Conqueror (30 page)

Still standing a foot away, he trailed his fingertips up one side of her body, from hip to arm. It was like a sudden gust of fire, the faint testing of a lion’s claw, restrained and dangerous and only the start. He shifted his hand to the front of her body and did the same long, possessive sweep up, belly to breast. Her body unraveled as if it was uncoiling, her spine arching, her chin coming up, her head dropping to the side, her lips parting, her breath hot and slow.

Griffyn watched her, expressionless. But inside he was burning. His hardness pulsed and demanded release. In her. Slowly, as if he were offering communion, he pressed his thumb to her lips. She opened her lips a fraction wider and ran her teeth across his skin.

He clamped the back of her spine and jerked her to him. “Do you remember what I did to you before?” he asked roughly. His tongue flicked along the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, “At the inn?”

He felt her nod.

“I’m going to do it again.” She sighed, a small, desperate sound. “And more.”

He swiftly unlaced her gown, his fingers flying over the tattered silken ties, then pulled it over her head. Dropping his hand under the collar of the chemise, he scooped the cool weight of her breasts into his hands, pulling them over the top of the thin fabric. Her skin was cool under his hot hands, and he tore the flimsy fabric open from neck to knee, leaving the temptress’s body exposed for his pleasure. Creamy skin, midnight silken hair, lush curves, ripe for a man’s touch, and small red buds puckering, awaiting him.

He went down on his knees. He ran the flat of his hand across her straining belly and up to her breasts until she arched back, pushing out to him. Encasing her hips in his hands, he pushed her back into the wall, hard. One hand roamed her body freely, running down her leg, behind her knee, up her silky inner thigh. The other hand held her hips tight against the wall. She put her head back, her eyes closed. But he wanted her to watch. Watch what he was going to do to her.

“Look at me, Raven.”

She dragged her face down. Dark hair streamed in rampant curls around her slender shoulders, down to her hips, and her heavy-lidded green eyes invited him to push her further. Her red lips were parted, her chest heaving, and her fingers slowly entwining in his hair.

With his elbow he nudged on her inner thigh, coaxing her to open for him. She did. She parted her legs with him kneeling at her feet. He slid a hand under to cup her buttocks. Leaning forward, he ran his tongue along the hot, wet seam of her womanhood.

Her body bucked into his deft hands. “Griffyn, no!”

He clamped his palm harder and pulled her forward. He licked again, pressing the tip of his tongue in a little further.

Her fingers clenched in his hair. “Oh, no,” she moaned, but this time her hips pressed forward, into his touch. His. Surrendered. Dizzy with victory, he slid his hand up and glided gently along the hot, pink seam, plied back her folds with his thumb and licked again, the smallest, fastest, tautest lick, right at the apex of her womanhood.

She erupted in a howl of such pleasure he almost spilled himself. He moved in again, sweeping his tongue against her in rhythmic strokes that made her writhe against the wall. His hands gripped her hips while he licked at her and whispered, asking her questions she couldn’t answer, speaking forbidden words of desire against her flesh, driving her to a mindless state of craving, her body quivering beneath his touch. Small helpless whimpers and moans slipped out of her passion-torn body, hot, wet breathy things.

He spread her apart with his fingers and nuzzled deeper into the hot, slippery cave of pulsing pink flesh. Her strangled cries and pleadings grew louder. Licking and stroking, he let one, then two, fingers slip inside. Spreading her legs further, he stroked her with a third. She flung her head back so hard it hit the wall, her fingers restlessly tugging in his hair, a whimpering-wet goddess of passion.

Another slippery, pressured push came from his fingers deep inside, and Gwyn felt something start building in huge wakes. It shuddered in a slow wave through her womb, her legs, her head, her everything. It snaked in wicked ribbons up her back and down her legs and pushed at her, rolling her towards some cliff.

She arched her head back and wound her fingers more tightly in his hair.
“Oh, Griffyn.”

“Does it please you?”

Her gaze was locked in his as he ran his tongue across her again, and nudged his thick, wet fingers up inside her further, curling them at the tips.

“Ah, Griffyn, aye…
aye
…” she howled in a throaty cry as the pounding wave crashed and exploded and rocked her inside out. She fell and fell and tumbled into a river of such perfect pleasure she almost died. It was everywhere and everything, rampaging, wicked redemption.

Griffyn watched her come apart. Her head was thrown back, her face contorted in pleasure, her body shuddering against him in helpless spasms as she cried his name over and over, her wetness sliding against him, her fingers tugging helplessly at his hair, and she shuddered down the wall in a frenzied, moaning heap of kissing, panting, furious femininity. He could barely get his arms around her as she kissed him and sucked his lips and raked her nails along his back, wild and wanton and perfectly woman.

Somehow he dragged them to their feet and pushed her onto the closest object, which praise God was their bed, he thought dimly, because he’d have taken her in a water trough if that had been nearer.

He pushed her onto the mattress and knelt over her, ripping off his clothes. He lowered himself, stretched out over her, and ripped open the thin linen shift he hadn’t got off before. Then he rested one elbow on either side of her head.

“You’re mine,” he whispered hoarsely, and closed her nipple between his teeth. Her breath exploded out of her as he flicked the nub with his tongue, still clenching it gently within his sharp teeth. He flicked again, harder and faster, his teeth an erotic danger just shy of pain, and she shuddered off the bed, up into his arms.

It was exquisite torture, holding her there, vibrating halfway into rapture. He released her breast and nipped a searing path down her belly and back up to the other, sucking her whole breast into his mouth while sliding his hand down her leg. He cupped her knee from the underside and bent it, pushing it out and down towards the mattress.

“Now the other one, Gwyn,” he rumbled, licking a path of wet heat up her neck to her ear.

Her breath exploded out of her, around a heated whisper of his name.

“Spread your legs for me,” the masculine growl came from beside her ear.

Her breath exploded out of her. She bent her other knee and let it fall down towards the mattress. Now she was nothing but open territory.

He positioned himself between her trembling thighs. “You are mine,” he growled again, then thrust into her. It was a single, slow, determined onslaught. Her tight, slippery sex closed around the length of him, pulsing and pulling him in deeper. “Mine.”

“Aye,” she panted. “Yours.”

He thrust again, another long, slow penetration.

“Griffyn,” she moaned, her head twisting back and forth, her eyes half-closed in drugged lust. Her body rocked into his, her hips thrusting up and down, her nails bit into his forearm, returning his damaging passion measure for measure.

Their lovemaking was as fierce as anything Griffyn had ever known, battle or rage or fear. Occasionally their lips crossed one another, but mostly it was a hot, hard thing, their union more about possession and being possessed than tender affection. It was a damaging rhythm.

His head lowered, his forehead almost on her chest, he surged into her again and again, filling her, pushing her wide. Her panting became rhythmic, her thrusting hips more fierce. Release barreled down for him. He plunged deeper, pushing higher. Suddenly she froze.

“Oh my,” she whispered.

He lifted his head. Her green eyes were locked on his. He smiled.

Inside of Gwyn, something shivered free.
Oh, thank-you-God, that fine, perilous half-smile. He is smiling at me again.

He pushed in further, lifted his hips and tilted himself up. A shower of sparks sprayed across her back and belly. It surged up the back of her legs. Again he moved inside her, deeper, probing into something….

“Oh, Jésu,” she cried out.

His dark head was thrown back, the muscles in his neck taut, and when he moved this time, his palm was wrapped around her hip, holding her up as he pounded into her, and her body exploded. She shuddered upwards in stunning eruptions of fire, her womb clenching and releasing of its own accord, her muscles joined with his in an ancient dance. She howled her pleasure to the sky, to his ears, chanting his name. The earth shuddered beneath her, shaking her down to her bones, and Griffyn was above her, suddenly roaring her name too, driving her onwards further until the pleasure became an exquisite pain and she screamed and reveled in the shudders of her body as it exploded again and again, wasting her.

It felt like forever they lay there, reeling. Her head was awash, whirling and harmonized. The blood was roaring in her head and Griffyn’s uneven breath was close by her ear. He was lying atop her, collapsed on her, but his weight was not oppressive, but comforting. He smelled musky and warm, and she knew a sudden, intense experience of belonging she’d never known before.

“Can you breathe?” His muffled voice drifted through her hair, warm against her neck.

She tightened her hands around his waist. He pressed his lips against her neck and said in a pleasant low rumble, “I think, mayhap, we can make this work.”

She laughed sleepily.

“When do we start having babies?”

She chuckled again, and hugged him tighter. “Yesterday.”

“Too long.”

For a while they spoke in soft murmurs, speaking of simple things, small nothings, favourite places and childhood friends. Sleep crept in and they closed their eyes, bodies entangled in their sweaty embrace, and they fell asleep that way, never moving apart.

She woke up screaming.

Griffyn was rolling for his sword before his eyes were open, but he quickly realised the sounds came from Guinevere, who was sitting bolt upright in the bed. He reached over and pulled her to him.

“Hush,” he murmured into her hair, right by her ear, a calm, intent sound to bring her back to consciousness. The screaming and flailing subsided, but her body stayed as rigid as a door post. “’Twas but a dream. Hush,” he said over and over. Finally, she looked up.

“Oh, Griffyn,” she whispered. “’Twas terrible. I dreamt of Papa.”

Freeing one arm, he pushed a grip of pillows to the headboard. He tugged her over and onto his lap, so she sat between his thighs. She leaned against his chest.

“Tell me of them.”

“The dreams?”

“Aye.”

She peered up from between a few locks of her tousled black hair, her eyes saturated with fear and sadness. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“H-he came to me,” she said, tears catching her voice. “He is always so pale, and without strength, lying there barely conscious. Like a wraith.” Her voice was becoming flat and ephemeral, her words rote and dream-like. “His face is turned towards me, his eyes open as wide as they are able, staring at me. I keep seeing those images, at his last moment, clear as if they were before me now.”

“But they are not, Raven,” he said in a firm but gentle tone. He rubbed his hand across her shoulders and arms, pulling her back. “You are here now, with me, and ’tis over.”

She looked at him blankly for a second, then nodded. “You are right. But, I keep hearing him.”

“What does he say?” he asked, soothing her, trying to calm her fluttering heartbeat against his chest.

Her eyes were bright with tears in the moonlight. She swallowed. “‘Wud guh,’” she repeated the eerie sounds. “‘Wud. Guh. Saw.”

She shook her head in confusion. “It was all so slow and laboured, I could not make the words out, just sounds. I have thought about it a hundred times, but they never mean anything.” She balled her fist and hit it lightly against the bedcovers. “Then he said ‘vayyy,’ and carried the sound out.” Her brow furrowed. “As if it were a chant or something. Then his voice trailed off, and that was the last thing he ever said to me: ‘Vay. Sal.’ Then he died.”

Griffyn went still. She must have detected the change in him, because she looked over. “Do you know what it means?”

He shook his head, but his arms had tightened reflexively when he’d heard the last phrase.
Vay. Sal.

Vessel.

“Was that all, Gwyn?” he asked carefully.

She nodded miserably. “That was it. Even the priest gave Extreme Unction while he was benumbed. For years he barely spoke to me, then, there at the last, that is what he came up with.”

She straightened herself on his lap more comfortably, and he moved his arm unconsciously to support her. His head was spinning as he tried to focus on her fear and grief, rather than on the first hint he’d had of the treasure’s existence at Everoot. So something
was
here. What chance Ionnes de l’Ami would speak of a ‘Vessel’ on his deathbed, if there was not something real to be spoken of?

He kissed the top of her head. “Can you sleep now?”

She nodded, but he tightened his arms when she would have slipped off his lap. “Tell me of such dreams when you have them again.”

She sighed. “I am sorry for the nighttime vigils you’ll be forced to keep.”

He kissed her forehead, then her nose. “I do not mind. Tell me if you recall anything else your father might have said.”

Wary surprise filled her eyes. “You would hear what my father had to say?”

He shook his head. “The power of his words will go if you speak of them, that is all.”

She nodded, but tears started filling her eyes again. “I do not think they will ever leave me. They have haunted me for so long already.”

So, he pulled her down beside him and made her forget the whispered words of a dying man. Later, as she drifted off, she murmured in his ear, “I will tell you anything I remember, Griffyn.”

He turned onto his back, hands behind his head, and lay awake for a long time, his mind turning. How likely was it that Ionnes de l’Ami had believed in legends too? How likely that he had shaped his life, then ended it, intent on a lie?