What would it hurt? That one toe rubbed in a slow pattern up and down his calf, weaving its path through the springy hair that coated him from ankle to knee. His knee, she discovered, warranted closer examination, first with her toe, then with her foot. Her sole was sensitive, and worked in partnership with her toes to sample the rougher, more flexible skin above the joint. Now she had one whole foot on him. This wasn’t so difficult. The other foot joined the first, tucking itself between his leg and the mattress, and his marvelous simmer set it tingling.
No sin, she argued with herself, to climb a little closer and melt more than just her feet. Her skin was overrun with goosebumps, and it seemed the closer she inched to his heat the more insistent the chill outside the covers became. Her linen chainse protected her from skin-to-skin contact. Truly, she was only a little wicked. And he was so big and warm. She toasted like a piece of day-old bread before his fire. First her upper leg reached across his thighs, then the other leg pulled up tight against him from thigh to calf. She eased her chest close against his arm, and the sensation endowed her with the courage to close the gap completely.
Then she lay motionless. His snores had diminished in volume if not in regularity. His breath ruffled her hair now, sultry in the frigid air of the room. It seemed pleasant to be so close to him. In fact, it was delectable. She wallowed in this contrast of cold and heat, of pure animal comfort, and hard palliasse below with rough blankets above. It seemed unfair, somehow, that her chainse separated them so completely. She couldn’t really feel him, missed the sensation of skin against skin, but when her hand went to the drawstring at her neck, her temerity dissipated. She had to snuggle, she told herself, because he loomed so big he hogged the covers. But she couldn’t justify nudity, even to her rationalizing mind, and her hand fell away.
She ran her hands over William with a tentative touch. Tonight was a time of joy, of celebration, of exploration.
She’d never been able to touch him before. She’d never been granted the freedom to read his face and body, and now…ah, now.
She pressed her palms against his chest. His heart throbbed there, his chest rose and fell in a wonderful example of robust respiration. Taking her braid in her hand, she pulled it up so it wouldn’t tickle him, and laid her head down. Beneath her ear she could hear the rasp of wind and the thu-thump under his skin. Irresistibly, the hair of his chest titillated her cheek, and she turned her nose into it. He smelled like no one else. His dunking in the creek had cleaned away the sweat of the fight, and he smelled golden.
Isn’t that the way Maud had described him? Golden. To Saura, golden was the scent of an autumn day, redolent with dry cut hay and crackling leaves. It was the satisfaction of plucking a flower she had planted, the stimulation of velvet beneath her fingertips and the growth of a skein of yarn as she twirled it off the distaff. Golden was the sun caressing her face on an afternoon nap in her garden.
William pulsed below her, and his golden scent rose up in waves of intoxicating spice. She rubbed her face along his chest, seeking the source of his fragrance, but it seemed his zest lay both defined and elusive.
Leaning herself against him, she explored his face with meticulous care. His neck grew from his shoulders in one decisive column, muscled as surely as his arms. Stubborn resistance sat on the square of his jaw, but he disguised it with his clipped beard. His nose she couldn’t read; it had been broken so many times its creator’s original intent was undecipherable. His ears she found pleasure in: small and well placed, tight against his head. She swept her fingertip through the whorls and down the lobe, amazed at the existence of such a refined feature on such a virile man.
It seemed her action disturbed him, for he muttered and coughed, his breath coming in a gust, and she jumped back guiltily. She dislodged the covers as she sat up, and she listened to the sounds within the castle. A deep hush saturated the room; only now did it occur to her that he no longer snored with his hearty rhapsody. It had died into normal exhalations as she touched him. Thinking back, it seemed she hadn’t heard those snores of exhaustion since she had first inspected his chest.
He settled with a sigh, and she sat without moving until she was sure he drifted deep into slumber. At last, she shivered in the chill draft, and her need for warmth overwhelmed her wariness. With painstaking care, she adjusted the covers until she leaned into him again. She should sleep, she should forget the urge to discover his face, but her hands trembled as she ignored her own strictures. His eyes sat deep below the bone of his forehead, his bushy eyebrows accentuated the contrast. His broad brow elucidated his strength, his hair shifted through her fingers like fine-textured sand.
She knew what he looked like now. Now she could see him, now she had defined the lines of his face for her mind. Shaped from the workman’s chisel, the whole was the sum of the parts: strong, compassionate, refined, determined.
Her curiosity satisfied for the moment, she rested her head against his shoulder and found her hand rubbing his chest in a circular motion. Did he enjoy such tactile stimulation as much as she did? Her lips brushed him, propelled by some primal desire, and her tongue traced the cords of his neck. Savoring his provocative flavor, her mouth traveled down his chest into the jaunty nest.
The tips of his hair thrilled her hands as she delicately pursued its outline up in a triangle to his shoulders. His collarbones extended to a width she had never imagined, and she sat up hastily and compared them to her own. Her collarbone she spanned easily with her fingers: his stretched a full four fingers more. Eagerly, her hands went back and discovered evidence of a break, well healed but still evident to her trained touch. Massaging the breadth of his shoulders from neck to arm, she marvelled. He had so many muscles! They rippled his skin like the grain of a well-honed oak beam. His skin felt smooth as a baby’s, until her fingers stumbled across the scars and ridges that celebrated his livelihood. His arms were powerful, his hands huge squares of authority. His fingers surprised her: long, blunt tipped, but sensitive.
Hands were important to her, the mirror of the soul, and his hands told of his kindness and control, his temper and his majesty. She lingered over his hands, pleased by her findings, but at last she could resist no longer.
Following the path she had already taken, she verified her findings. William was big, a mass of muscle and coordination worthy of the title “knight.”
But more than that, he was a man, and her seeking fingers slid down his chest, down his rippling belly, down the line of his hair. A maiden’s curiosity drove her; irresistible temptation was not to be resisted.
Saura jumped when her hand connected with his organ. She hadn’t expected such a fire and firmness. She thought of all she had been told about the mating of humans, and she shook her head. “’Tis not possible,” she said aloud.
“I assure you, it is,” he rumbled beneath her ear.
So startled she forgot to be embarrassed, she jumped, screamed just a little, and released him.
He laid his huge hand on her head. “More than possible, I’d say ’tis mandatory.”
“What do you mean?” She held her voice steady.
His hand stroked her hair back from her face. “Just what I said.”
“How long have you been awake?” Cautiously, she eased back from him.
“Don’t move,” he ordered. “This justifies my use as a warming pan.”
She froze, so chagrined she blushed to the tips of her toes. “I hoped you hadn’t noticed.”
Her arm rested against his stomach, and so she felt the convulsion of muscle as he struggled against his laughter. His fingers shook against her forehead and he dropped his arm. “Noticed? That you used me as a warming pan or that your hands were on me?”
“My hands….” She blushed again, for saying something so incredibly stupid.
It was a long moment before he spoke, and then his voice shook and jerked. But he kindly ignored her bêtise. “I’ve been awake since that first dab of your frosty toe against my leg. Every ma
n should wake with a block of ice placed against his leg. ’Tis a great deal of pleasure you’ve given me, although not,” he chuckled, “from your feet.”
“Why didn’t you speak?”
“You were enjoying yourself.”
That made her sit up straight. “And you weren’t?”
His hand clasped her shoulder and eased her back down on the palliasse. “So much. Saura. So much.”
She lay there stiff, shamed by her previous boldness, and he settled beside her. One muscled arm wrapped under her neck and the other wrapped around her waist, and he cradled her so close against him that his breath regulated hers. He just held her beneath his chin and warmed her.
The tenseness slid away, leaving enormous contentment. When she cuddled her head into his chest, his hands began a slow tugging at her braid.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I like the smell of your hair,” he rumbled. “I like the silkiness of it, and I want it loose when I love you.”
She tried to stiffen again, but his heat had crept into her like a narcotic, and her muscles no longer responded to shock. “You can’t love me,” she said, but the protest sounded languid.
“’Tis the reason you came to bed with me,” he reasoned.
“I was cold.”
“And the reason you woke me with your icy feet.”
“I wanted to warm them.”
“And the reason you rubbed me when your chill didn’t wake me and kissed me when your rubbing didn’t wake me. You wanted me awake, and functioning. Weren’t you interested in my lips?”
“Your lips?”
“You felt every other part of me.”
“Not your legs,” she objected indignantly.
“I stopped you before you got that far,” he pointed out.
Miserable, she realized she couldn’t justify her curiosity about his body with the obvious explanation that she was blind and had never seen him. He still had no inkling. If he thought about it at all, he thought she walked and worked and moved with the confidence of a seeing person. Flattering, but difficult to explain.
“My lips,” he prompted.
“Lips are for kissing, that kind of deep kissing that men enjoy, and I didn’t want….” Her voice trailed off, lost in the muddle of explanation.
“Who gave you such a low opinion of a man’s kiss?”
“Sometimes the visiting gentry would kiss me, in jest, of course, and sometimes my stepfather tried.”
“Pigs.” He spat the word. “But those are not kisses. We shared a kiss once, don’t you remember? Has no one else kissed you correctly?” His hand followed a similar path to her own, petting her brows, sliding down her dainty nose to her two quivering lips. “Has no one taught you the pleasure brought by the meeting of male and female in the nectar of a kiss?” He caressed her cheek with one finger. “Has no one brought the rose of paradise to your cheek with the glowing seal of a kiss?” Has no one brought you the taste of delicious strawberry?”
“Sounds like an outdoor pursuit to me,” she said with acid emphasis.
He laughed and squeezed her. “What a humbug you are! Resolutely unromantic, truly the character of Lady Saura, sour with the lack of love. But I lay here as an enchanting elf cuddled me, and I remembered the innocent maiden who wrestled me in the bath, and kissed me, and brought the taste of strawberries and roses and nectar to a man lost to the joys of life.”
“That kiss was different. You surprised me.”
“Ah. Will I never bring you pleasure unless I surprise you? Then I’ll sneak up on you.” His lips touched her ear and slid around to peck her mouth. “Or swoop on you.” He smacked loud kisses on her chin. “Or kiss you like an inexperienced boy.” He put his mouth on hers and ground them together, huffing in a parody of passion until she laughed. “And then kiss the smile on your face,” he whispered against her lips, “until you open for me willingly.”
His intent shifted so subtly that she did as he said. She opened for him willingly, his tongue brushing her teeth, then her tongue. It bore no relation to the attentions of other men, and she wondered, for the first time, if what they had done to her had been less a kiss than a rape. Perhaps William was right, perhaps a kiss between a man and a woman required the correct ingredients to make the dish complete.
She tasted him again, as she had done before, but a different flavor rolled across her tongue. Stronger, more manly, clarified by his breath and emphasized by his tongue. He pressed against her now, body to body, making her aware of his manhood, and she broke the kiss.
“I still don’t think,” she sucked in air, “that ’tis possible.”
“We’ll make it possible.” He began to rise above her, but she pushed him back.
“But you shouldn’t. You were hurt today.”
“Aye, my head aches, but not as badly as my—” He stopped short. “Pardon. That word isn’t appropriate for a lady’s ears.”
“You needn’t be delicate. I know what you mean, and I promise I have heard every crude word in the Norman language.”
“All the more reason to be delicate. I swear, you’ll never confuse me with the other men in your life.” His breath came lower, whispering across her face. “What happened today cannot impair me. The danger of our circumstance, past and present, can only add flame to our loving.”
“Tomorrow might never come.” She completed his thought.
Again he rose above her, and as he untied the bow that held her chainse, he promised, “Tomorrow will come. Only hope will greet us tomorrow.”
The string slipped through its guide, widening the opening until he slipped the garment off her shoulders and kissed them, first one, then the other. “Such a fragile frame for such a fierce warrior.” He raised her hands and held them against his face, rubbing his own beard with them, guiding her to touch his neck and shoulders. “I like that, I like it when you touch me,” he said.
Her hands clung to him, but she felt frightened and odd, intrusive, somehow, and the “fierce warrior” couldn’t find the strength in her soul to please him as he desired. He chuckled, ever so softly, and adroitly maneuvered her chainse until it rested at her waist. “What a delight you are! Blessed with the ripe sweetness of a woman, yet as green and untutored as any girl.”
He made her sound, she realized with bemusement, as charming and pleasing with her cowardice as any courtesan with her wiles.
He gathered a handful of her hair in his fist and raised it to his nose. “Ah,” he sighed, “every wine should have such a fine bouquet.” His big fingers combed through her hair, and began a deep, marvelous massage at the base of her neck. Her head tilted back, baring her neck to his gentle kiss. She had never imagined such riches. Then he massaged her scalp, feeding her pleasure through his fingertips until he reached her forehead and his touch changed to a wisp of curiosity. She recognized the light touch as he outlined her eyebrows, skimmed her nose, caressed her lips. He was reading her face.
Perhaps she was shy as a green girl, but he disguised his need to see her with a lover’s embrace, and his faint reserve endeared him to her as nothing else could. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked, encouragement and pleasure in her tones.
His fingers paused, quivered, traced her cheeks. “A lovely bone structure,” he muttered and cuffed her lightly on the jaw. “And a willful chin.”
Laughing, she stretched as he caressed her shoulders, her arms, her neck. She braced for rough hands that fumbled at her lower body, and his unexpected care left her breathless with pleasure and longing for a more intimate touch, but where?
“I like it when you touch me,” he repeated. “Won’t you show me where you wish I would touch you?”
Again he raised her hands, but left them hovering in the air between them. She flexed her fingers until her sense of foolishness overcame her timidity and she could reach for the muscles of his chest, and with an astonishing lack of coordination, landed on his shoulders. At once his hands found her shoulders and waited, wai
ted until her palms stroked over the joints. Then his palms stroked over her joints. Her fingers slid down his ribs. His fingers slid down her ribs. Her fingers twitched, rushed, twisted, and in a rush found his chest. His fingers performed none of the convolutions, contained none of the hurry, but they floated to their mark with such smooth precision that she suspected he knew where to search.
Conscious thought left her mind as his hands enfolded her breasts. As pure a sensation as she had ever experienced, the press of flesh to flesh unified them in one crystal moment of communion. Her eyes drifted closed, her breath sang out in one ecstatic cry. One perfect moment, complete in itself and promising treasure.
“More?” his voice murmured in her ear.
She nodded in leisurely agreement, whispering, “Please.”
“How?”
Her hands searched for his nipples, buried in the mat of curling hair, and her thumbs rubbed them in a circular motion.
“How straightforward you are,” he marveled. “Most women would prefer this.” Like the leaves of autumn drifting to the ground, his fingers swept and danced across her skin, cultivating the sensitive underside of her breast, complimenting with unspoken admiration. Sensation swelled within her, the reaction of an inexperienced student to the work of a master. She wanted, desperately wanted, his hands on her nipples, but coherence had fled, coordination had fled.
Then he granted her desire, closing on her and squeezing in a light and steady rhythm, and the thinking part of Saura had fled and in her place writhed this sensual being on the pallet.
“Still more?” he asked.
It took three deep breaths before she could stammer, “What more can there be?”
His mouth took her nipple, and every muscle in her body flew to rigid attention. He suckled as she worked her leg beneath him. Then he licked every inch of her breast until she wrapped her legs around his waist in open supplication, and then he repeated the treatment on the other breast. When he pulled away at last, the chill of the room struck her chest, damp with his loving. It brought a little rationality to her mind, a little organization to her thoughts, and she wanted to speak, to beg him.