The Slayer's Redemption Page 29

  A smile teased his lips. “And were you impressed with their manly staffs?”

  She giggled softly at his term. “Not at all,” she admitted, picturing their limp little appendages.

  In a single movement, he pushed his chausses over his hips, drawing them all the way down his legs. Kicking them to one side, he spread his arms and asked. “What do you think of me?”

  Clarisse’s breath tangled in her throat. Seeing him fully naked for the first time left her speechless. His muscles, oiled in the lamplight, only heightened the blatant masculinity underscored by his immense, jutting member. Her knees went weak just looking at him. Her heartbeat whooshed inside her ears.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, his expression searching.

  She automatically shook her head. “Nay.” But then she looked back down at his sex with serious reservation and nodded once.

  He loosed an ironic laugh. “Well, I am.”

  She snatched her gaze up. “Are you?” She would never have thought the Slayer would admit to such insecurity.

  “Afraid I'll hurt you,” he said, coming closer. “And then your sister’s curse will take hold and my ballocks will shrivel and fall off,” he added, mocking himself.

  “Aye, ’twould be a shame for that to happen,” she agreed. “You won’t hurt me, my lord,” she added more seriously.

  “I hope not. I would have you remember only pleasure on your wedding night.”

  “’Twill be all right,” she assured him, her hand rising of its own accord to stroke the rippling muscles of his abdomen. So much latent power! He would have to restrain himself immensely.

  Watching her reaction, he slowly lowered his head. With aching tenderness, he kissed her mouth, so gently that she looped her arms around him and pulled him harder to her, crushing her breasts to his chest and thrusting her tongue between his lips to kiss him more deeply.

  The silken feel of his bare skin surprised her. Both times prior when he'd had her in bed, he had been fully dressed. Now, his naked torso proved a feast to her five senses. Frustratingly though, he caught both her exploring hands in his and led her to the bed.

  “Come lie with me,” he invited, brushing aside a wayward garland that hung before him, apparently not noticing its beauty, nor that of the new blanket he tossed back.

  She stretched out obediently where she’d been sleeping before.

  “Make room,” he said, and she scooted over. Then he climbed in and stretched out next to her, turning onto one shoulder to gather her against him.

  With a sigh of surrender, Clarisse accustomed herself to the hard length of his naked body and basked in the warm sea of his kisses. Yet each time she attempted to stroke him with her hands, he restrained her.

  She pulled back to ask, “Does my touch not please you?”

  “It pleases me too much,” he admitted with a pained laugh. He kissed her again, pulling her up and over him as he rolled abruptly onto his back. Finding herself sitting astride his larger body, a knee on either side of his hips, she gazed down at him in confusion.

  “If you take me, and not the other way around,” he explained, “then I cannot hurt you.”

  “But I have no idea what to do,” she said, flushing self-consciously.

  “Do whatever pleases you,” he replied.

  Spreading her hands on the muscles of his chest, she tangled her fingers in the crisp mat of his chest hair then caressed the flat male nipples that grew erect at her touch. Drawing her fingers lower, across the armor of his rib cage to the taut plane of his belly, she traced the line of hair that tapered to his loins, now hidden under the bunched fabric of her gown. All the while, he seemed to hold his breath.

  It pleased her to kiss him, so she leaned toward his lips, her hair falling in a silken curtain on either side of her face. She kissed him and kissed again, until a restless hunger compelled her to do more. Recalling how it had felt to have him touch her, she lifted the hem of her gown to her waist, exposing her bare legs, spread wide to straddle his hips, then her woman’s curls. Feeling shy, she drew his hand to the feverish juncture of her thighs.

  “Touch me,” she commanded, staring down into his gray-green eyes.

  He responded by lightly stroking his fingers over her woman’s flesh. She sucked in a breath of delight. Replacing his fingers with his thumb, he circled the swelling nubbin there before gently flicking it back and forth. She gave a moan of encouragement. Her eyes melted shut.

  This was how he had touched her before, and already she could feel herself softening like warmed wax while spiraling toward that blissful precipice where she would tumble into oblivion.

  Pausing for a moment, he helped her to draw her nightdress over her head, leaving her as naked as he. With a mutter of satisfaction, he filled his hands with her full breasts, stroking and teasing her nipples that ached for his attention.

  Her restlessness increased. Feeling the column of his sex where it rode against her bottom, she knew instinctively that having him inside her would fulfill her yearning. The time had come for them to join.

  Reaching back, she caressed the tight skin of his scrotum first, eliciting a groan of pleasure. Then she encircled his shaft and angled it so the rounded head slid into her opening.

  “Easy,” he rasped, stroking her again between her thighs.

  Very slowly, she sat back on him, filling and filling herself until a sharp pain made her freeze.

  “’Tis your maidenhead,” he said. “I will have to plow through it.”

  “I cannot do it,” she said, suddenly afraid.

  With a grimace of resolve, he put his hands on her hips to lift her off him. Then he gently rolled her over. She welcomed the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. He placed a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, her jaw.

  She braced herself for his thick invasion. But then he moved down the length of her body, pinning her thighs wider apart with his hands. He kissed the insides of her legs causing her hips to buck. She squirmed, emitting a squeal as his stubbled jaw abraded her tender flesh.

  Suddenly, his mouth landed where his thumb had stroked her earlier, and she gasped in astonishment. She could scarcely breathe. Then Christian delved deeper, tasting her.

  She lurched to her elbows. “Is this acceptable?”

  The ridge of his tongue lapped the swollen nub and her protest died. “My lord!” she cried on a note of discovery. Pleasure sluiced through her.

  “Relax,” he said. “Let me please you.”

  She fell back with a cry of surrender. “You do,” she murmured. ’Twas scandalous and unlike anything she had ever felt before, or imagined! He acquainted himself with her body, his hands roaming her freely, rising to roll her nipples even as he wreaked havoc below. Sensations layered one atop the other, until she teetered on the edge of climax.

  When he eased a finger into her, she blurted encouragement that sent heat streaking to her cheeks. He stretched her gently, his tongue never ceasing its gentle lashing. Her muscles tightened. A light sweat breached her pores.

  She was just about to shatter when he crawled up and over her. His mouth sought hers, and he kissed her deeply. Tasting her woman’s musk on his lips, her excitement rekindled. She tilted her hips inviting his penetration—anything to get the repletion she knew hovered just out of reach.

  The head of his shaft nudged her now-welcoming passage. Then with a sudden surge, he slid into her readiness, tore quickly through her resistance, and sank himself fully inside of her. The sting of pain startled her, but as quickly as she felt it, it receded.

  With her sigh of relief, she became aware of a gratifying fullness accompanied by a feverish need to raise her hips, to feel him move deep inside her.

  “Forgive me,” he grated, his voice strained by some private torment.

  “What need for forgiveness?” she asked, using the same words he had spoken earlier. “The momentary pang is gone.”

  He sent her a small grin. And then he began to move. There was no pain with h
is second thrust, only a hot rush of pleasure.

  “Again,” she implored, as the need for friction built once more. Wrapping her thighs around his hips, she urged him to go faster.

  Their ragged breaths merged. Burnished in the moonlight, the Slayer looked somehow familiar—looming over her, her champion, as if he had been meant for her all along. Had she dreamed him?

  Their mouths melded again, and she felt his teeth tug at her lower lip. Their bodies surged together, taut and trembling. His urgent tempo tossed her ever higher. She strained closer, unwittingly raking her nails across his back.

  I am one with the Slayer, she marveled.

  The thought alone pushed her over the top. With a soft cry, she came undone. As her womanly muscles clenched around his manhood, she dropped her arms away from him, to fist the bedsheets, enjoying every moment of his possession. Her pulsing muscles beckoned him to follow. He groaned into her mouth, thrusting again and again. Then he stilled, his heart hammering so hard she could feel it.

  After a moment, he took his weight on one elbow and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He traced the graceful arch of her eyebrow, the full sweep of her lower lip. “You make me forget,” he admitted on a wondrous note.

  “Forget what, my lord?” She could barely think, let alone remember anything.

  “Christian,” he said, reminding her to say his name.

  She smiled, cherishing the intimacy. “Forget what, Christian?”

  He looked down at her breasts, crushed beneath his chest. “Who I am,” he said at last. His lashes swept up again. He sent her his half-smile and kissed her, lingering with such tenderness it made her eyes sting.

  “What will we be when tomorrow is over?” In the unguarded moment, the question slipped out of her.

  He held her more firmly. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding as worried as she felt.

  She smiled ruefully and looked away. “Never you mind.”

  “Nay, tell me what you meant,” he insisted.

  How to put it in words? “Will I ever be more to you than a mother for Simon?”

  Her question visibly startled him. He took a deep breath and pressed himself deeper. She fancied she could feel him swelling inside of her again.

  “You are already more,” he promised in a voice gruff with emotion.

  His answer pleased her, as did the answering tingle at her core. He caught her mouth in a possessive kiss. His sudden passion sparked her own. She met his thrusts with a deep, answering need.

  A long time later, they lay among the twisted sheets, a sheen of sweat drying on their skin. She asked him the question that would not stop plaguing her. “How will you kill Ferguson tomorrow?”

  She felt him stiffen. “I told you to trust me. I don’t wish to speak of it.”

  The hard edge in his voice made her wary, yet she was not so easily turned away. “Why won’t you tell me what you’ve planned?” she persisted. “All you’ve said is that you’ll kill him at the joust. How, without rousing the suspicions of his men, without causing a war?”

  A full minute passed, and still he did not answer. Disappointed, she laid her head back on his shoulder, fearing she had angered him.

  “There will be no war,” he whispered with confidence.

  She wondered how he could be so certain. Listening to the steady thud of his heart, she coiled her fingers around the soft whorls of his chest hair and closed her eyes.

  They would still have this when tomorrow was over. Perhaps their passion would deepen to abiding affection. It was a simple thing to imagine. She snuggled closer. In the shelter of his powerful arms, she felt treasured and replete. Already she had more than most noblewomen could hope for.

  A soft snore followed on the heels of her observation. Christian had fallen asleep. At least he had the peace of mind to do so. Her mouth quirked. For herself, she doubted she would sleep at all on the eve of Ferguson’s demise.

  At the first sign of dawn, Christian slipped stealthily from his solar, careful not to awaken Clarisse, and headed for the armory.

  There, with his squire’s help, he garbed himself in his undergarments, leather hauberk, and chainmail. He put his boots back on, tightened the belt about his waist, and slung the sheath for his broadsword over one shoulder. Grabbing up his helmet, he proceeded to the stable next door to collect his destrier.

  He led his mount on foot, past the outer ward where the tourney would normally have taken place. Wisely, he'd moved it to the field outside the castle to allow for more maneuvering. As he walked beneath the raised portcullis and out onto the drawbridge, he absorbed the scene awaiting him.

  Ferguson's warriors were up and stirring, their green plaid buried under thick, steel hauberks. They had traded their short swords for claymores.

  Other contestants had also pitched their tents at the field’s edge. They had no idea what the Scot and his men now knew—that what had started out as an alliance would end in war if Ferguson failed to meet the challenge the Slayer had put to him the night before.

  He had waited a while after Clarisse retired to challenge the Scot. Standing at the high table, as if to bid his guests good night, he had gained their immediate attention. Yet even before he could declare his intent, it was young Merry who had stood upon her chair, shaking off those who tried in vain to pull her down. She had spoken up then, taking advantage of the sudden hush by cursing the Slayer’s manhood should he hurt her sister that night.

  Christian had had to wait a few minutes for the commotion caused by her untimely remark to die down.

  “Angus Ferguson,” he had called at last when he knew he could be heard. “For the crimes you have perpetrated against the family of my bride, I challenge you at dawn tomorrow to a contest of arms and a battle to the death.” He’d thrown his gauntlet to the floor in front of the dais.

  Ferguson had lowered his horn of ale in shock. Kendal had grabbed for the sword he’d left on the table by his trencher to display its jewels and shot out of his chair, only to be restrained by the rest of the Scot’s men. The Slayer’s men-at-arms all stood up, unsheathing their long swords and holding them with the points displayed.

  “Should you flee,” Christian had continued, “you can expect my imminent attack on Heathersgill.”

  Thusly had he pronounced the challenge, and Ferguson would have looked like a coward if he hadn’t accepted it. The festivities had ended abruptly, with the Scot and his men dragging Clarisse’s mother and sisters forcibly away. Regretfully, Christian had had no chance to invite them to stay inside as guests.

  How quickly the blissful hours of his wedding night had flown! The sun’s rays like long fingers were already sliding up the trunks of the trees. Peasants tramped across the meadow from their far-flung huts to witness the day’s entertainment. Did they know the tourney had given way to a deadlier sport?

  At the end of the drawbridge, Christian paused to glance back at Helmsley. Being on foot and not on horseback, he could not see his solar window, but he imagined that his bride still slept behind closed shutters. After all, he had kept her up late into the night.

  Had he done the right thing in keeping his plans a secret from her? Aye, it must have been the right thing to do, for he’d slept soundly after their lovemaking, his conscience for once clear.

  Yet what if Ferguson should gain the victory that morning? Did Clarisse not deserve fair warning of her groom’s possible demise? She had assumed he would kill Ferguson by some devious means. It had not yet occurred to her that he was a changed man. And the only honorable way to kill Ferguson for her was to overcome him in a challenge to the death.

  Moreover, he found himself wishing she were present to witness his honorable challenge. After all, ’twas for her that he would risk his very life. And yet her peace of mind and her physical safety mattered more. Nor could he trust her to remain an impartial observer. She was too loyal, too protective to simply stand by and watch.

  And then there were the enemies at their gate—he didn’t trust
Ferguson’s men not to do her some harm while he was busy fighting. Nay, it was best that she remain where she was, sleeping peacefully in bed, her body soft and warm beneath the coverlet.

  Sir Roger scurried around the front of his horse, breaking into Christian’s line of sight. “My lord, I have a bad feeling about this,” he announced.

  Christian regarded him in disbelief. “Where was this bad feeling last night?” he demanded.

  “I had all night to reconsider,” the knight explained.

  “Too late,” Christian snapped. “The challenge stands.” All he could do to endeavor victory was to calm his roiling nerves and focus on the enemy at hand.

  “Look for trickery, then,” Sir Roger cautioned, the scars on his face standing out starkly. “He knows he cannot defeat you in a fair fight. Therefore, he is bound to try something underhanded.”

  “I will be wary,” Christian promised.

  Sir Roger took charge of the warhorse, leading it off the drawbridge and toward the far end of the field. Christian followed at his elbow, his armor clanking with every step.

  “Should Ferguson's men take up arms, strike back hard,” Christian said into his vassal’s ear. “I would not have any finding their way into the castle. Signal for the drawbridge to close, even if we are yet outside the walls.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Should I die this day—”

  The knight cursed and looked away.

  Christian stopped and gripped his arm. It took effort to push the words past the constriction in his throat. “Do whate’er it takes to keep my lady content in life and to assure Simon’s inheritance.”

  Sir Roger’s mouth thinned. “It will not come to that,” he insisted.

  “I pray not,” Christian agreed, continuing forward.

  As they neared the arena where the sun spilled over the hill in a bloody stain, his gaze fell on a blackbird swooping down to steal a hot bun dropped by one of the spectators. When he next looked toward the tents, he was staring at Ferguson.

  The Scot had emerged wearing English armor, his helm in his hands. Despite his over-indulgence the night before, he looked fit and fierce. His eyes narrowed above his ruddy beard as he focused them on his opponent. Swinging his double-edged axe in a wide arc above his head, he sent several onlookers scuttling out of harm’s way.