The Promise (18 page)

She jerked and tried to rise.

“We must not,” she breathed, making one last attempt to stop the madness she knew had to end before she gave him her body and her heart.

“We must…” he murmured, and pushed her gently back down. His hot gaze flowed over her, exciting her almost as much as his touch. She turned her head away from its unbearable intimacy, and he lowered his mouth to her ear.

“We most definitely must,” he rumbled. He leaned over her, watching her response, then trailed moist, hot kisses over the tender skin of her neck, coming back to flick his tongue into her ear. She gasped at the dual invasion of his tongue and finger and writhed against his hand, moaning helplessly. He moved in small thrusts inside of her, widening her passage and coaxing slickness from within. He bit down lightly on her earlobe and she cried out, her body pulsing around him in response.

“Too much …” she gasped, trying to hide from this passion, to withdraw from her terrible need of him. He shook his head.

“Not enough. Not nearly enough,” he murmured, and slid a second finger inside her. Her hips arched, and still inside, he pressed down with the heel of his palm, grinding it in infinitesimal circles against her mound. Her hips lifted off the bed, pursuing the delight. She clutched at the blanket, then clutched at him, begging him to finish her.

His eyes glittered with intensity but he took his time with her, though she could tell by the faint tremor in his body and the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw every moment cost him an agony of unfulfilled desire. Finally, just when she felt on the brink of pure ecstasy, he pulled his hand away.

“Oh, no!” she cried, bereft at its absence.

“Oh, yes,” he said, and moving atop her, slid his sex inside her body and his tongue into her mouth.

Any more thoughts of denial fled when she climaxed. He thrust hard against the current of her release, riding it out, pushing into her with enough force to shake the moorings of the little bed they lay upon. It groaned and creaked with every powerful thrust. Vaguely, she wondered if it would survive the night or whether they would have much explaining to do to Father Andrew in the morning, and then she stopped thinking entirely when she crested on the brink of another wave. She gripped his buttocks with both hands, pulled him hard inside her, and bit his shoulder to stop from screaming as she climaxed beneath him once more.

He bucked and plunged, shuddered, grunted her name while he shattered in her arms. The harsh rasping sounds he made seemed to come from his very soul, and she had never heard anything more erotic. It brought her once more to the edge, but she trembled there and did not go over again, though he thrust inside her one final time, his muscles locked with tension.

She kissed his neck, his chest, stroked his body, held him until he collapsed against her in a heap of sweaty, sinewy muscle. His breath rushed past her ear in heavy, drawn out gusts.

She kept stroking him, murmuring meaningless words to him in her native tongue, flights of fancy to bring him back to her. She shifted beneath him, yearning for him, clenching her inner muscles against the semi-rigid length he still held inside of her. She did not mean to demand more of him, but she could not prevent the movement of her hips against his.

Finally, she felt him growing hard within her again. He levered himself up and stared down at her.

“Dear God,” he groaned as he looked at her in amazement. “You’re going to kill me; I can see it now.”

He shifted and slid partway out, his movements slow and measured, then drove in again. She moaned. Though the frantic edge was off their desire, it was no less powerful than before.

“They will find me cold, stiff, and smiling in this very bed in the morning—” he grunted as he thrust again “—and they will know you were my end.”

“Hush,” she murmured, and brought his head down.

Their lips met and he kissed her as though he wished to consume her, the fierce intimacy nearly overwhelming her. He grasped her knees and pressed them up, keeping her in place while he ground slowly into her. Spread wide beneath him, she could do nothing but helplessly accept his passion and his strength while he took all she had and more. He pushed deep inside, touching her womb, making her arch and shake and quiver anew, bringing her to the knife’s edge of release and holding her there, then withdrawing and starting again. His pace quickened with each thrust, and she soon found herself crying out uncontrollably with every plunge.

His control slipped, and his movements became wilder. She glimpsed the feral male in him, the beast spawned by her desire, but she was not afraid. She called to his beast with the scent of her passion, coaxed him into being for the sake of her need. With a groan, he withdrew, turned her over, and bending her, thrust into her from behind. She anchored herself to the wall with her palms while he grasped her hips and pounded into her, all semblance of gentleness deserting him.

She relished his wildness, welcomed his beast with a fierce cry of her own.

She had not been wrong about his stamina. He set an incredible pace, an impossible rhythm that made the bed quake and its wooden legs dance upon the stone floor. Her release, when it came, was even more powerful than before. If he had not covered her cries of passion with his hand while he rushed to join her, she knew Fritz and Inés would have heard them from across the passageway, and possibly all of the monks in the abbey as well.

Not that she cared. It was merely the truth. That and the fact she loved him. Neither thing could be denied.

She could not bear to think what it might mean for him.

Tomorrow,
she promised the Fates as she turned and kissed him again, her lips lingering on his.
I will end it tomorrow. May the Lord permit us at least this one night.

“Did you hear something?” Fritz raised his head from the cold stone floor where he had spread out one of the blankets for his bed. Light from the full moon streamed through the high window, casting pale shadows across his lean face.

Inés hesitated for a moment, hearing the same sound as he. Apparently, Fritz had not the experience to recognize the faint cries of lovers in the throes of passion. She smiled bitterly and peered over the edge of the bed at him.

“Someone’s having a dream. Go to sleep.”

“Nay, there it is again. I should call one of the monks. It sounds as though they might need help.”

He started to lever himself up off the floor and then groaned, clutching at his shoulder. Even in the dark, she could see his grimace of pain.

Inés sat up and glared at him.

“I tell you, someone is having a dream. You are in no condition to help regardless. Since you insist on using the floor as your bed, lie down on it and be still.”

His eyes shifted to hers, and she saw their cool glitter. “Yes. What good could I possibly be to someone in need? Mayhap I
should
just lie down and ignore it,” he muttered.

“Why do you say that?” she demanded. Her voice sounded strange in this darkness, as if it did not belong to her.

He did not answer. Not for the first time, she noted his oblique reference to what had happened in the woods. Yet he would pursue the subject no further when she inquired. She wanted to talk about it. Needed to. But no one had asked, as if they were afraid to hear the answers, and she did not volunteer.

Long minutes passed. She heard the blanket rustle while he shifted back and forth. She imagined he tried to find a comfortable place on the unyielding floor. She sat up and peered down at him once more.

“I was right. You
are
a fool,” she accused.

He did not even look up.

“What are you talking about now?” His voice sounded weary.

“Here there is a perfectly good bed in this chamber, and you refuse to take advantage of it. Why?”

This time he did look up. “Mayhap because it is already occupied.”

She gingerly sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle in her body screamed from her ordeal. “I told you to take it. You are far more injured than I.”

He snorted and glowered at her. “Oh, yes, which would say a great deal for me, wouldn’t it? You already think that I am a silly boy who needs his mama’s care.” He shook his finger at her. “Well, man or boy, I still know enough not to let a lady sleep on the floor while I snore comfortably in bed!”

He rolled away from her but hissed when his injured shoulder struck the stone.

Her anger flared. “I told you, I am no lady!”

He rolled back.

“By whose words?” he demanded.

Her lower lip quivered, and for all the gold in the world, she could not have prevented the sob breaking forth.

“Those men. They said I was a whore, and they were right. If I was a lady, maybe they would not have—maybe …”

She turned toward the wall, too humiliated by her outburst to face him. How could she have admitted such a thing to him? She burned with shame and tried desperately to get her tears under control.

She heard a pained grunt and felt the bed depress beside her. The next thing she knew, he had put his hand on her shoulder. He patted her awkwardly.

“Hush. Nothing they said to you is true, you know that,” Fritz murmured. He seemed at a loss as to what else to say.

She shook her head and bit down hard to prevent more sobs from escaping. After a moment, he put his good arm around her and gathered her to him. His warmth and kindness undid her. She could not resist resting her head on his chest or gripping his shirt in her fingers. Just for a moment.

“They were animals,” he said, the sound of his voice against her ear. “Worse than dirt. Those kind of men only know how to destroy and cause pain.”

He took her chin in his hand and tilted it up so she faced him. Those wonderful clear blue eyes of his stared at her, full of sympathy and … something else.

“What do they know about the goodness in this world?” he asked. “What do they know about a woman like you? Do not waste your tears on them. They do not deserve it.”

He smiled down at her—not the Fritz smile of old, but a new, more bittersweet one. “Those tears are worth a fortune, you know, to the right man.”

She sniffled. “What do you mean?”

He clasped her hand in his and brought it to her face, extending her finger and stroking it across her wet cheeks. Her skin captured a teardrop, and it glimmered in the moonlight.

“Long ago and far away, in the desert kingdoms,” Fritz began, his voice enchantingly soft, “when a wealthy man had to go away to war and leave his lover behind, he would give her a precious glass vial, no bigger than two of your fingers put together.”

At this, he extended two of her fingers with one of his own.

“While he was away, the woman would decorate the vial with streaks of pure gold, inlay it with fine jewels, and fit it with a delicate stopper. Each day of his absence, she would trap her tears of loneliness inside the bottle until she completely filled it. Then she would seal the stopper and wait for the day when he returned, to prove to him how much she loved and missed him.”

He turned her hand in the moonlight, and the moonbeams struck the teardrop. It glowed. Inés could almost envision each teardrop gathered together, shining like diamonds trapped in fragile glass, sparkling and waiting for the lover to return home.

Fritz went on.

“These great warriors esteemed the gift of tears so much that, once given, they would never part with them, not for all the riches in the kingdom. Not even if they lost all they had and could not afford to eat unless they sold the precious vial for food.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. Did such men exist who would value simple tears so highly because they came from the woman they loved? She had never known love like that; never would, she supposed.

She sighed. “Do you speak the truth? Did this happen, or are you telling tales to raise my spirits?”

His eyes widened in innocence. “My lady, I do not lie. I read it in a book, I swear.”

“What would happen to the tears after her lover returned home?” she asked, fascinated, not really caring if he spoke the truth.

He smiled. “It is said if he drank a draught of the potion, he would seal his fate to hers forever. They would never be parted again, not in this lifetime or the next.”

He looked down at the tear still glimmering on her finger and then back up at her. She held her breath as slowly, carefully, he brought her finger to his mouth. He hesitated and looked up at her with a question in his gaze.

Inés nodded, and he pressed the tear to his lips. She felt the smooth, wet warmth of his mouth envelop her, and she shivered in reaction.

Another tear slipped down her cheek, over her lips. She reached up, pulled his head down, and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

“There. Now you are mine forever,” she whispered.

He smiled, but his eyes searched her face, noting the bruises there, and he cast his gaze down. He shook his head and pulled back with a heavy sigh.

“Why would you want me? I could not protect you from those men. I
was
useless to you.” He released her. “A woman needs a man who can take care of her, and what am I? Just a boy playing at being a man. A coward.”