Forever His(97)

“But you’re not a knave! That’s not the truth and you know it. You don’t—”

She lost her voice and her mind when his callused fingers slid into the hot silk at the apex of her thighs. He uttered a low, masculine sound of pleasure and anticipation and caressed her deeply.

“Oh ... ah ... oh, God. Oh, please,” she sobbed, feeling the blinding passion and bright ribbons of sensation wrapping tighter around her, every motion of his fingers pulling her downward into that hot, sweet heaven even as she clawed for sanity. “G-go ... go away. Go and sleep it off. Please. Before you do something you’ll regret in—”

“Regret?” he echoed hollowly, his hands shifting, his arms flexing around her back. “Do you wish me to tell you of regret?” He lifted his gaze to hers, his dark eyes dazed and glistening with more than desire or the effects of the Castilian wine. “You never had an answer to what Avril asked earlier. Have you not wondered, wife, where I was when I was supposed to be at Tourelle’s tourney? What great purpose it was that kept me away?” His voice took on a hard edge. “What I was doing while my father and brother were dying?”

“Gaston—”

“I was playing at dice, at the autumn fair in Agincourt. In the company of a pair of comely peasant wenches. I promised Gerard that I would join him and our father at the tourney and then I changed my mind. Broke my word. Because a bit of gambling held more appeal than spending the day fighting in a tourney. I was throwing dice while their throats were being cut.”

Celine choked back a sob, hurting for him, hurting for all the pain he was holding inside, the grief and guilt that shone in his eyes. “Gaston, I’m ... I’m so sorry—”

“Nay, do not offer me your pity, ma dame. It is not your pity I want.”

His mouth captured hers again and he made a sound deep in his throat. It might have been pain or desire or something else, but she didn’t have time to sort it out, because he didn’t give her time. He simply sealed his mouth over hers and swept her into his arms.

She struggled but his hold on her was solid, and that kiss stole her breath and any chance of talking sense to him. He stumbled a bit as he turned to carry her into the room, but he kicked the terrace door shut with his heel—and his steps were sure and purposeful as he headed straight for the bed. He mounted the dais and deposited her on the tangled covers, not even pausing to pull back the blankets.

The fine wool coverlet was soft beneath her, compared with the rough cloth of his tunic when he lowered himself over her. He gave her no chance to scramble away, setting her entire body aflame with his touch and the reckless intoxication of his kiss. She tasted the potent liquor he had drunk and the unique masculine spice that was Gaston until her blood was filled with fire and her every muscle shook with long-denied wanting. Resistance slowly became a distant, foreign, fading idea that seemed to belong to another woman in another place. Another time.

Bracing his forearms against the mattress on either side of her head, he moved against her, until both of them were breathing deep and unevenly. Though he was still fully clothed right down to his boots, she felt his rigid masculine hardness pressing against her with unrelenting, impatient purpose, and a small muffled cry of hesitation and uncertainty escaped her.

His kiss changed, his lips moving over hers with a far different intent than mere silence. The gentle force of it left her helpless and hungering, and when he opened his mouth and touched his tongue to her tender lower lip, she could only open her mouth to receive him.

The first satiny brush of his tongue against hers wrested a shiver of need from her, so intense it went through her whole body like glittering ice and flame. He deepened the kiss, but still did not plunge fully into her offered dampness. Instead he kept teasing her with a rain of tiny wet kisses that barely touched his tongue to hers.

When she made another small sound, knowing as he must that it came from impatience and not protest, he lifted his mouth from hers, just long enough to tear off his tunic and kick off his boots and leggings. His naked, muscular body was a stark silhouette in the moonlight. He poised over her only for a moment, tense and still, the size of him daunting even cloaked in shadow.

And then he lowered himself over her, pressing her back into the mattress.

“Gaston ...” she whispered as she arched beneath him.

She couldn’t do this. Musn’t do this. Musn’t let him do this. Reasons. Hadn’t there been reasons? She tried to remember one. All she could think of was him. Her scoundrel knight. The passionate husband who teased and provoked and protected her. The daring warrior who chased all her fears away. Tough as steel, with a tender heart he fought so hard to keep hidden.