The Warrior's Game (18 page)

That thought suggested it was past time to retreat until he regained his control. Turning, he left the hut.

By the time he’d seen to the horses’ needs, stowing their saddles just inside the hut’s door, then rubbing them down before leaving them in the pen most protected from the weather to sip stream water from the shepherd’s bucket and dine on oatcakes and grass, at least an hour had passed. Stopping to gather straw for his and Amicia’s bedding, Michel made his way to the hut, now drawn as much by the heat it offered as the woman waiting inside.

More warmth than he expected flowed past him as he slid open the hut’s door. Pushing the straw through the opening before him, he crept in then left the door slightly ajar behind him. Life and health demanded it. Just as the fire needed a draft to breathe, those inside craved the draft to carry the smoke from the interior so that they didn’t choke.

The fire’s snap and pop welcomed him. The hovel’s dimness had been driven up and out along the roof’s radiating saplings until it huddled at the line where the thatch and wall met. Blocking his view of the hut’s interior was Amicia’s cloak. It hung by its ties, stretched between two saplings to dry. Her head covering dangled near the wall, draped over a knob on one of these radiating treelets.

Stripping off his own dripping cloak, he hung it from another knob on the saplings, then ducked around her outer garment. A damp forest green gown hung behind it. On the next sapling over hung another. In the gap between that gown’s hem and the floor he could see Amicia’s naked feet braced against the hearthstone. Laid out on the pack’s greased cloth was her dinner, their meal, untouched.

He stepped around the last gown. Swaddled from nape to shins in his blanket, Amicia sat close to the hearth, her chin resting on her upraised knees. As she looked up at him, her lips lifted into a small smile. Both his previous needs returned with all their intensity.

“Pardon the mess, but almost everything I had was soaked through,” she said.

“You didn’t eat.” Michel’s voice sounded gruff and overly harsh to his own ears.

The upward lift of her lips faltered. “I wanted to wait for you.”

It was an unexpected offer of respect, one he wasn’t accustomed to receiving from her kind. Something stirred uneasily in his chest. He turned away from her to remove Roger’s hauberk, wiping it dry as best he could before setting it beside the saddles; although it might not be as precious as Michel’s own mail, Roger’s life depended on this garment. Then, unwinding the garters from the soft uppers of his boots, he removed his footwear. His braies followed, laid out upon the floor to dry. Even after the first of his tunics was dangling from a sapling near the door, sweat still beaded on his brow.

The other tunic went, this one dry enough to be folded and laid upon his saddle’s seat, ready to wear on the morrow. That left him dressed in his finest shirt and his better chausses; he hadn’t bothered to remove them in Winchester’s hall, knowing they would be protected from the elements by all else he wore.

The only cold he felt was the hut’s hard-packed earthen floor beneath his toes. Leaning down, he gathered up the straw, then made his way through the maze of damp clothing to spread it on the floor behind Amicia. While hardly an enticing mattress, with the blanket she was using laid atop it and his fur-lined cloak to serve as their blanket, they would weather the night in a modicum of comfort.

Amicia watched him work in silence. When he was done, he straightened and brushed what remained of the straw off his shirt.

“Michel?”

Jesu, but hearing her voice wrap itself around the syllables of his name did the oddest thing to him. “Aye?”

Her eyes were an emerald green. Her brows lifted in gentle question. The firelight turned her complexion to gold and cream. She bit at her lower lip, hesitancy flowing from her.

“Will you dine with me?”

Her request was barely louder than a breath, but the gesture screamed through Michel. It wasn’t just respect she was offering him. She was treating him as her husband.

Emotions tangled with sensations until it was nothing less than wild need. He lowered himself to sit beside her. She watched him, her expression wary and unexpectedly shy. Outside, the howling wind droned on. The fire danced, wrapping them in its warmth.

His wife. Lifting a hand, he traced his fingers down the curve of her cheek. The fire had burned its warmth into her skin.

She sighed at his touch and leaned her head into his caress. He ran the ball of his thumb over the fullness of her lower lip. She shivered, only not in cold this time. Desire’s heat rose to stain her cheeks. The passion he knew he could stir in her darkened her eyes.

“Amicia,” he said, stroking his knuckles along the slope of her jaw.

“Ami,” she murmured. It was an even more intimate offer than her first one, admitting him more deeply than he’d ever expected to plunge into her life.

Michel leaned forward. As he’d done on her first visit to the goldsmith’s house, he put his mouth near hers, but didn’t kiss her. She sighed, her breath warm against his cheek, then relaxed toward him in an even more blatant invitation. The thought of holding her hostage with his body returned, only now in his imagination she was a very willing captive.

“Ami,” he whispered, savoring the way taunting her teased himself, “what say you we dine a little later?”

As Michel breathed his question against her skin, Ami forgot her stomach’s needs and her exhaustion. That glorious warmth he made in her stirred anew, promising more of the pleasure she’d known last night. Only this time they wouldn’t be hurried or exposed. The thought of leisurely lovemaking had her quaking.

Michel’s fingers moved from her jaw down past her ear to her neck, setting fire to her skin where he touched her. The caress stopped where the blanket blocked his path. Will she, nill she, on the morrow she would be his wife. That left no reason to deny him, or herself.

She released her hold on his blanket. The woolen sheet slid from her shoulders to puddle about her hips on the hut’s floor. All she wore beneath it was her chemise, the best one she owned. The king hadn’t given her time enough to trade it for her everyday garment. Made of linen, it was so fine it was nearly transparent.

With a slow breath, Michel drew his hand down to her breast to trace the outline of her nipple beneath the fabric. Ami shivered, only it had nothing to do with the cold. At her tremble, Michel looked up at her.

Ami sighed in a tangle of admiration and surprise. His eyes were impossibly soft, their gray depths filled with the heat of his desire. The lines of his face were relaxed. Stripped of his expressionless mask he was even more handsome.

From that moment in the alcove when he’d put his mouth so close to hers, Ami had known what she wanted from him. It was his body, his flesh--all of his flesh--against her own. Now, when there was no longer a reason to deny herself she’d not wait another minute before getting what she wanted.

Coming to her knees, Ami pulled off her chemise, tossing it aside without care for its expense. Michel caught a startled breath at what she did. Before she had a chance to tell him she wanted him to remove his shirt, he put his hands upon her waist. His touch rendered her mute. His fingers were warm and strong against her skin, his palms hard.

Holding her where she knelt before him, he studied her body. His look was enough to make Ami tremble in longing for their union. His gaze traced the outline of her breasts then descended to her nether lips. He lowered a hand and traced his fingertips across the curve of her belly from hip to hip, then stroked the hair that concealed her womanhood. It was wondrous torment.

Rather than use his finger to awaken her lusts as he had the previous night, Michel brought his hand upward again to cup her breast in his palm. His thumb stroked its crest. Ami gasped as her insides took fire. He brought his other hand up to capture her other breast.

“Nay,” she panted, catching his wrists and pulling his hands from her body. “You’ll not do me so.”

He looked up at her, a frown touching his brow.

“Not yet,” Ami amended.

Then, keeping his hands captive, she lowered her mouth until it almost touched his. Slowly, taking care not to touch his skin with her lips, she shifted her mouth until it hovered over his ear. “I want to see all of you. I want to feel all of you against me,” she whispered.

Her reward for turning his game back upon him was his swift intake of breath. He yanked his hands from her grasp. Rather than remove his shirt, he sat where he was and watched her. His face was blank, the look in his eyes almost distant.

Ami eased back to sit on her heels in disappointment. More fool her for thinking that he hadn’t judged her lewd for what had happened on the landing last night, or that he might desire her as deeply as she did him. Now, even before their vows were said, she’d stepped awry with him.

Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. Creases cut into his cheeks, then his gaze took fire, his eyes warming to that almost blue. To her astonishment, he smiled at her, not that secret quirk of his mouth, but a true smile. A noise rumbled from his chest. Ami gaped. The sound of his laughter was warm and deep.

“For shame, Ami. You are hopelessly brazen,” he said, then reached for the hem of his shirt. An instant later and it joined her chemise, forgotten. He came to his feet and untied the cord to his chausses, swiftly stripping the stockings from his legs.

Admiration held Ami hostage. Nay, Richard de la Beres had looked nothing like Michel. There wasn’t an ounce of excess flesh to mark Michel’s powerful frame. His legs were long, his belly flat. Firelight gleamed against the dark hair the covered his flesh and lay shadows upon the masculine planes and angles of his chest. A single scar marked his chest, white with age.

She let her gaze follow it as the line descended from his left shoulder almost reaching his nipple. From there, her gaze followed the narrow pathway of hair farther down his belly to his shaft, only to find proof of how much he wanted her.

Stooping, he caught the blanket she’d discarded and flipped it over the straw he’d laid behind her, then offered her a hand to aid her to her feet. It wasn’t the fire’s heat that darkened the skin across his cheekbones.

“Come and feel all of me against you,” he offered, his voice hoarse and low.

Desire grew until Ami felt drunk with it. She accepted his hand, then came to her feet and into his embrace, her arms sliding around his waist. Pressed against his chest, her breasts tingled as they brushed the hair that covered his flesh. It was every bit as glorious as she’d hoped.

Her hips met his. Trapped between them, his shaft seared her with its heat. He lowered a hand to her hip and pressed her even more tightly to him. With his other hand he caught the tail of her plait. As he’d done the previous evening, he slipped the thong from its end and freed her hair from its confinement.

Ami shivered as he combed his fingers through those strands until her hair hung free about her, then leaned back from him. The expression on his face was intense as he watched her in return. The need to familiarize herself with his body grew beyond any care of what he might think of her.

She set her hands at the base of his neck, then stroked her palms along the broad span of his shoulders. His skin was warm against hers, the muscles beneath it seeming impossibly hard. At his left shoulder, she let her fingers find that scar. Flat and smooth, she traced it down until her palm rested atop his nipple.

He gave a quiet groan at her play, then caught her face between his hands. Touching his lips to hers, he let his kiss tell her just how much her caresses pleased him. Then, breathing deeply, he released her lips and braced his forehead against hers.

“Again, you touch me as if I belong to you,” he whispered.

Startled, Ami eased back from him to look up into his face. Only now did she remember that he’d said a similar thing last night. She gave a tiny shake of her head.

“But you do belong to me, just as I belong to you. We will marry on the morrow,” she replied, her voice low in her confusion.

The expression in his eyes softened, darkening in some emotion Ami didn’t recognize. He drew a long, slow breath, then the corners of his mouth lifted again. “So we will.”

Rising on her toes, Ami brushed her lips across his. As she did so she felt his shaft move between them. Heat spiked through her. She moved her hips against his, trying to elicit the same reaction.

“Jesu,” he groaned.

His arms tightened around her, then, before Ami knew what happened, she found herself laid upon the blanket. Straw crackled beneath her as Michel lay atop her. His mouth took hers, slashing against her lips as he demanded the response he knew she would give him.

Ami lost herself to need. Her legs parted to let him rest between them. She closed her arms around him, stroking her hands over the smooth skin of his back, then arched beneath him to again tease her breasts against his chest. Gasping against her mouth, he slipped a hand between them. Ami cried out as he found the entrance to her womb.

He toyed with her, sending wave after wave of pleasure over her. Wanting all of him and so much more, Ami brought a foot across his thighs to hold the mound of her womanhood against his shaft. He groaned against her mouth, his kiss deepening until she lost her breath.

Then his shaft pressed at her nether lips. With a quiet moan, she shifted and took him into her, locking her other foot over his legs. When he moved, thrusting into her, she lifted with him. Her hands came to press his hips against hers, forcing him more deeply into her.

He arched against her hold. Pleasure greater than any she’d known unfolded within Ami, her womb weeping with it. He panted against her mouth and moved again, the stroke of his shaft slow within her. This time, her joy was so sharp and wondrous that she cried out with it. Again and again, he tormented her with this slow, steady pace, his mouth owning hers.

Just when Ami thought she might well die from pleasure, ecstasy exploded within her. She released his hips to dig her fingers into his shoulders, then tore her mouth from his, pressing away from him into their makeshift mattress, lifting her hips, wild to feel his seed enter her.

With a ragged cry, he drove himself into her, his breathing short and harsh as he gave her what she so needed to feel. There, trapped in ecstasy’s hold, she remained, adrift in a warm, hazy place where there was only pleasure and Michel. With no strength left to hold back exhaustion, she slipped into sleep.

Cold nipped at Ami’s nose. Hunger gnawed at her belly. One side of her body was covered by glorious softness, while something small and sharp poked into her lower hip. Something heavy lay across her upper shoulder, pinning her in place. She opened her eyes. Night had crept into the hut like a slinking cat to curl around their fire. It had eaten up the warmth and stolen the coals until the fire was nothing but hissing, ruddy embers. Outside, the wind no longer howled, but only moaned.

It was a wayward bit of straw that stabbed at her hip, having breached the blanket barrier. Michel’s cloak lay atop them, the fur lining warm and soft against her bare skin. It was Michel’s arm that lay across her shoulder. Her back was to his chest, his knees behind hers, his skin warm against hers. The steady roll of his breath said that he slept.

She could feel the beat of his heart against her. The sensation made Ami smile. She eased closer to him, wanting to feel more of her flesh against his.

The rhythm of his breathing broke. His arm atop her tightened. He drew her closer still, fitting his body into the contour of hers. Ami sighed. It was as if they were made for each other.

At the sensation of his skin against hers a ripple of remembered joy rose from the embers of their previous lovemaking. The recall of pleasure was both a taunt and a promise. Ami shifted her hips against his. His hand stroked down from her waist, then he spread his fingers across her belly. Wondrous need stabbed through her.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, touching his lips to her nape.

Those inner embers hissed back into flaming life. “I am,” she whispered in return, feeling his shaft stir against her back.

“Are you hungry?”

Ami smiled, torn between the needs of her empty stomach and the needs of her empty womb. Her womb won. “Very,” she breathed, pressing back against him and his shaft with just enough pressure to suggest that there was more than one sort of hunger gnawing at her. His hand slipped upward to close about her breast. It was Ami’s turn to shiver.

He touched another kiss to her nape. “Before we were distracted you asked me to eat with you. Do you still want my presence at your table?”

“We haven’t got a table,” she murmured, reaching behind her to rest her hand upon his shoulder, the arch of her body against him offering him more of her breast to touch.

His amusement was warm and soft against the back of her neck. “True enough,” he replied. “But if we had a table, would your invitation stand?”

There was something about his tone that sobered her, taming her newly roused lust. Ami shifted away from him, turning to lay upon her side and face him. The embers shed just enough light to show her the outline of his face and mark the line of his nose. His eyes were a quiet glimmer in the dimness.

The stillness of Michel’s expression brought the recall of how Adelberta and Sybilla, indeed the whole of the world, turned their shoulders to him. Ami sighed. Michel wanted confirmation from her, he wanted to know the exact intent of her invitation.

Bending an elbow, Ami rested her head upon it. Then, lifting her free hand she traced the line of his beard as it followed his jaw. Finding his lips in the dark, she outlined them with her fingertip. “I would.”

His eyes shimmered as he caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm. Releasing her hand, he reached out to once again comb his fingers through her hair. Ami’s shiver had nothing to do with cold.

“Amicia de la Beres, will you be my wife?” Michel asked, his voice low and intimate.

The instant his words were out, he rolled onto his back. Both his movement and his question startled Ami. Wanting his nearness and hoping to read its meaning in his expression she followed him, coming to rest half atop him, her forearms braced upon his chest. Her hair fell forward to enclose them in its curtain.

“But, of course we will marry. By the rules of our king’s horrid game, our marriage is your prize for finding me. On the morrow you will take me to Thame where the abbot will perform the ceremony.”