A Kiss in the Night (38 page)

Applause broke out. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Linness laughed gaily and squeezed Clair's hand. 'Twould be a grand year for their wine. Morgan would be rich. She laughed, "The king himself will be ordering barrels of our wine!"

Morgan started naming prizes to the pickers: The man who filled the most barrels would get two young plow horses; the woman, a bolt of velvet cloth; the child, a chess game or a pick from one of his hound's litters, and so on.

Linness did not hear. For she met Paxton's gaze.

All she saw was his desire, the heat of it reaching across the space separating them to quicken her pulse. She understood his want because it was hers as well. Erotic dreams filled her head every night, so she woke three or four times with her heart pounding and a breathlessness no air could ease.

Somehow she would slip out tonight.

Too late. Now that Morgan had made the decision, he swung into action, shouting out orders to everyone, including now his brother. "Paxton, will you oversee the harvesting of the northwest fields?"

These were a half day's ride away. He would have to leave with the workers today. He would not return until the harvesting was done.

"There's no one else I trust," Morgan added.

A strange light shone in his brother's eyes; he looked fierce, unreadable.

"Will you?"

"Aye." Paxton nodded. "I'll leave at once."

Linness's disappointment felt sharp.

* * * *

The harvest day moon…

The grapes had been picked. The sweet, succulent fruit sat in huge vats outside the wine press, alongside the river near the chateau's gates. Tomorrow the grapes would be conveyed to the wine press, which would crush the succulent fruit into juice for the fermenting into wine. It would take weeks for the barrels to be filled and years for the finest of red burgundy to age. The first thousand empty barrels had been brought up from the storehouses.

The ancient tradition of the wine artisanal was called "forcing the cap' but it was more popularly referred to as the "wine dance." The custom dated back a hundred or more years to the days before the wine press. Dozens of giant wooden vats were positioned in the courtyard where the feast was held. Yves, the wine steward, had spent weeks selecting the best grapes for the Gaillard special reserve.

A hundred invited townsfolk gathered for the harvest feast and music. Dozens of women, young, strong, and healthy, had been selected weeks ago as well. They sat off to the side of the vats for the foot scrubbing. Their hair was lifted, sometimes netted, and they wore light and loose dresses, not their best dresses but their oldest and most worn, for they would be turned to rags after this night.

Excitement hung in the air. Ceremonial torches lit the courtyard, flickering wildly in the light breeze. Banners emblazoned with the colors of Gaillard flew overhead.

Morgan finally stood up; his raised hand held last year's best bottle of reserve. Linness, seated alongside Morgan and Eleanor at the high table, had never seen him so happy. The harvest had indeed been the best in nearly six years.

In a loud, booming voice, he began the prayer of thanks for the bountiful harvest. It used to be a mock salute to Bacchus, the ancient god of wine, until the church put a stop to that. He tilted dangerously back, and forgot the next words before he burst into hearty laughter with the rest of the crowd.

"Methinks your husband has enjoyed his bounty a bit too much," Eleanor observed.

Linness nodded as she whispered discreetly, "Bacchus doth drown more men than Neptune—I fear it is just so with Morgan."

Everyone knew Morgan was becoming a drunkard. No one knew what to do about it, though. There was no cure for the age-old malady, the unfortunate weakness of kings and peasants alike.

Exasperated, Morgan gave up trying to remember those elusive words. "Well, well, God makes only the water, but we made the wine!" The crowd cheered with wild applause and laughter.

Eleanor's brow lifted; a smile followed, "Thank goodness the bishop is not in attendance or Milord would be called up for the remark."

"Aye," Linness agreed.

The applause changed to a rhythmic dapping, faster and faster, urging Morgan to break the bottle open and start the festivities. The bottle was smashed over the wine barrel, signaling the dozens of musicians to start playing. The dancing followed.

The moon shone bright on the laughing faces of the wine makers and dancers. No soft lutes or harps here, nothing but the swift draw of violins and faster drums. The people danced around the vats as the women, with skirts hiked over bare legs, danced in them. Faster and faster until they felt his heart pounding with the beat.

With laughter sparkling in her eyes. Linness watched these women, her foot tapping away beneath the table. Morgan never let her dance to the madness, swirls, gyrations, the abandoned rhythm of the harvest moon. Eleanor clapped happily to the beat, more than a bit tipsy herself.

A pretty woman suddenly appeared behind Morgan. Linness took in her silk brocaded gown—much too fine for the rigors of a harvest feast—and the loose arrangement of her hair. She had never seen her before and she knew at once she must be Morgan's new mistress. The woman laughed seductively as she coaxed Morgan up from the table to join the dancing.

Linness pretended not to notice as Morgan, drunk, stumbling, and laughing, was led through the gates and out to the barren, moonlit fields where many couples ended the night, Clair herself had long since disappeared with Galazz, a man at least ten years younger than herself.

She turned back to the feast.

Michaels's gaze fell to Linness's foot, tapping away to the music. He smiled as he tossed the remains of a goblet and pointed Linness out to Clifford. Both men laughed as they headed toward her. Linness laughed as Clifford bent down and, ignoring her protest, removed her slippers. She screamed as they lifted her and carried her off to the vat. The two men set her down in the enormous wooden tub of grapes just as a tired maid climbed out. Linness hiked up the skirts of an old cotton dress as grapes oozed between her toes and up her bare legs. The music sounded loud, the beat fast, and she laughed with abandon as it suddenly carried her crazily into motion...

After the three-hour ride to get back, Paxton finally led his horse through the gates. The courtyard was full, the music loud. His gaze searched through the throngs of dancing people, stopping on the high table. Lady Beaumaris, Michaels, two of Gaillard's guild leaders and their wives, and all of them laughing and clapping. No Morgan. No Linness…

He looked to the wine vat.

Desire exploded through him, riveting him to the spot.

Moonlight bathed her dancing form. She tossed her head back and forth with the rhythmic stomp of her long white legs, her dark skirt hiked to her thighs. The long hair fell in chaotic array all around her form, her slim, seductive form spinning round and round with alluring velocity.

Gone was the demure and beautiful lady of his brother's court. In her place was the bewitching wood creature made of earth, wind, and fire. Here was Lioness dancing with joy and abandon as he first saw her over six long years ago

He stepped closer.

The pounding of the music reached through him fast and hard, as he stared up at the wild creature His gaze locked suddenly to hers. She stopped with a small shock. The blatant desire on Paxton's face knocked the air from her lungs. A tingling awareness shot down her spine He looked discreetly at the stables, that was all.

Then he was gone.

Breathing hard and fast, she managed to climb out of the vat. For a long moment she feared she had imagined him, that he appeared from her desperation and longing to see him.

The music roared in her ears as she looked confusedly about the darkened surroundings: the flickering torch line, the wild dancers everywhere, the few remaining seated. She spotted Lady Beaumaris dancing with Michaels and the others. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence. She slipped into the huge vat of water to rinse the sweet and sticky juice from her legs before she ran to the stables in a rush, the music becoming fainter with each step. No one was here. She looked to both sides, pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped inside.

'Twas quiet, so quiet. The pungent scent of freshly mowed hay filled her senses. Frantically she searched the darkness, her heart pounding. A bat flew with a sudden screech, drawing her gaze up to the hayloft where the disturbed night creature circled out the roof window.

Moonlight poured inside. A shadow fell over the ladder leading up. She moved to it and climbed up to the top.

She looked about the darkened space, seeing nothing and no one. She stepped to the darkest corner. Nothing. No one.

Breathing hard and fast, trying desperately to slow the wild race of her heart, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She had been imagining him! Like every night since Eleanor had come and inadvertently separated him from her. Like last night. She had dreamt of waking to his kiss, to the warm, firm lips claiming hers as his huge, warm body came over her, his forearms gently pinning her arms over her head as she felt the sweep of his tongue in her mouth. She couldn't move, she didn’t want to move, as he parted her robe and she felt his lips on her neck and ear, sliding to her breasts…

She woke to find it was only a dream.

Suddenly she felt the whisper of his warm breath against her ear. She nearly collapsed with joy. A hot shiver raced from the spot. Her senses flooded with the sweet taste of him, the clean masculine scent of hard-worked leather and just him.

"Linness…"

The easy way his long arms braced against the wall landed her on the very real shores of her dream. She felt the leap of her pulse and his name came in a husky cry. "Paxton."

Shadowed and lit by the light of the harvest moon, his face was intent, a look that somehow registered in the lower part of her body. His eyes appeared as black pools in the night. Desire mixed feverishly with joy, relief, and a twinge of fear, for the agony of their brief separation spoke of the dark future. "Merciful heavens."

She felt strangely like crying as she threw her arms up and around his neck. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was imagining you! How I've missed you—"

"No more than I, you. No more, Linness." He lowered her to her feet, savoring the sight of her lovely upturned face, the feel of her slender form in his arms. "
Mon Dieu,
you are a fever consuming me," he said as he brushed his lips against hers before gently kissing her mouth. "I am past care, mad with wanting you…Linness." He said her name as his lips sought her flushed cheek, his fingers sitting through her hair. "Linness, my sweet witch.”

The kiss expressed more, so much more.

He held the sides of her head as he studied her upturned face, the blush staining her cheeks, the satin arch of her brows and closed eyes, the fine small nose and the slightly parted lips, the quick rise and fall of her bosom. Hunger for her ran like brandy through his veins, strong and potent. Like the first time, he was afraid he could not manage the gentleness she needed.

Yet this concern disappeared as she said, "Kiss me, Paxton. Kiss me, again. . ."

His mouth lowered to hers in the instant.

His lips molded against hers, his tongue slipped into the moist recess. Dear Lord, she tasted of sweet ripened grapes. He needed more. He brought her head back, drinking until his senses flooded with the sweetness of her.

He gently pulled her against him. Her breasts were a soft weight against his chest as he broke the kiss and let her draw in air. He gently kissed the corner of her lips where yearning made them tremble, and then he closed his eyes, trying to temper the race of his pulse.

She was shaking. She reached up and took his hand, first stroking it tenderly with her lips before placing it over her breast where her heart beat wildly with heady anticipation, the lingering abandon of the dance. She reached for his large brass belt, fumbled for a minute before pulling it off and dropping it at their feet. He helped her pull his tunic over his head. The fine fabric exposed the tightly corded muscles of his stomach and then the rise of his chest. Her fingers ached to feel his sun-washed skin, her toes curling into the hay as if to steady herself. She helped him out of the rest of his clothes, her impatient fingers trembling as she did so. Once done, her gaze went hot with the masculinity before her. He caught her hand and lightly tasted her ringers, soothing them and stirring the sensitive tips. "I want you so badly, I'm afraid. Linness help me, help me be gentle with you."

She shook her head, for she felt the same desperation and urgency, and she was certain she could not endure a gentle hand. Her throat felt thick and hot, too hot for words. Agonized by her own mounting arousal, she took his hand and re turned it to her aching flesh, gasping as he cupped her breasts. Through the thin cloth his thumbs sought her nipples, prodding the peaks to tighter points.

Her breath sharpened as his hand slipped around her ribs to the buttons down the back. The warm night air brushed her skin as he pulled the fabric apart. She held perfectly still as his hands came to her shoulders, caressing the sharp curves there as he slipped the dress from them.