Rise of the Defender (73 page)

     “Thirty-five years,” he said.

     Her eyebrows rose.  “You are? You are old.”

     He laughed. “You say that because you are
only nineteen. Thirty-five isn’t so old.”

     “I shall be twenty on the first of
December,” she told him. “That seems old to me.”

     “Your birth-day is coming soon,” he said
thoughtfully. “I am glad you told me. We will have a fine party for you.”

     She shook her head, grinning shyly.  “Nay,
no party. I do not want a party.”

     “And why not? Every young lady wants a
party,” he insisted.

     She shook her head firmly. “No party,
Chris. I would simply like us to spend it together, at Lioncross.”

     His smile faded. How could he promise her
that when he wasn’t even sure where they would be tomorrow, much less a month
from now? But that was what she desired and he would not deny her.

     “Anything you want, sweetheart,” he said
softly.

     She put all of the items into the bowl and
carried them back across the room. “When is the day of your birth, Chris?”

     “April,” he said. “The seventh.”

     “Good,” she said, setting the paraphernalia
down. “I will always remember that.”

     He shook his head. “Birth-days are of no
consequence. They simply remind us of how old we are growing.”

     She came back over to the bed and prepared
to sit on it when she looked down and saw how dirty her surcoat was.  She
hadn’t noticed or cared until this moment.

     “This is ruined,” she said softly.

     He glanced at the surcoat, feeling his
fatigue and pain catching up with him. “No matter,” he said softly. “We shall
have more surcoats made, as I promised. But I do like the color on you.”

     She reached around and undid the stays, and
the surcoat fell to her feet in a billowy swish of silk. She kicked the surcoat
into the corner and removed her slippers and stockings, gazing at the pile with
disturbing memories. She wondered if she would ever be able to wear deep blue
silk again.

     Distressed once more, she turned away from
the mound of clothing and opened her mouth to speak, but promptly clamped it
shut again when she saw that Christopher had fallen into a deep, exhausted
sleep. Silently, she tip-toed over to the bed.

     He did indeed look like a young lad with
his clean face. She smiled as she delicately touched his blond hair, running
her hand down his smooth cheek. She had fairly forgotten just how full and
sensual his lips were, lips that made her feel more wonderful than anything on
earth. Her fingers traced the granite-squareness of his jaw, glad that the
beard was off because it had covered the gorgeous deep dimples in his cheeks.

     A shudder ran through her when she realized
just how close he came to death. Tears threatened her again, but she fought
them off, telling herself firmly there was no need to cry anymore. He was going
to be fine.

     Tenderly, she kissed his cheek and went to
her wardrobe to retrieve another surcoat. She donned a pretty pink surcoat with
a braided brocade rope that hung around her hips and pulled her hair back to
the nape of her neck and plaited it into one thick braid. She had seen a woman
in the grand dining hall with her hair plaited in such a way and decided it
looked very pretty. Sans hose, she put on her slippers and exited quietly into
the antechamber.

     Marcus was there, standing by the window as
if in a daydream.  He turned around when Dustin entered the room.

     “How is he?” he asked.

     “Sleeping.” Dustin glanced around the room.
“Where is everyone?”

     “The melee is about to start,” he said.
“Everyone is down at the arena.”

     “They are competing after what happened to
Christopher?” she said angrily. “What of Sir Dennis? Is he able to compete?”

     “Aye, he is.” Marcus wasn’t the least bit
happy about it. “It would seem that David and the others have a score to settle
with the man and they would not be deterred.” 

     Dustin looked long at him a moment. “Why
didn’t you go, too?”

     “Because someone needed to stay here with
you,” he replied.

     She sank wearily into a chair and curled
her feet underneath her. “It is unfortunate that Christopher cannot kill the man
himself,” she said. “If I were Chris' size, I'd don his armor and pretend to be
him.”

     Marcus looked thoughtfully at her a moment
and she picked up on his line of thinking, shaking her head. “You will not do
it, Marcus. You cannot fight with your arm.”

     “I was able to defend you yesterday,” he
said. “I can handle a sword with my left hand fairly well.”

     “But Christopher hurt his left shoulder,”
Dustin pointed out. “Do not you think that someone would notice, particularly
Sir Dennis?”

     “I doubt anyone was paying that much
attention,” Marcus replied, glancing over at Christopher’s discarded armor and
tunic. “Besides, Chris and I are about the same size.”

     “He’s taller than you,” she said flatly.

     “Not by much,” Marcus insisted. “He is six
inches over six feet, and I am nearly five inches over six feet. What is an
inch or so?”

     “You weigh more than he does,” Dustin told
him.

     “Ten pounds or so,” Marcus said. “With a
helmet on and all that armor, who will know the difference?”

     “I will,” Dustin said softly. “I won't
allow you to, Marcus. If something were to happen to you, I would die of guilt.
Now sit here and keep me company and let us hear no more talk of the melee.”

     Reluctantly, he complied, yet thinking it
wonderful to have her all to himself for the afternoon. It was almost as if
they were a normal, married couple sharing a quiet day together, and for a
brief few moments, he allowed himself the fantasy.

     Later on that night after the sun had set,
Dustin went into the bedchamber and lit the tallow candle by the bed.
Christopher was still soundly asleep, snoring softly. She smiled and gently
touched his hair, turning to remove her surcoat. The surcoat, shift and
slippers ended up on the chair and she dashed to the hearth to stoke the fire
before sliding into bed, nude, beside her husband. He was warm and she was
freezing as she snuggled up against him. Even in his sleep, his arm went about
her and she pressed close against him and wallowed in his heat. She wasn’t
particularly tired and found herself running delicate fingers over his
magnificent chest, feeling his soft skin and smelling his musk. She forgot he
was asleep as she played with his nipple, making it peak just as he hardened
hers. Curious, she stuck her tongue out timidly to taste it.

     Christopher let out a groan and his eyes
opened drowsily. “Any more of that and you will kill me,” he said huskily.

     “I am sorry,” she reached up to stroke his
forehead.

     “So am I,” he replied. “Were I not so weak,
I’d throw you on your back and make love to you until the dawn.”

     A slow smile crept onto her lips. “Why must
you always make love to me? Why cannot I make love to you?”

     His eyes blinked slowly and then he smiled.
“You can, if you wish,” he replied. “But I can do naught to help you.”

     She was feeling brave and sat up on her
knees, her beautiful body bathed golden in the candlelight. “Then do not. Just
tell me what to do.”

     He sighed, his eyes closing briefly. “Do
what feels right, sweet love,” he said. “Do what tastes good, what makes you
feel good. Do what I do to you.”

     She smiled, running her hand up his
bandages to his unwrapped chest. “As you say, sire,” she whispered.

     She started at his neck, kissing him
softly, running her tongue over his flesh, suckling his earlobe until he moaned
with frustration. She delighted in his massive chest, kissing and licking him,
working around the bandages and loving every moment of it. The terror of the
day was still with her and her movements and actions were her way of telling
him how glad she was that he was still alive, and still hers. And he understood
every word.

     She straddled him and her mouth, her hair,
caressed his lower abdomen, below the bandages. Her tongue invaded his navel
and he shuddered, the fingers of his good hand entwining in her luxurious hair.
Her mouth went lower and lower and he felt her hot little hands timidly grasp
his huge organ.

     “Does it hurt if I hold you like this?” she
asked.

     He lifted his head weakly and looked at
her, her hair was wild, covering her entire body and her lips were red and
swollen. If he could have managed any one feat at that moment, he would have
taken her in his arms and bed her until she fainted.

     “Nay,” he rasped. “It feels wonderful.”

     She looked down at his throbbing manhood,
running her hands up and down the length of it. “Can I kiss you there?”

     “Please.” He lay his head back down on the
pillow, anticipation filling him. 

     The very moment her hot lips touched him,
he thought he was going to spill. But he restrained himself with every ounce of
strength, feeling her become bolder by the moment.

     “Dustin, do you know how I put my tongue in
your mouth?” he whispered. “Pretend that my organ is my tongue.”

     “Put it in my mouth?” she asked with
surprise.

     “If you wish to, then do it,” he responded
quietly.

     She put her mouth around him, uncertainly
at first, but with growing confidence as she moved her tongue around him,
running it under the ridge of the head. He stifled a moan as she plunged her
whole mouth down on him and drew up slowly, sucking him hard.

     “Christ,” he shuddered. “I shall explode if
you do that again, sweetheart, I swear it.”

     She grinned, arrogant with the power she
held over him. “Do you like it? Truly?”

     “Truly,” he whispered in response, never
more sincere in his life.

     So she did it again and again until he
yanked her hair roughly, pulling her up. They were breathing heavily with want,
sweat already coating their bodies as Dustin crawled over him, bringing her
lips to bear on his again, kissing him wildly. His hand was still entangled in
her hair as if to never let her go.

     With eager, shaking hands, Dustin grasped
his massive shaft and straddled him, slowly lowering herself onto him as she
had done once before. As slick as she was, it still took her two tries to
completely embed him within her tight little body and they both released moans
of pure ecstasy.

     As weak as he was, Christopher had never
felt more pleasure and his explosive release came within seconds. Dustin,
however, was still in full passion and continued to move up and down on him,
relishing the fullness of him within her. She could feel herself building to
her peak when he reached down and manipulated her taut bud of womanhood
expertly, bringing her to climax in a burst of stars.

     When her cries of pleasure ceased and her
body went as warm and weak, she fell beside him and cuddled up to his musky
body. He cradled her tightly, wishing he could do more than simply hold her
against him.

     “Did I hurt you?” she asked softly.

     He was so weary and relaxed he was very
nearly asleep. “Nay, sweet love, you did not. ‘Twas a thoroughly miraculous
experience, one I hope to repeat nightly. Go to sleep now.”

     She squirmed against him a moment longer as
she got comfortable, finally sighing with contentment. It was a beautiful end
to the most harrowing day of her life, but she was willing to put it behind her
as long as Christopher was safe and in her arms. Within minutes, she was in a
deep, dreamless sleep.

     Christopher felt her go entirely limp
against him, so desperately tired yet not quite able to fall back asleep yet.
What Dustin had done to him, with him, was still in his mind and relived it for
a moment. Her hands, her mouth, her incredible body lingered in his brain and
he considered himself so unbelievably fortunate to have her. 'Twas but one more
reason to be loyal and grateful to Richard, had it not been for the man’s
insistence, he would have never married Arthur Barringdon's daughter.

     Dustin snored softly in her sleep and he
smiled, caressing her with his right hand. “Dustin?”

     She was asleep, unable to answer him and he
knew it. Yet his feelings for her would not be stopped and were brimming to be
expressed. She could not hear him to know precisely how weak he was and,
somehow, he felt safe with the knowledge. And terribly cowardly.

     “I love you,” he whispered, stoking her
soft arm. “More than life, sweetheart, I love you.”

     Dustin snored on into the night.