The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (42 page)

"Aye, I will," she said, shattering her vow.

"A cherished gift," he said, laying his hands on her breasts. "I will not betray."

With a gentleness he did not know was in him, he caressed her, barely touching her, yet stroking her with so fine a touch that she could have been made of silk and he would not have snagged her.

She gasped, a small breath of sound that he felt against his ear.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"Nay," she breathed out.

She leaned into his hands but slightly, yet he could feel the step she took toward willingness and pleasure. He hid his smile and stroked her again, his hands fluttering like angel's wings over her, pleasuring her, showing her how little hurt there was to be found in him.

He kissed her softly, her rain-slick lips cool and smooth, her open mouth hot in the chill air, her body slack and loose beneath his hands. Such a kiss, such a willing, open kiss from hesitant Elsbeth. She had come far in her kissing since that first kiss in the chapel.

He laid his palms over her distended nipples, rubbing lightly against her as his tongue slid temptingly over hers. He was all soft seduction, all gentle wooing and tender touch. All for her, to ease her, to help her find her way into desire and need. For himself, he was as hard and hot as August in Damascus. This gentle easing of her fears was like to tear him up. Yet he would be willingly torn if it would help her. He would not hurt her, not even with fear, if he could ease her.

Gentle Elsbeth, who with a whisper drove every bloodthirsty instinct from a man; his every instinct was to please her, his every thought to... love her.

As Christ had commanded a man to love his wife. Nothing more than that. He was a Christian knight doing his Christian duty. He did not love her as he loved Baldwin. He loved her as a... as a weaker vessel, as Saint Paul had instructed. Aye, 'twas loving tenderness that he felt, and right that he should feel it. There was no sin in this, no turning from a vow in this.

He was not so far from Outremer that he could fall from Baldwin.

But Baldwin had no part in this; even he knew that. This was all of Elsbeth and her husband, Hugh. This was of blood and flesh and bone meeting as one. Becoming one. This was need, fed and met. Felt and fulfilled. This was Elsbeth. All was Elsbeth in this hour.

He could live in this hour forever and never want for more.

Was this how eternity would be? A forever now that stretched out to touch all horizons, all needs, all hungers?

With Elsbeth in eternity, he would not want for more.

The kiss deepened. He wanted her. She was his, wanting him, wanting to want him more. He could give her that. He could give her all of himself and not note the loss.

She asked for so very little, and yet he would give her all; such was her power, such was the temptation of her.

She groaned and wrapped her hands in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers with force and need, pressing her breasts into his hands, moaning, squirming.

He lifted his mouth from hers with some effort and said, "Have I hurt you?"

"Nay, nay," she whispered hoarsely, seeking his mouth blindly with hers, her breath hot with need.

With a groan, he kissed her. A devouring kiss, falling into her like rain into the sea, merging until they were one. Mouth to mouth, they were one.

His thumbs played against her nipples, as hot as her mouth, as urgent and demanding. She writhed against him, and he could feel the heat of her through his mail, through his tunic, through his braes. She was wet with need, as wet as rain, as hot as fire. With slow ease, he moved his hands down her body, over the bones of her ribs, the bulge of her girdle and skirts, to her open thighs. She quivered when he touched her thighs, laying his hands on her, stroking her, teasing her.

She groaned, a high, long groan that ended in a high-pitched moan of distress.

He ended the kiss and, kissing her neck just below the ear, whispered, "Hurt you?'

"Hugh," she moaned. "Hugh," she breathed.

"Have I?" he said, his hands still on her parted thighs, his mouth nibbling her throat.

"Nay," she said, blinking. Her eyes were the black of a winter's night.

"Good. I would not hurt you," he said, smiling as he kissed her.

Would not hurt her? He was killing her. Slowly, gently, tenderly killing her. She had never felt such hunger, such distress. There was no rest in such a place as he led her, no room to breathe, no soft falling. There was only hot need and twitching urges, bolts of searing want that left her breathless, restless.

But he did not hurt her. There was no hurt in this. There was only the slow torture of building desire.

She had not known there could be such agony without pain. But Hugh had known.

"What are you doing to me?" she sighed, turning her face to meet his mouth.

"Not hurting you," he said, keeping his mouth away from hers. Tormenting her.

Nay, he was not hurting her. His mouth on the edge of her jaw did not hurt. His hands on her breasts did not hurt. His thumbs on her nipples did not hurt, not in any way she had felt pain before. But she did not like it. She could not relax and be easy in his touch upon her, yet she turned into his hands, his mouth, with mindless, blind need.

He did not hurt her, yet she ached.

She did not want to ache for any man, yet she prayed the ache would never end. But if it did not end, she would surely lose all reason.

He was a demon to torment her so. An angelic, fallen demon. Angel of light. Lucifer's own.

With every throb of need, her thoughts tumbled, changing, as she was changing. Hugh was changing her into a woman of the flesh.

What of her prayers? What of the life she had planned, shunning all that a man could do?

With his hands and mouth on her, she could remember no plan beyond his next caress. All prayers were forgotten, snatched away, lost. She lived, holding her breath, for the next kiss, the next touch, the next embrace.

He was not human, to torment her so and smile as he did. Yet she had known that from the start.

"Please," she said, asking for mercy. Not knowing what deliverance would look like, feel like.

"You are not hurt?" he said, lifting her up to nibble her breasts. Her legs shook, and she cried out in soft distress at his mouth upon her.

"I am not hurt, yet I am in pain," she said when she could speak.

"I know," he said, licking her. "So it has been for me these last days. Wanting you, burning for you. Forbidden to have you."

"Please," she said again, her head lolling on her shoulder.

He was biting her softly, mouthing her, licking her. She was blind with desire. There was nothing else. No rain. No mud. No fear. Only Hugh and this endless sliding over pleasure that was not quite touched, not actually reached. Pleasure that tickled without penetrating. Without consuming. Without satisfying.

"I am here to please you," he said. "I will please you."

He dropped her down to his lap again, spreading her wide. The rain thickened and seemed to steam where it struck them, exploding missiles of mist, lost in the growing dark.

"When?" she said, pulling him to her, pressing her hips against him. She could feel the hard ridge of him, but he was not there, not where she needed him to be.

"Now?" he asked, pulling aside his braes.

She kissed him for answer, sliding her fingers through his dark gold hair. The very scent of him aroused her.

He stroked down her thighs, his hands gentle as his fingertips found the hot ache of her. She moaned at his touch, grinding herself against his hand, enjoying the pressure, needing the friction, hungry for the full weight of him on her and in her.

"Now," she said. "Now is good."

"With you, now is always good," he said, spreading her soft folds to find the narrow way into the heart of her.

She was wet. It was more than rain. It was passion.

She had spent her life running from passion and passion's result; now she ran into the very center of it. Because of Hugh. Her vow to Ardeth and to herself lay buried in the mud of Warkham, and she could not care past the yearning need for his touch. So her mother had feared it would be. And so it was.

Yet what could she do? She was a woman, and this was the way of it. Had not God promised that a woman would want a man? Had He not foretold all as He cast Eve and her man out of Eden? A woman would hunger for her man, and her pain would greatly increase upon the childbed. So it was. So it had to be. She could not stand against the very word of God.

This was a battle she never could have won. This was a vow that was destined to be broken. Had Ardeth known that as well?

"I will be broken upon this," she said, the knowledge washing over her, the last warning before the final fell.

He slipped a finger inside her, thrusting in and out. She moaned and moved against his hand, wanting it. Wanting more, all warnings fading into fog.

"Trust me," he breathed, kissing her face, her brow, her nose, her mouth. "I will not betray."

She could not answer him. She was lost to speech, to thought, to memory.

Using her body, she urged him. Using her mouth, she silently spoke of her hunger and her need. She had to have him.

She had to have him, even for only this moment.

He had seduced her. She was lost.

Forgive, Ardeth, and pray for your lost daughter.

With a turning of his hand, he exposed himself. She knew the look of him, hard and high and hot. With a gentle nudge, he pressed himself at the entrance to her womb. He was huge. A siege engine would have been more likely to enter her. It was impossible.

With another nudge, a push, a groan, he was into her further. She could look down and see where they were joined. His manhood pulsed, thick with blood, gigantic. He was halfway lost in her, a miraculous joining of two bodies into one. She could see it now, how true God had been in describing this event. Two into one. Yea, it was that.

"Look at us," he said. "Watch me take you. Watch me lose myself in you."

She looked at him, his eyes green as the boughs above her, clear and bright with rain. He held himself still, letting her soften around him. With a slow smile, he kissed her. A tender kiss, a kiss of passion muffled, leashed and subdued. But living still, breathing, waiting.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, caressing her breasts, her back, her face.

"Not enough," she said, squirming against him. She needed more. There was more of him and she wanted all.

"More?" he said just before he kissed her, his hands on her face holding her with tender ferocity.

When he released her mouth, she breathed into him, "More."

With a surge, he was in her. She felt a burning, a tight stretch, a rending that was sharp and hot. And then a fullness. A heat. A glowing heaviness that filled her up until she spilled out of herself onto him, losing Elsbeth into Hugh. Losing earth into heaven. Losing all.

"Hurt?" he asked softly, holding his hands on her derriere, pulling her onto him.

"Aye," she said, and he instantly let himself slip partway out of her. "Nay! I only know that I want you to stay. Do not leave me," she whispered against his throat, holding tight to him.

"I will not," he said, stroking her hair, pressing softly into her.

But he would. Yet his leaving was for later. For now, he was hers.

He held himself very still inside her, his breathing shallow, almost shaky.

"I am not hurt. Go to—I will not cry against it," she said.

"Cry against it? Nay, I would have you crying for it," he said, slowly pumping into her. "Fear not, little one. I take you to a place of wonders," he whispered. "Hold fast. I will not let you fall."

She needed this, needed him. This hot filling, this bonding, this oneness. She had not known how alone she was until Hugh filled her up.

Heat sank itself into her flesh, softening all her joints, stealing her breath, racing her heart. Her blood pounded against her flesh, searching for release, but there was no release for this ache. It only built and soared until all was shattered against it. Until she was blind in the white heat of it. Until she cried to be freed of the torture of her skin and breasts and mouth. Until the place of their joining, the open heart of her, was throbbing with want and need and finding none.

Finding none.

"Trust me," he breathed. "Follow me."

She tried. She tried to follow him, but it was too far, too high, and she could not see where she would land from such a height if she did fall.

"Go. I cannot follow you," she said.

"Then do not follow. I will take you there."

He kissed her deeply, his hand snaking down her torso to find the source of all her torture. He touched her there, a gentle touch, light as sunlight, and she exploded into fire.

A burst of light and heat and force, and then she opened her eyes against it, squeezed her thighs against it, forced it away from her, so deeply afraid that she shouted out her fear. This was wrong. She could not do this.

"I have you," he said, pressing her hard against him, murmuring in her ear. "I have you, Elsbeth. It is nothing to fear."

"Please," she gasped, tears heavy in her throat. "I cannot do this."

" 'Tis done, Elsbeth. Fear not," he said, stroking her softly, kissing her cheeks and mouth and brow. "Fear not, little one. I did not let you fall. You are safe, are you not? All is well."

He slipped out of her, soft and small and wet, and then he pulled her close to him, sheltering her from the rain as best he could, his heat warming her.

"I did fall. I did," she said, wrapping her arms about his neck and holding him close.

"Perhaps you did," he said. "But it was only a little fall, and you were not alone in your falling. Did you not feel me holding you, sharing passion's fall together, keeping you safe? You are safe, Elsbeth. You are not hurt."

She was not hurt? Nay, that was wrong. This was wrong. All was wrong. She should not have done this, and she should not have found pleasure in it. This was wrong. All her life she had known it. This crying bond, this hot falling, was wrong.