Twilight Magic (15 page)

He kissed her until her wits scattered, allowing her to feel only the glide of his hands over her tingling skin. Gently, he pet her breasts until she swore they swelled to invite further ministration. Less gently, he cupped her rump and pulled her tightly against his hard, full sex, thrusting in steady, firm strokes against her belly, a foretelling of what was to come.

Skin to skin, breast to chest, legs entwined, she delighted in the wanton sensations. Heedless of all but his powerful passion, of her uncontrollable craving for Darian, she whispered his name in a plea.

“Not yet,” he said. “For days now I have wanted to feel your skin beneath my hands, measure the swell of your curves. I will have my fill of you first.”

“Have mercy.”

The wretch dared to chuckle. “You showed me no mercy, so should expect none in return. Patience, Emma. Allow me to make love to you as you deserve. All will be better for it in the end, you will see.”

He slid downward and drew a taut, tingling nipple into his mouth. The exquisite torture was so appealing she let him have his way, the pleasure too wondrous to demand he cease suckling at first one nipple, then the other.

His lack of mercy didn’t stop there, his hand seeking and then finding the entry to her core. As before, she rose up at his touch, unable to remain unmoving under the gentle assault of his fingers. Her heart thudded in her chest. She could barely draw a breath. The craving grew unbearable.

“Darian, please. Oh, please.”

This time he showed mercy. Finally, he covered her, his weight a welcome burden. At long last he placed the tip of his penis where his fingers had played. Ever so slowly he eased inward, filling her, halting his progress but once. Then he plunged, and a sharp pain signaled the demise of her maidenhead.

She gasped and tightened those inner muscles around the part of him so wonderfully invading her body. He hissed, his breath no steadier or less harsh than hers.

The short-lived pain faded. Her tenseness eased. With the same slow, steady thrusts he’d used earlier, Darian flung her heavenward. Higher and ever higher she flew, until she burst apart in a frenzy of pleasure. Then Darian moaned low, burrowed deep, and the pounding she felt within told her he had found his pleasure, too.

Ecstasy. Rapture. Bliss.

No word could describe what she felt, except perhaps joy. So deep a joy she nearly cried from the wonder.

She raked her fingers through his long, sandy hair, then ran her palms along his broad shoulders which glistened with sweat. The thought occurred to her that he’d shown himself no mercy, either. Darian could have plunged into her much earlier to satisfy his own needs. Instead, he took the time to pleasure her, to show her how coupling between a man and woman didn’t compare to that of a stallion and mare.

And for a short while, perhaps a mere few weeks, this incredible man was her husband, her lover.

He’d become her lover, but not the lover of her vision. Truth to tell, that didn’t bother her overmuch because that meant they would couple again.

He rose up on his elbows, staring down at her with a tender expression, but no smile graced his mouth.

“Was it what you expected?” he asked.

“ ’Twas all I had envisioned,” she assured him.

And it had been—in only one way less, but in others so very much more.

Chapter Eleven

A
nxious to be away, Darian grabbed his cloak from the peg. “Rose stays here with you. I am not sure how long I will be gone.”

Emma tossed a hand in the air. “You allowed the hound to accompany us so she could guard your back on the docks. I shall bolt the door behind you, so I have no need of her.”

The woman could be stubborn, and convincing—only look at how he’d surrendered to her reasoning and abundant charms last night. This morning, he was determined to stand his ground.

“I did not allow Rose to come with us to guard me, but you! Rose stays here.”

Emma crossed her arms over her breasts, bunching the chemise she’d put on before eating the bread and cheese he’d brought up after taking the hound out for a necessary walk. Emma’s thin, white gown hid none of her ample, lovely attributes, and even now, after a tempestuous, pleasure-filled night, her curves tempted him to return to bed and banish the irritation on her pursed lips.

Which was why he must leave the room before his wits took flight again.

“I need no guard,” she stated.

“Nor I, particularly in daylight. If you have need of aught, inform the innkeeper and I will settle with him later. I will also inquire about other inns where you might be more comfortable.”

She glanced at the bed, where they’d spent little time sleeping last night. “I do not remember being discomfited.”

He hadn’t lacked for comfort, either, too captivated by Emma to notice the lumps in the mattress or the heat from the brazier dying. Not until very early this morn, when the enthrallment lifted, had the enormity of what they’d done hit him hard.

“Tonight you sleep alone, whether in that bed or another. What I allowed to happen last night cannot happen again.” He pointed at the wolfhound. “Guard.”

Then he was out the door and down the stairs before he again allowed his enchantment with Emma to overcome his resolve, leading to another wondrous bout in her bed.

If he must, tonight he’d sleep in the large upstairs room lined with pallets among the other male patrons, as he should have done last night, giving over the private room to Emma and Rose. He truly had planned to sleep on the floor, but Emma’s seduction caught him off guard.

Hellfire, he’d barely put up a fight.

To worsen matters, irritated by his weakness, he’d decided to take her harshly and fast, with no more consideration than a stallion did a mare. Except he hadn’t been able to remain aloof and detached. He couldn’t take his pleasure without ensuring hers, too. The woman wasn’t a whore to be taken lightly, but a noble lady, one he found appealing in far too many ways beyond her supple, alluring body.

Darian traversed the narrow, smelly streets of London, wondering again why Lady Emma de Leon wanted to fornicate with a foreign-born mercenary, a man of peasant stock.

With Darian of Bruges.

God’s blood, he couldn’t be the only man in the kingdom she desired enough to take to her bed, as she’d said. Apparently she simply hadn’t met enough men of her own rank. Whether peasant or noble, all males came similarly equipped and able to put a sword into a sheath. Well, most of them anyway.

And how unreasonable for his stomach to churn at the thought of Emma allowing any other man into her bed. Darian might be her husband, but wouldn’t be for long, and so he had no right to feel possessive. While she was his wife, he would take care of her and ensure her sheltered and fed. Afterward, she would again become the responsibility of the king, who could do with his ward as he pleased. Perhaps he’d marry her off to some minor noble who would overlook her family’s taint for the price of a dowry.

That was the way the world of the nobility worked and it wasn’t his place or his desire to interfere with that world’s customs.

He found himself married to a noblewoman only because Emma had interfered in
his
life, and in the five days since that momentous event, he still hadn’t figured out why she’d felt compelled to rescue him that ill-fated morning in court.

Wanting him in her bed surely wasn’t enough reason for her to risk so much. She might truly believe him innocent of de Salis’s murder, but to further lessen her standing with those of high rank, and set aside her opportunity to help Nicole. . . . Something wasn’t right.

She
must
have a deeper reason for her actions. He just didn’t know what it was. Yet.

The stench of fish slapped him, turning his attention to his whereabouts in time to join what seemed like half of London’s populace intent on crossing London Bridge.

Save for a few ferries, the wooden bridge served as the town’s only means of crossing the Thames. Shops lined both sides of the bridge, making easy passage at this time of day nigh on impossible.

Darian shouldered his way through the throng, at times catching glimpses of Southwark, where Bishop Henry resided in Winchester Palace and collected fees from the stews he could probably see from his bedchamber window.

Winchester’s geese—the harlots of his brothels were sometimes called—had made the bishop a wealthy man.

As did the rents and fees from the wharf. Tall-masted, seaworthy ships vied for space with long, flat river barges. Crusty sailors mingled with harried merchants, none of them with empty arms, both loading or unloading cargo. In came goods from distant lands, out went English wool. Most of the wool went to Darian’s native Flanders to return months later as cloth.

The cries of the fishmongers clashed with those of women selling flowers or apples or meat pies. Gulls and terns flapped and circled overhead, ready to swoop down for the scraps the stray dogs and cats might miss. Beggars raised their cups for alms. Nimble-fingered, sly street urchins harassed the unwary.

Having decided he would begin by finding the informants he’d been drinking with on the night of de Salis’s murder, Darian entered the dockside tavern where he’d left Hubert and Gib in the wee hours of that disastrous morn.

His sight adjusted to the dark interior, where instead of fish he smelled sour stew and stale ale, and the pungent odor of too many men packed into too small an enclosed place. Familiar scents, almost welcoming. In such places he belonged.

He moved through the crowd, recognizing a few faces, not seeing the two he sought.

“Darian,” a man called softly from a table near the hearth.

Philip.

Black-haired, short of stature, and garbed in brown, Philip blended into his surroundings. If Darian hadn’t recognized the voice and turned precisely toward the source, he wasn’t sure he would have spotted his fellow mercenary.

Darian slid onto the bench. “William told me you were making inquiries. You should not have. This is my problem to solve.”

Philip shrugged a dismissive shoulder. “The earl gave you leave to return?”

The earl would likely be irate when he learned Darian had left Hadone, but that was a problem for later.

“I could not stay away. Have you found Perrin?” “Nay. He is not in any of his usual hideaways. I even inquired at the Clink. Nothing.”

The Clink was no more than a cellar in Winchester Palace, where the bishop’s soldiers housed drunkards, debtors, and whores the bishop deemed worthy of confining. That Perrin wasn’t there was good news, indeed.

“What
have
you learned?”

Philip smiled. “I have learned how tight-lipped men can be when frightened, that every man has his price, and the more one learns of that morning’s events, the more confused one gets.”

The first two lessons Darian had learned long ago. “What confuses you?”

“Come with me.”

Darian followed Philip out the door and down the street. He didn’t ask where they were going, because he had a feeling he knew.

Philip pointed into a narrow space between two buildings. “This is where de Salis’s body was found. According to what I hear, a sailor found the body and raised a cry. That would have been shortly after you returned to the barracks.”

Darian shook his head. “So I am supposed to have run into de Salis on my way out of the tavern, killed him, and shoved him in here? I would not have killed him in so public a place. Nor would I have left my dagger.”

“Aye, well, I am also told Bishop Henry happened to be passing by, saw who’d been killed, and became agitated. Naturally, the bishop’s guards hauled de Salis’s body away.”

The hair on the back of Darian’s neck itched. “What the devil was the bishop doing strolling the streets at that time of morn?”

“No one knows for certain. I talked to no one who will admit to witnessing the murder, or even knowing someone who might shed further light on what happened. Everyone is being very quiet, out of fear, I think. And there is one more confusion. Look around, Darian. See anything unusual?”

The space between the two wooden buildings was barely wide enough to contain a body. All Darian saw were bits of straw, a scrap of old netting, and the ever-present mud. “Nay. Why?”

“If a man was murdered here, one would think there would be blood spilled somewhere.”

He saw no dark puddle. No splatters on the buildings’ walls.

“In five days the rain might have washed it away. Do you suggest de Salis was killed elsewhere and then put here for someone to find?”

“Probable, I would say.”

Darian glanced around, sure that someone on the docks knew more than he was telling. But who?

“I should see if I can find Hubert or Gib. They likely followed me out of the tavern and might have seen something.”

Philip took a deeper than normal breath, his eyes narrowing. “It took me two days and much coin to find out who you were spending time with, and where. That is why I happened to be in the tavern. Hubert and Gib have disappeared, too, Darian. No one has seen either of them after they followed you out of the tavern.”

A chill seized his spine. “Like Perrin, they must be holed up somewhere. All I have to do is find them.”

“Or they are dead.”

Or they were dead.

Emma stared at the hound, who insisted she must go out
now.

“Darian should be here shortly. He would be most displeased if I step outside, even with you to guard me. Can you not wait a bit longer?”

Rose whined in answer.

And Emma knew she might be wrong about Darian’s return. He’d stomped out at early light, and it was now nearly time for nooning. Making Rose wait on Darian seemed absurd. Certes, no man in his right mind would come near her with a huge wolfhound at her side. And if the man wasn’t in his right mind, Rose would deal with him.

Besides, she would only be out a few minutes and Emma wanted to talk to the innkeeper anyway. Darian might not even know she’d been out of doors.

Still debating, Emma opened the shutters and leaned out to look at the yard below. Two men passed by in earnest conversation, paying no heed to an idle stable lad leaning against a fence post. All seemed very quiet, a good time for a brief outing.