Gayle Eden (15 page)

“He will do well. There is none here better, save his brother, and they do not enter against each other.”

She nodded and glanced at the young man. “Check every buckle and brace on armor and saddle, Beroun.”

He laughed and nodded. “Now you sound like the wife of a knight. Today is more an elimination; things do not get tense until the final combat.”

“Aye,” she said, but was bracing herself. She was afraid it would be Ryngild and Pagan, and she did not trust the Baron.

Once seated high in the Gallery, Illara was half-aware of the stares and whispers that were aimed at her. She blocked it out of her mind and found herself measuring every Knight who came into her view. It began a long afternoon and early evening of tension while the events occurred and the jousting commenced.

When torches were lit, a wave of voices, sounds of awe and gasps swirled around. She realized that Pagan was entering the field. As Pagan did so. Her heart lodged in her throat. She came to her feet without realizing it and watched as that stallion reared and pranced, anxious to get on with the feat. The knight in black, her knight, was magnificent. That she had kissed him, touched him, and knew of his pain, made the sight of him all the more moving.

The razzing and heckling typical of spectators was almost deafening. Pagan’s opponent was in silver armor with plumes on his helm. She thought it was likely one of the knights he wanted to face. They made their round of the arena and she observed the flowers showered on the knight by giggling maids.

Her gaze found Pagan as he approached, and though she promised not to distract him, she wished that she could—

Before she could finish that thought Illara realized Pagan had paused below and that his helm was turned toward her. She made her way down without remembering to, and when she could see his eyes, she smiled.

Pagan made a slight movement with his head and she noted the crowd had quieted, every eye was on them. Illara leaned over the wall enough so that he could reach her. His gauntlet covered hand did, and she took it in both of hers, bowing her head to place a kiss upon it.

Gasps echoed around, but Illara reached into her sleeve, withdrew a gossamer scarf, and tied it on his arm with the hand holding his shield.

His helm tilted in a bow.

She said though he could not hear, hoping he could read her lips, “Be victorious, my beast.”

It seemed to Illara afterwards that Pagan went through opponents so swift that evening, that she lost track of names, provinces, and titles. At the close of events for the day, he had risen in the list and left more broken lances behind than the warhorse did hoof prints.

She wasted no time in hurrying for the tent, although she knew Pagan would not let her enter whilst he was being stripped down. When she arrived, Randulf was inside with him. She could hear the pride in his voice as he helped his brother strip.

After awhile, he poked his head out and barked for Beroun, who was ready with pails and soaps and a length of toweling.

She sat on the bench studying the campfires, hearing music and laughter, clamor, from the brightly lit castle as entertainment and guests feasting and drinking commenced.

Randulf emerged and told Beroun, “Clean the armor well and go over every buckle. The saddle was gouged, and I want that strap checked over.”

“Yes, Sir.” Beroun nodded. “The horse—”

“I will see to it, tonight.”

Beroun did not enter until summoned, and after an exchange, he bathed and dressed Pagan. He departed on some errand.

It was dark, and Illara had paced to the end of the tent again when her husband stepped out, fully covered in a long cloak.

“Randulf had food sent to his tent for us.” Pagan offered his arm and she took it, smelling the scent of his warm skin and leather, the herbs from his bath.

They entered the crimson tent, divided into sections with long silk covers. It was opulent and meant to display Ronan‘s standing. There were prizes piled in the corner that he had won in other events.

Pagan led her to the benches and makeshift table. He poured wine into silver goblets and sat down.

They ate and drank. Illara assumed she would be babbling, gushing over his success, but all she felt was a hunger, a need to hurry through the meal. Apparently, Pagan had the same idea, for as soon as she was through, he stood and offered his hand. They went out into the night, Illara only half-attending crowds, horses, performers, and strident laughter.

She sighed as she realized they were headed down the slope, toward the walled gardens. He did not lead her into them, but used the shadows, turning her around, so that she was against them. Pagan leaned down and kissed her. He was intense, silent, almost trembling with taut desire.

It was in its own way frightening and exciting—more exciting—since his emotions were translating into passion. Illara moaned, slipped her hands inside his cloak, trying to touch some part of him and finding his thin linen shirt would have to do. She rubbed her hands over his muscled chest and sides, while he kissed from her jaw, back to her ear. Pagan whispered, “You smell and feel wonderful, Illara.”

She was kissed over and over before his hands found the tie of the bodice and unlaced it enough to pull it down and free her breasts. He lifted her, leaning into her, and she into the wall. He laved and suckled them, worrying her nipples until they were wet and quivering, raking his teeth over the tips.

Her hands on his shoulders, she rasped, “I need you inside me.”

Pagan made a rumbling sound in his chest, but lowered her and switched their positions. He brought her down with him, as if they were merely sitting on the ground kissing, but his hand slid under her hem and up her thigh.

Breathing ardent and heavy, too fast, Illara bent her knees, giving him the freedom to touch her damp sex, then crying out faintly against his shoulder as he did so, thrusting in and out with his finger, chafing the aroused nerves. She moved to the cadence Pagan created, aware of how wet she became with each layer of arousal, hearing her breathing scuttling against his cape-covered shoulder.

“I want you. I want you…,” she whispered, mindless, craving a climax, but needing more, his full sex, stroking her.

Pagan nudged her back and kissed her, saying against her mouth, “Do you think you can ride me?”

“Yes.”

When he withdrew his hand, she helped him with his lacings and fisted his fully rigid and hot sex, before he assisted her to her knees. Pagan sat her as before, her cape around her body and skirts pushed up as she eased over the head of it.

He was breathing vigorous, his hood pressing into the wall and his fingers flexing on her nude hips. “If ‘tis too deep, tell me.”

It was different, but not too deep. The position filled every space inside her sex with his, as it contracted, his swelled completely. She sat unmoving a moment, pondering how to ride him, before he began to move and lift her, helping her stroke him while gloriously stroking her too.

Illara flexed her hips and found the rhythm so that Pagan could raise one hand and massage her breasts and she could lift and lower, circle her hips, and give to them both, the utmost pleasure.

It made it doubly passionate. Since she could sense his struggle for control and see his teeth bearing down on his lower lip.

“Find your release, Pagan,” she moaned. “I will be pleasured either way.”

He did soon, sexily holding her hips and flexing his own up until he was shuddering in climax. They lay against each other until his heart decelerated. Pagan handed her a cloth to cleanse herself of seed, then as she stood, he remained sitting, and pulled her toward his mouth.

Illara braced her hand on the wall over his head, the other holding up her skirts. He parted her nether lips and rasped his tongue over that bundle of nerves. Pagan was by turns ravenous and gentle. He curled his tongue over the sensitized flesh, and then suckled softly. He lifted a moment and sank his finger into her, using his thumb to brush the responsive skin between the lips, and after that went back to his tongue play.

Illara’s legs trembled before the climax overtook her, hearing his moan, which was pure masculine satisfaction that he’d had brought her to it.

He held her on his lap, across it for a while. They let the distant sounds filter around them. He rubbed her breasts and massaged them, and she cupped his scarred nape, soothing it occasionally.

After an hour or so, when the dew and fog was thick, he began kissing her again. This time, Pagan lifted her in his arms and held her body and weight completely, whilst his sex was inside her. His back to the open and their bodies hid by his cape, Pagan was strong enough to go slowly, to make it erotic and tense. Their breathing was the only sound they heard.

Illara wrapped her arms around his neck, her eyes closed, and legs around his hips. His wide palms on either buttock, Pagan moved their bodies sensually, until holding them tightly together, he climaxed. Afterward, he carried her to his tent and they lay spooned on his bedding, drifting off to sleep.

* * * *

Illara awoke with the first light, rising on her elbow to see the hazy image of her husband through the veil that separated the quarters. He was on his knees, the sword she now knew was forged from his father’s, was in his hands. Pagan chanted in Latin. The book open and setting on a trunk before him.

She had a feeling he was not masked, but his long hair slid forward, covering his face. His body nude, though the veil of cloth revealed only the faintest outline of great height and tanned brawn. He was a beautiful man, she thought, and would do so even should she never see him in the light or fully in the face. No shroud could hide the sculpted hollows nor the mounds and divisions of sheer muscle that shaped him. He was passionate with her, and gentle by turns, but an intense man—a lover, who gave as much pleasure as he took. One who reveled in both their completion.

She eased up silently and drew on her cloak, gathering her clothing and needed items, and slipping out. A mist of fog hung over the grounds and combined with camp smoke. People stirred while she found her way to the canopy that served as a makeshift stable. Beroun was not at the wagon and had likely gone to fetch food for Pagan. She saw a pail of water and a cloth sitting there, and made use of it, behind the screen he had hung up in front of his pallet. Afterwards she dressed.

The blouse was black silk with an inch collar that Lylie decorated with gold and red embroider. A corset piece fit under her breasts, to her hips, in crimson and of leather with black ties. The breeches she donned were suede, the hide leggings over them, and boots, a supple black with silver brads at the top under her knee. Sliding her daggers in them, she braided her hair and put on the leather cape.

They would leave directly after the Tourney. She would help Beroun get the horses and wagon packed and ready.

When she emerged, there were more people stirring and servants preparing food or purchasing what they could. Lads ran with water in all directions, and squires led horses around, some being groomed, others still with oat bags on their faces.

Illara went to the tent and sat on the bench, glancing over as Pagan stepped a little out, shrouded in the cloak, and wearing his mask. His gaze went over her and she could see his smile.

“How are you?” She asked anxiously.

“Do not be anxious for me, Illara.”

“I cannot help it. It has nothing to do with your skill. I know what this means—”

He shook his head then glanced around, as if to remind her that people were about, then Pagan waved her to him.

She went, staring up into the mask as he cupped her face. He murmured, “You will enjoy London and the winter fairs. Are you looking forward to seeing Thresford also?”

“Aye, but--Perhaps it could wait till spring.”

”No. Beroun will journey back to Dunnewicke. You and I will go on, and there is no great hurry—we can take rooms.”

She felt warmed inside and out. “I’ve nothing against tents and the outdoors.”

“It has its….excitement, but also has its limitations.”

She wet her lips.

Pagan leaned down and kissed them. As he was raising his head, he murmured, “We have scarcely slept the night as man and wife. There is much that we have not done.”

Illara breathed, “Now I will be thinking on that the whole of the day.”

“Good.” Pagan laughed low. “It will stop your needless worrying.”

However, it did not.

There was too much tension in the field and Gallery. Throughout the day, it was obvious that Baron Ryngild was in a livid, reckless, mood, and that his moving in the ranks was to get the chance to face Pagan de Chevel.

There was something about the way he studied Pagan all day that troubled Illara—

Servants from the castle were roaming about the tents the night before, a few lingering around Pagan’s. She had heard Beroun expressing some concern about their watching, loitering near both tents.

Randulf, as Ronan of Duhamel, was obviously showing himself in support of Pagan. He had an equal attempt at the Baron but had bowed out in favor of Pagan, which caused a stir. Illara had that knotted, queasy, feeling in her stomach that this was more than a joust for the Baron too.