
Even without lanterns, shielded as they were from candles or campfires by dark cloths hung close about the bathtub, she saw his smile.
“I do not ride women like chargers.”
When she tried to force herself to quip that it would not matter to her if he did, he added, “You are a young maid in your heart and I will treat you so. Pleasure is to be teased out, Edith. It is a gentle quest to start. And I wager I shall have much selfish pleasure this evening, seeing you bloom in my arms, knowing I have made you squeak and moan as no other man before.”
“I never squeak!”
“You will, Princess, with me.” He squeezed her bottom gently with his large hands, whispering against her ear, “When I have you mewed up in my keep in the north, I will ravish you there as I please. And I shall attend to those many lies of yours.” He flicked her rump, his slap softened in the water, and kissed a twisting line of fiery delight from her ear to her chin. “One day, indeed, I will put you over my lap and smack your bottom very soundly for all your lies, and you will thank me, after.”
In the dimness of the evening, with only the stars as lights, it was easy for Edith to imagine a black tall keep for a black tall knight and herself in the great hall with Ranulf, before a roaring midwinter fire. No light but the flames and Ranulf's men carousing and raising shadowy cups and the hall filled with merrymaking, singing, and noise while up on the dais their master pulled her over his knee and spanked her in the dark, his smacks and her cries covered in the general tumult.
He could tug my gown up to my ears and bare me and no one would know; the great table and the winter gloom would hide us. His hands would be very warm, but my bottom would soon be warmer.
She shivered, unsure if she feared or anticipated the event.
“Princess?”
Returned to the moment, she and Ranulf bathing together, she swallowed. “I am thirsty.”
“I have the remedy.”
She could not see from where he found the wine or cup but soon he was holding a wooden goblet to her lips, saying, “Taste the wine. It is warm and spiced with ginger.”
She sipped, finding the drink hot and sweet and full. “This will make my head spin,” she murmured, catching a glimpse of the pale cup as Ranulf drank from it in turn.
“Cheese and raisins?” he asked, feeding her a dried fruit as she nodded, and then a small morsel of cheese. He kissed her as she chewed.
“Ranulf!” She tried to protest when she could speak.
“'Tis more delicious, filched from your mouth,” he said calmly, ignoring her slap in the water that sent spray over both of them.
“Should we not bathe, before the water chills?” she asked. She wanted them to make love and, at the same time, wished only that this tormenting seduction was over. She trusted Ranulf not to betray her now, but what if he changed in his feelings toward her?
As if he divined her unease, Ranulf began to wash her hair, combing his fingers and then a comb dipped in rosemary-water through the whole, heavy mass. Free of cloths, pins, and ribbons for once, her head felt light and free, and she surrendered completely to his hypnotic attentions, sighing as one of his hands and then the other gently kneaded her scalp.
“Poor sparrow, never to have known this. Can none of your Eastern followers wash a lady's hair properly?”
She did not admit that she tended her own, and she was too warm and comfortable to be annoyed at his pet name, lowering her head when he asked her to and sighing afresh as a warm shower of rose-water trickled over her head.
“You have handsome hair, Edith, brown and shiny as ripe acorns. You should display it.”
“You have pretty hair, too, though 'tis badly cut,” she replied, thinking of his fair-to-russet-to-gold thatch.
He grunted in amusement. “Perhaps you will cut it for me?” He poured the last of the warm rose-water over her neck and shoulders, cupping his hand across her breasts in turn and dripping the liquid lightly on her nipples. Her wet head was now nestled against his shoulder and she moved in toward him, hoping to caress him in turn. In their dark cavern of the bathtub, his lean, long body seemed to glow like molten bronze.
“Leave me for now,” he whispered, his dark eyes intent as he carefully mopped her face. “Tell me of your brother. What was his favorite game?”
“Gregory was always thoughtful. He had little time for games.”
“He could smile, I suppose, this solemn, dour brother?” Ranulf trickled water down her spine, tickling her, almost daring her to laugh.
“He was no such! He loved to sing. He loved to dress up and tell stories.”
“Ah, a dandelion brain, rather soft in his mind.”
“A hardworking man whom others could turn to in times of trouble,” Edith said firmly, and now the living, vibrant Gregory took hold in her memories and she understood what Ranulf was doing.
“You goaded me into remembering him as he truly was,” she said. “Before the sickness took him.”
“That is how he would wish you to remember him,” Ranulf said, “and I know this because you have taught me already, with Olwen.”
Astonishment robbed her of a voice, but he knew what she would have asked and answered. “Dealing with you, Princess, has forced me alive again, and now I find I can remember the good there was between Olwen and myself: the sweetness, as we have here.”
I cannot be so mean as to be jealous
, Edith thought as a burn of dull pain twisted through her middle, followed swiftly by a ripple of pleasure as Ranulf softly brushed a washing cloth along her stomach.
“My brother Michael taught me to swim in our local beck—that is what we call a stream in the north,” he went on, easing his large hands over her flanks as he continued to bathe her. “Michael taught me and I showed Margery, my sister.”
“How is it you are Ranulf, when all your family have names of ‘M'?” Edith found herself asking.
She was rewarded by a chuckle. “My mother, bless her, rebelled when I was born. I think the old man would have called me Mark, but she named me herself.”
“Your father permitted it?” Adam would have belted her for sure for such wifely disobedience.
Ranulf said nothing but lowered his head and tipped up her face. His eyes were a warm dark, interesting as cooling bronze and flashed with crosses of gold: thinker's eyes, builder's eyes, not those of a coldhearted fighter.
“Was your marriage so much a bond? 'Tis no marvel you argue now, with so much locked within you before. But see, a couple can be sweet. Olwen and I wasted too many days on foolishness, but we were snug and sweet at the end, thank Christ.”
God had nothing to do with it
, thought Edith rebelliously, as she wanted to ask Ranulf what had happened to his wife, but all ideas of rumor or the past were blotted out for her. Ranulf swept his hand between her thighs and began to caress her.
All pretense of washing was over. He wrapped his other arm tight about her waist and locked her into the crook of his shoulder, kissing her full on the lips.
“Spices and sugar-cone,” he whispered into her mouth, running his tongue across her teeth and embracing her deeply. His mouth teased and puckered and kissed against hers as his hand feathered and fluttered and circled through her intimate curls. When he brought his other hand to mirror the same caresses on her breasts, Edith moaned aloud.
She was on his lap and felt as if she was flying. Wanting to touch him everywhere at once, she wrapped her arms around his back, pressing herself tighter against his thighs and manhood. His breath stopped for an instant with the impact of her closeness, but then he won control of himself, boosting her up, allowing the water to cushion her, to be a soft, sensual break and link between them.
“So soft you are,” he murmured, gliding his fingers lower and deeper between her thighs, stroking her and swishing the water to stroke her, too. His other hand gently squeezed her breasts, then her bottom, remaining there as his intimate caresses quickened.
Edith tongued his nipples and lashed her wet hair—as well as she could in this dark, molding, delicious lavender-scented water—against his lean belly and flanks. It was all she could do when he endlessly blocked her hands, muttering, “Serve you first. Your pleasure first.”
He circled her bottom slowly with his hand. “Be a princess.”
His other fingers, smoothing, circling, stroking, now entered her, suddenly and decisively, shocking in their power and purpose. Heat and more pleasure rose as one within her as she strained against him, taut with a building release.
“Pretty Princess,” he coaxed, and he kissed her mouth and breasts. “Pretty everywhere. Snug little jewel box—” His fingers mimed the act of love within her, bringing her close and closer.
“Lord!” she gasped. Her feet were off the bottom of the bathtub and she was half floating in the water. She writhed as she tried to follow his tormenting hands. It had been months, months, since she had been with a man, and it had never been like this. “Ranulf!”

Other books

Mind Storm by K.M. Ruiz
Too Soon Dead by Michael Kurland
Hunger by Jackie Morse Kessler
Vienna by William S. Kirby
The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman
On the Auction Block by Ashley Zacharias
Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima