The Angel Knight, page 24
He drew in a trembling breath and raised his head to kiss her lips. “Oh God,” he murmured into her open mouth. “My love, my lady. I want to feel your body against mine.”
She murmured assent, and helped him to remove her gown, pulling it over her head. She fumbled at the low neck of the thin woolen undertunic and slid that over her head too, dropping it with her other gown at their feet.
She was more beautifully made, more delicate, more lush and desirable than he could have imagined. Weeks ago, when she was ill, he had seen her partly nude, had seen her fragile bones and pale skin; she had been a vulnerable, sad thing to see. Now she took his breath away.
The low firelight turned her skin to creamy gold, gave a warm blush to her firm breasts. Her slender body was gently rounded at the hips, her belly flat above dark curls. Gavin touched her reverently, tracing his fingertips over her shoulders, slowly brushing over the sides of her full breasts. Grazing over her hardening nipples, his fingers followed the curve of her ribs and waist and slid down to rest on her hips.
He cherished every part of her with his gaze, caressed her curves and smooth skin with his fingertips. She was a harmony of elegant shapes and textures, ivory and velvet and heaven beneath his hands.
Breathing out a heavy, trembling sigh, he drew her forward into his arms. Brushing back her rumpled hair, tilting her head by taking a handful of her hair and gently tugging back, he kissed her slowly, softly, sensually, until her tongue sought his and her arms circled his back eagerly.
Gliding his hands down her delicately muscled back to the smooth, rounded swell of her buttocks, he pulled her toward him, her yielding center grazing against the insistent hardening he felt. He drew in his breath sharply.
She sighed into his mouth, sighed again, and pulled at the tunic he wore. Impatiently he pulled it off and sent it swirling down to the floor. His own need was strong and obvious, and each moment that passed added to the urgency he felt.
She stepped again into the circle of his arms, her breasts brushing against his chest, warm, incredibly soft, a deep cushion against him. Her heart beat steadily, rapidly against his chest; his own thudded with fervent power.
Bending a little, he fitted his hips to hers, pressing forward until the hard length of him slid between her legs. “My God,” he said, a hushed growl. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her the few steps to the bed.
Laying her down on the fur coverlet, he knelt beside her, their combined weight sinking into the piled feather mattresses, the silky warmth of the fur beneath their bodies offering a sensuous haven.
Leaning forward, his arms on either side of her, he bent to kiss her again, tracing his tongue against her lower lip. He slipped his tongue inside, where she was hot and wet and gentle. Tracing his tongue down her throat, between her breasts, sensing the beat of her heart, he took her nipple in his mouth, a soft, living comfort, and as it hardened so did he, further, stronger, until he thought he would burst with need.
He moved his lips over the ruched bud of her nipple, and captured her other breast beneath his hand. She moaned softly, arching, her hands circling along the length of his back, warm, gentle fingertips seeking, touching, exploring his body.
Rounding over his firm buttocks and sliding across his lower abdomen, her hands slipped upward to touch his chest, feathering through the hair there. His own small, flat nipples grew taut when her fingers found them. He stiffened and moistened and yet held back, insistently held back, wanting to give to her first.
He groaned and took her by the waist and shoulder and rolled over with her, pressing her slender body to his. He tasted her earlobes, her throat, her breasts, touching and teasing and arousing with his tongue. Sliding his hands over her warm, velvety skin, he let his fingers trace lower, still lower, until he touched a fingertip to her moistened, parted cleft, startling a high gasp from her. She arched toward his hand and accepted his touch.
Sighing into her mouth, he led his fingers inward carefully, sinking into hot, yielding flesh as moist and heavy as honey. He kissed her lips as he touched her below, in her most secret heart, all the while holding back his own aching, trembling need. Lowering his head to take a nipple with his lips and tongue, he continued to stroke her heated, innermost folds, as slowly as he could manage, though his fingers nearly shook with the effort.
He savored every tremulous breath she took, every moan she made. Buttery moisture, heat, and his own breathlessness assailed him, threatening his control over his own body.
But he wanted to guide her now; he wanted to wait. She thrashed gently, a warm sweat glistening over her chest and abdomen. And as she discovered the incandescent spark, the gift hidden within her body, he sighed and felt it move through her.
She swayed with the joy of it, undulating against him, her body eloquent. He touched his tongue to her lips and relished the airy cry she made. And then he settled his hips over hers.
Her fingers found him then, grasped around his hardness, her fingerpads smooth as silk over his aching, trembling tip. Her legs parted, her hips surged, and she guided him now, accepting his supple, turgid length into her body. He sucked in a breath and circled her hips with his hands, plunging deep, uttering a hoarse whisper, gasping her name.
Opening, yielding, her body molded over him. He moved, and she did, and he quickly taught her his rhythm, heat and blood and flesh surging. She moved in that cadence with her breath and her body, until her lambent inner heat touched off the spark that he had held back so long.
Like flame blending into flame, creating a brighter light, his body surged into hers, his heart beat with hers, and his joy poured into hers.
Her breath stirred a wave of hair at Gavin’s forehead, but he slept on, snoring softly. She smiled and slid her hand beneath the coverlet and linen sheet, and ran her fingers lightly over his chest. He sucked in a breath and snored on. Christian leaned over and kissed his chest, touching her tongue to his nipple.
Naught; he slept. Frowning, she laid her head on his chest and tried to drift back into sleep in the darkness, but her body remembered the lithesome, incandescent pleasure that she had felt in his arms not so long ago. She wanted to create that bliss again with him. She moved her body beside his, stretched languorously, and, when he did not move, tried to rest.
His heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, his solid ribcage rose and fell beneath her hand. Rain pounded against the walls, harsh and cold, but she was protected here, warm and enclosed with Gavin.
Like sunlight through glass, her spirit felt brightened, illuminated, by love. From the first moment she had seen Gavin, when he had stood outside her cage at Carlisle, she had placed her faith in him. But she had adored a beautiful illusion, thinking him to be an archangel; she had even dreamed when she had been ill that he had an angel’s wings and healing touch.
She smiled at that, thinking it foolish, but only in part: she knew, with some deep inner sense, that his hands made her feel cherished and strong. His touch conveyed a profound love to her, just as clearly as words.
She loved him now, freely and openly. She trusted him once again, certain that he cared deeply about her, and about Kilglassie and Scotland. He had a strong conscience and a courageous heart, for he had survived loss and tragedy and found some deeper wisdom in it. He followed his convictions still, unafraid of threats. Angelic as he might look, he was no illusion. And she knew now that she completely adored him.
“Aingeal,” she whispered. “Angel. I love you.” The words were soft as a breath, the feeling as vital as air.
His hand moved and his fingertips traced along her jaw. Shivers danced down her body when she realized that he had heard her words. She sensed his smile through the darkness.
The first touch of his stubbled chin was harsh against her skin. His lips touched hers, and she looped her arms over his warm shoulders, turning toward him.
“Ach, Dhia,” she whispered, arching against him, wanting to eagerly surrender to the power that she had once resisted in him. Now realms and kings no longer mattered between them; only touch, and joy, and merciful comfort mattered.
“My love,” he said, the words a breath between their lips. “How is it said in Gaelic?”
“Mo ghràdh,” she answered.
“Mo gràdh.” She had never heard it said so softly. “I do love you,” he said. His lips, warm and pliant, found hers, and he spread his strong hands over her back.
“And I trust you,” she whispered against his lips.
“Then show me its greatest measure,” he murmured.
His hands streamed down her body like feathers, soft and gentle, arousing a shiver in her breasts that swirled into her groin. He followed down the curve of her waist and hip, caressing her, profoundly tender.
Touching her mound, his fingers traced slowly over the cleft, raising a tingle there that made her moan softly. She felt herself swell and moisten, and opened further to him. As his fingers slipped inside, his head lowered to her breast, delicately touching her there with his tongue. She sighed, swaying her hips and sliding her hands over his shoulders and back, savoring what he did to her, above and below, with his fingertips and his mouth.
He moved his head to glide his lips down, touching his tongue to her abdomen, kissing her there until she moaned. As he moved down again, she opened even wider on a gasp of surprise. She touched her trembling fingers to the crown of his head, and shivered as she had never done before, crying out his name as an intense wave of heat and lightning shuddered through her body.
Then she shifted and drew him up insistently, settling her hips against his until his hardened arousal slipped inside of her. She yielded to the first thrust he made, cocooning him in her warmth, meeting his powerful movements with her own. As if he were the harper and she the harp, he stroked a strong, beautiful rhythm and she shimmered, resonant and joyful in his arms.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“It will rain again before evening. And worse than the past two days, by the look of it. The wind has a bite like a hungry wolf,” Dominy said, casting a critical glance at the heavy gray sky. “Why you must travel out on such a day, my lady, I cannot understand. Here, Will, stop pulling Michaelmas’s braid,” she said irritably.
Michaelmas poked her tongue out at Will, who grimaced in return. The shaggy pony they shared trudged on through the ice-coated mud and old leaves that covered the forest floor.
“We would all rather be by a hot fire than out here in the damp and the cold,” Christian said as she and Dominy guided their own horses along the forest track. “But it is Friday, the day that Moira expects our visit.”
“This cold air will bring back yer cough,” Dominy complained. “Ye’ll be sick again, and need a warm posset and a tented steam bath later.”
“I will not be sick again,” Christian said patiently, “but I will have the posset and the bath if it will please you. But Moira is waiting for us to arrive, and has promised us some of her stock of heather ale. It is only another mile or so to their croft.”
“Sir Gavin asked ye not to leave this morn. But ye went on about this heather ale until all of us were convinced that it must be finer than the fair-folk could make.”
Christian smiled. “The ancient Picts made this recipe, and a legend says that their last chief died rather than tell the Romans the secret of it. It is made from heather bells and the water of the clearest burns. Not many can make it, and no one does it as well as Moira. She will not say what she adds to it.”
“Hmmph. It is still an ale, and this is a day for hot soups and spiced wines.” Dominy tilted a brow at Christian. “Now, my lady, tell me the real reason we are out here today.”
“What do you mean?” Christian asked sweetly.
“I’ve seen the way ye and Sir Gavin look at each other lately. John said to me just this morn, that a new pair of wild doves had mated and taken roost in the laird’s bedchamber—and he did not mean the feathered kind. Ye’d not go anywhere without Sir Gavin just now, unless ‘twere for some reason that Scots should know and English should not. Ah, my lady,” Dominy said, smiling, “ye blush like a bride. I think it a lovely thing.”
“Mating doves, indeed,” Christian grumbled. Her cheeks grew hot at the realization that her love for Gavin, which deepened each time she saw him, heard him, or felt his intoxicating touch, had become so obvious.
Dominy laughed. “Since only the most dire matter would bring ye away from yer handsome husband on such a day, I think ye should tell me how I can help.” She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. “I think ye’re going out this day to meet yer cousin the Bruce.”
Christian sighed, relieved. “I did hope you would feel that way, Dominy. You are a true friend. It is why I asked you to come with the children. I want the three of you to visit with Moira and the lads today.”
“And where will you be?”
“Fergus has arranged for me to meet with my cousin. I want to tell him the news of his queen and the other ladies who are in English captivity. I am sure we will be able to return to Kilglassie long before supper.”
“Are ye sure this is what ye want to do?”
“My cousin needs to know what has happened to the women.”
“But ye’ve fallen in love with an English knight, who has responsibilities to his king. Sir Gavin would not approve.”
“I know,” Christian said quietly. “But my loyalty to Scotland and to my cousin did not change as soon as I wed an English knight. I told Fergus that I would meet him today, before I—” she stopped and looked away. Before she had lain the past nights in Gavin’s arms, before she had learned the blissful freedom and comfort that came when the fire of the heart was discovered at last.
Hearing a raucous sound in the thick pine trees overhead, she glanced up. Two ravens slid silently past, wings outspread.
“Not a good omen for Scots, I think,” Dominy said.
Christian frowned and turned her attention to her daughter, who yowled as her braid was yanked, and then unceremoniously dumped Will off of the pony’s back.
A little while later, as they rode out of the pine forest, Christian saw the rounded thatched roof of the Macnab house, tucked behind a hill. Beyond that, on another hill, she saw the stone tower of Saint Bride’s church rising through thin mist.
Fergus waited for her in the church, just as Moira had said. But Christian had not expected to see the thirty other men who were standing inside the nave of the simple rectangular building. A few of them glanced at her as she entered, then turned back to listen while Fergus, standing before the altar with its fine white cloth and silver dishes, led them in a Latin prayer.
Leaning against the smooth white plaster wall, Christian glanced around the little church, at the dark timber rafters of the sloped ceiling, at the white-washed walls and the unadorned arched windows. Closing her eyes, she listened to the Latin responses the men gave, but did not murmur the words herself, since she had been excommunicated by the bishops in Carlisle. Even standing inside this holy place was sinful. But she loved the familiar smell of the earthy stone, and felt blessed by the peacefulness within the little church.
Now she waited while the men prayed, and while Fergus blessed them by sprinkling holy water over their bowed heads.
She frowned slightly, perplexed that so many men were here attending a mass without their families. It was a Friday during Lent, but she wondered why they were gathered here.
Turning her head, she suddenly understood. In one corner of the little nave, weapons and armor had been stacked. Bows and quivers, long-handled axes, iron-tipped staves, and jumbled piles of leather and chain mail garments revealed the intent of these men.
Rebels, all of them, and Fergus was blessing them. She was certain that these men meant to join Robert Bruce. Fergus must be intending to guide the new rebels to the Bruce along with Christian.
The men genuflected and began to leave the church, collecting their weapons and passing by her with a nod or a murmur or a shy glance. Many of them were familiar faces, friends, a few of them workmen from within Kilglassie. Iain and Donal Macnab, Fergus’s sons, were among them. She had not seen them since the day she had sat upon Gavin’s charger and faced them across a wide stream. Now they smiled at her and winked, old friends as they had always been.
She looked around then and saw Fergus coming toward her.
“More men for Robert, from Kilglassie’s own farms and crofts,” she said in quiet Gaelic as the last of the men left, and the door shut with a dull thud. “You did not tell me.”
“There are many who are ready to support King Robert’s efforts now. Some of them have lately been dispossessed of their Scottish holdings. Oliver Hastings has been free with his dragon banner of late,” Fergus said. “And Robert Bruce’s small victories around the countryside have given these men faith in his cause. They see now that they have a courageous and worthy king who can defeat King Edward if he has the support of men and arms behind him.”
“We all go into the forest to meet Robert, then?”
“We do. But first, come to the altar.”
“I cannot,” she said, “I am excommunicated. I should not even be in here.”
Fergus smiled and held out his hand. “Come.” She followed him, and knelt before the single step of the altar when he motioned for her to do so.
“The bishop of Glasgow has sent out letters to the parish priests,” Fergus said. “We have been instructed to reinstate any Scot who has been excommunicated for aiding Robert Bruce. The Scottish Church will not let the souls of his friends fall into jeopardy.” He raised a little silver bell in his hand and began.
As Fergus intoned in Latin, Christian bowed her head and listened to the sweet ring of the little bell. She felt that her soul was safe on earth in Gavin’s care. Now she was infinitely glad that heaven would guard her and welcome her prayers once again.
