Medieval Ever After (146 page)

“And if he responds?”  Athelyna was not certain, but she supposed she might dread his active participation even more.

“Enjoy thy benefits as a wife.”  Isolde arched a brow.  “Believe me, thither art worse things in this world.”

“That is a matter of opinion.”  She collected the light repast and trudged through the snow, back to her tent.  When she slipped through the flaps, she discovered Demetrius garbed and waiting at the small table.  “Good morrow, my lord.”

“My lady.”  As she neared, he stood.  “I could have fetched my own food.”

“Ah, but it is my duty to tend thy needs.”  She rolled her shoulders and prayed for calm, because she was about to make her move.  “Art thou hungry?”

“I am, indeed.”  How handsome he looked, in his black breeches, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tunic, which only intensified his silvery eyes.  After arranging their meager feast, she faced him.

Time suspended, as she studied his angular cheekbones, high forehead, and thick black hair.  Isolde was correct.  Thither were worse things in life than sharing the world with a man as beauteous as Demetrius de Blackbourne, and he was Athelyna’s husband.  He was hers.

Framing his jaw, she perched on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

For a few seconds, he did naught, and her confidence faltered.  But then he rested his hands to her hips, shifted, and brushed his flesh to hers, and she could have cried.  Slowly, so as not to frighten her shy spouse, she parted her lips and prodded him with her tongue.  At that point, everything melded into some unfamiliar but enticing sensation.

Gasping for breath, she separated from him, but the reprieve was short-lived, as he took control of their sweet exchange.  New and tempting emotions blossomed, and she gave herself to the alluring experience.  Fire simmered in her veins, obliterating her hesitation.

And then Demetrius broke their oh-so-sumptuous interlude and set her at arm’s length.  Before she could say anything, he took two steps back, reached for a chair, bent, missed the seat, and landed on the ground.

Well, that was definitely a sign.

DEMETRIUS

CHAPTER SIX

The sun sat
low on the horizon, as Arucard signaled the caravan to search for a suitable camp for the night, and Demetrius scanned the area, assessing various advantages in the surrounding terrain.  Nestled in a blanket, asleep in his lap, Athelyna rested against his chest, and he took care not to disturb her as he heeled the flanks of his destrier and rode ahead of the line.

A sennight had passed since they wed and departed London, and while he presumed they would form no lasting bond until they reached Chichester, and perhaps anon, it had become apparent his bride had other plans.  And much to his surprise, from him she garnered no complaints or opposition.

Fascinated by and obsessed with her lips, he craved the gentle kisses with which she favored him at every turn, to the extent that he could not sleep without first indulging in her tender caresses.  A thousand times more succulent than his cherished brewets, and far sweeter than a sambocade cheesecake, his wife presented temptation such as he had never known, and he seemed powerless to resist her.

So he bowed to her lead and constructed no defenses, not that he needed any from the weaker sex.  But she won his regard with a singular devotion to duty and an uncanny conjecture of his every necessity.  Indeed, whatever he required, she presented the essentials before he could voice a request, and her ability to service even the most minute demands, sans argument, unnerved him, because she left him with no reasonable justification to hold her at a distance.

“Hello, my lord husband.”  As he gazed upon her cherubic countenance, she cupped his cheek and drew him close.  “Thou art lost in thought and dost appear too serious.  Mayhap I should not intrude on thy reflection, but I would claim what I am owed, after I brought ye a lovely meal this morn.”  And she covered his mouth with hers, as she hugged him about the waist.

In the past, the elementary practice struck him as a rather mundane ritual, as a welcome or a farewell, innocent in nature, often with a much-cherished parent.  So when his bride employed the habit, he anticipated an innocuous exchange, a harmless action born of duty to foster fellow feeling.  That was not what he received, in return, especially when she mingled her tongue with his, as she did just then, and his arse still smarted, along with his pride, from that initial connubial activity.

As always, his one-eyed dragon woke from slumber, and he shifted in the saddle, given the discomfit of unyielding leather.  But thither was something altogether humbling about the trust his bride invested in him, as she relied on him to protect her, without reservation, during their journey, and he loved holding her in his arms, almost as much as he treasured her habit of twining their fingers, when they strolled the encampment.

“Art thou comfortable, Athel?”  When he employed the name Isolde devised, his lady squealed with unmasked delight and nipped at his neck and ear, which left him clenching his gut against spontaneous release.

“I am always warm in thy embrace.”  She smiled and glanced at the sky.  “It grows dark.  Are we to stop soon?”

“Aye.”  In that instant, Demetrius spied a glade sheltered by a thick copse of trees, which he counted a fortuitous distraction, and he waved at Arucard.  “Thither looks hospitable.”

“Halt.”  Arucard drew rein.  “Let us break our journey hither, and make haste to set up the tents, with additional anchors, as the winds art strong, and it appears we are in for another rough night.”

“If thou wilt put me down, I will construct the kitchen with Isolde, that I might feed ye.”  Once again, she pressed close, chest to chest, kissed him, and slid from his grasp.  As she reached the ground, she slipped on the snowy surface, lost her balance, and clutched his ankle.  “
Oh
.”

“Careful.”  Before he realized he had moved, he leaped from his mount and held her upright.  As usual, she leaned into him, their hips bumped for the briefest moment, and he traced the gentle curve of her jaw.  “I should be vexed if thou dost injure thyself.”

“Thou art my hero.”  When she nuzzled his palm, his loins erupted in flames, and he gritted his teeth.  “Now I must cook something special, to express my appreciation of thy gallantry.”

“Then I should construct our temporary dwelling, that we might dine in comfort.”  For a scarce second, he maintained his calm façade, but the beast raged, and Demetrius could not ignore the call of his body.  But what could he do about his problem?

“Thou dost tarry.”  Arucard smacked Demetrius on the back.  “I have dispatched the men to prepare thy quarters, and we should secure the horses.”

“Brother, I need thy counsel on a private matter.”  Demetrius checked the immediate vicinity, as he would not air his difficulty for the delectation of his fellow knights.  “And I am loathe to bother ye, but I cannot endure another night of such suffering, as I fear I might devolve into madness.”

“Art thou ill?”  With a countenance of genuine concern, Arucard studied Demetrius.  “What is it?  Thou canst tell me anything.”

“When thou first married Isolde, and prior to thy consummation, did ye fight a losing battle with thy anatomy?”  He glanced left and then right.  “That is to say, did ye wrestle with an uncompromising and downright unpredictable man’s yard?”  Painful silence rode in the wake of his query, until Arucard broke and surrendered to a series of guffaws.  “Never ye mind, and forget I asked.”

“Wait.”  With a final snicker to which Demetrius might have taken exception, had he not required his friend’s assistance, Arucard peered over his shoulder and then shuffled his feet.  “Tell me the truth.  Hath thy one-eyed horse become unusually high-spirited and blithe since ye wed Athelyna?”

“Thou dost grossly underestimate my pain, as it is the worst torment ye can imagine.”  Demetrius struggled with the affliction at that very instant.  “Indeed, I could bounce groats off my man’s yard, and I know not how to subdue my most insouciant protuberance, as it seems to have a will of its own.”

“Brother, I do not have to imagine it, as I survived it, myself.”  Arucard rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “And the early hours proved particularly traumatic, as I often woke with an unwelcomed surprise in my braies, such that Isolde once inquired as to whether or not I had an accident in our bed.  Believe me, it was the loneliest, most humiliating campaign I have ever fought, but thither art ways to relieve thy anguish.”

“How?”  He flexed his thighs in anticipation of relief.  “What can I do to ease the tension?”

“I suggest ye embark on a stroll in the woods, far enough from the encampment to ensure solitude, and then ye should take thyself in hand and choke thy fire-breathing dragon.”  Arucard chuckled.  “And in the morrow, when thy capable wife fetches thy morning meal, make quick use of a fortuitously placed brazier and see to thy needs in thy shelter.  Trust me, it is a great way to start thy day, it is the only thing that keeps me from ravishing Isolde, it will do the same for ye, and ye will thank me.”

“Art thou certain?”  The prospect rattled him, as he had no experience in the questionable behavior.  “Forgive my ignorance, but I know not whither to begin.”

“Thither is not much to the practice.  Just polish thy longsword.”  Arucard shrugged.  “Given thy circumstances, which I suspect art dire, else never would ye have broached the subject, thou dost require no skill.  Yanking thy Franciscan monk’s bald head, back and forth, a couple of times should prove successful and alleviate thy discomfit.  But if thou dost have difficulty, just envision thy wife’s visage, pretend she dotes upon ye, and that should suffice.”

“I cannot believe how far I have fallen, in search of some sense of normalcy in this game called marriage.”  The company constructed the quarters with remarkable effectiveness, which seemed the perfect opportunity to make his move, so Demetrius dipped his chin, disregarded Arucard’s mock salute, and trudged into the thicket.

The ice and snow presented a hazardous trail, amid the coppice, and twice he lost his footing and almost ended up on his arse.  But at his rear the voices dimmed, so he chose a spot shielded by a large oak.  After a quick survey of the area, he removed his gloves, untied his breeches and braies, and drew forth his stout and stubborn man’s yard.

A cool breeze had him tightening his buttocks, and he shivered as he initiated the deed.  To his chagrin and consolation, on the second tug of his firm flesh, he found completion, and his seed burst forth in rapid-fire spurts that left him gasping for breath and leaning against the tree for support.

Thither was a time when he would have considered such behavior forbidden, as the church frowned on the practice of self-gratification.  But Demetrius harbored an ugly secret, which he shared with no one.  Not even Arucard, Demetrius’s closest confidant, knew of the foul reality.  At some point, someone would discover his game, but he would not reveal it on a whim.  Instead, he concealed the truth, and it festered deep in his soul.  For a moment, he stared at the sky and heaved a sigh of relief, as delicate flakes danced on an ever-strengthening gale, so he righted his clothing and returned to the encampment.

“Thy accommodation is secured, Sir Demetrius.”  Grimbaud Van Daalen, one of Arucard’s most trusted lancer’s, dipped his chin.  “I spread a rug, lit thy brazier, situated thy table and chairs, and set up thy bedframe and mattress.”

“Thank ye, sirrah.”  Demetrius locked forearms with the guard.  “Thou art a good man, and I wager thou art eager to see thy wife and newborn son, upon our arrival at Chichester Castle.”