Angel of the Knight (15 page)

The thin shift that she wore suddenly became too thick, too hot to bear against her sensitive skin. Her fingers itched to touch him, yet she lacked the boldness. The best her timidity would allow was to wrap her arms around his neck and let her fingers play with the silky, flaxen hair. Purring, she nestled closer while breathing in his essence of sweat, passion and maleness.

Hard, smooth muscles along his chest met the soft mounds of hers. The contrast made her want to explore the difference between his body and her own. Pushing past her shyness, she slipped her hands beneath his tunic and traced his sculpted back. His groan of pleasure dissolved her bashfulness and replaced it with wanton curiosity.

Moving before she lost the courage, Gwendolyn dipped her fingertips below the waistband of his
woolen breeches. His muscles clenched, sending a delightful jab to the apex between her legs. An ache began to build, radiating upward, toward her breasts, her fingertips and down her back.

“Angel,” Falke growled, as he tore his lips from the valley of her breasts. “Go no further lest you are willing to give me all.” Want burned in his eyes, straight through her to the core of her soul.

A year more with Titus. Long, bleak days. She could fill them with wishful thoughts, or memories of Falke, here and now. Of his touch. His kiss. ’Twas a simple decision.

“I am yours to take, my lord.”

“Angel, you do me in,” he said with a chuckle as she pushed him to his back with a gentle shove.

Gwendolyn laughed, at him, at life, at the thrill of power that he was allowing her. Bold with want, heady with love and drunk from his musky scent, she shed her inhibitions. The laces of his tunic were gone, leaving a deep wide valley of tanned skin for her to touch, taste and nip. With impish laziness, she trailed kisses down his neck, then flicked her tongue across his exposed nipple.

His response tickled her. She’d had no idea a man could react the same as a woman. The skin tightened; his groan came from deep inside his throat. She thought of the sweet ache that emanated from between her thighs. Did Falke feel the same heat there? To further test, she slid her hand slid down his flat chest, along his hips, then rested on the shaft.

“Angel, your lord taught you too well how to
please.” Falke spoke through clenched teeth. His manhood dug into her palm. Stabbing heat radiated from the point of contact. Reason, caution, desecration evaporated from her mind like a morning mist.

Urgency overtook her. She needed….something, something that her body knew Falke possessed. Straddling him, she let the weight of her hair tilt her chin up, and concentrated on the ever-building fire located at the juncture between her legs and his manhood.

Instinctively, she rocked, begging, “Falke, pray, ease this need.”

“I am ever willing to champion a lady,” he whispered in her ear as he lowered her to the ground. His lips never hurried as they traversed the contour of her shoulders. The tie of her shift had loosened. Or had Falke untied it with his teeth? She couldn’t seem to remember, only that each inch her shift dropped allowed him more skin to touch, kiss and massage.

He ignored her insistent pleas to end this torture. Had she thought his unhurried pace a blessing? Now she cursed it. She barely noticed when one hand slid beneath her gown; Falke’s breath across her sensitive breasts consumed all her attention. Embers that had smoldered in the pit of her stomach flared into incredible heat as his hand cupped her womanhood.

“Falke!” She meant to scream his name, but instead spoke with a deep, husky voice. With cursed slowness, one finger entered her, and she shuddered from the thrill and ecstasy.

Passion urged Falke to take this woman, lust
tempted him to ravage her, but he could not. Pleasure held her in rapture. Hypnotized by the emotions flickering across her face, he reveled in her delight. With her eyes closed, her body soft and giving, she tilted back her head, giving herself freely to passion’s joy.

Her lord had never shown her such enjoyment, such delight. Somehow, he would find a way to free her from her selfish master, and then spend nights instructing her on the art of lovemaking.

Liquid heat bathed his hand as tiny shudders trembled across her bare skin. Her breasts peaked and a rosy glow flushed her alabaster skin. Now was the time. His excruciating wait would be over.

“I need more.” Angel opened her eyes wide, the irises dark with a woman’s desire.

“And you will get more,” Falke promised as he lowered himself over her. Still exercising a self-control he never knew he possessed, he entered the tight sheath of her womanhood. Basked in the pull of the tight glove of warmth that encircled him. Entered bit by bit, letting her grow accustomed to his size. Marveled at the smoothness of her as he slid deeper, deeper, deeper.

It was all too much for Gwendolyn to comprehend. Too many sensations. The forest breeze that danced across her exposed breasts. The currents of ecstasy that curled along her inner thighs as he lowered himself into her. But most of all, she was aware of the indescribable pain of need that kept growing as he filled her with his shaft.

“God’s wounds, woman.” Falke’s slow transgression halted abruptly. “You are a maiden.”

“Aye.” Gwendolyn sighed, still engrossed in the play of emotions traveling through her. Spine-tingling tremors racked her body, and still she felt the need for more. Greedy for satisfaction, she wrapped her legs around his hips and arched forward. “Now, Falke, now.”

Once given the power of choice, Gwendolyn had no intention of releasing it. ’Twas her decision, hers alone. And she would have Falke, all of him. A tilt of her pelvis, then she clenched her legs and pushed.

“Nay, I thought you were a fallen wo—”

’Twas no use arguing, nor turning back. The barrier separating Falke from Angel’s core broke with her thrust, and he tumbled deep into her. Though maiden, her body instinctively began the rhythmic dance of lovemaking, and Falke found he could not deny her.

A moan began her travel to fulfillment. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, urging him deeper, closer to the edge of control. He ceased to be. Instead, he felt himself joining with her, he and she becoming one.

If passion had a face, ’twould be Angel’s. Her fairy-silver hair fanned about her, the light breeze carrying strands to his face, their touch a caress. Each of his plunges brought her breasts to within kissing range, a challenge Falke could not ignore.

As he fell into her, her eyes opened. Clear, sapphire eyes that shone with awe, pleasure and rapture. She rose to meet each thrust with anticipation and
exhilaration. Then she laughed—a great joyous sound that seemed to surprise her.

“Laughing, are you?” Falke rotated his hips slowly, enjoying her slight gasp. “A man does not wish to hear his woman giggle as he makes love to her.”

“Really? ’Tis this ache I feel. Like my body is becoming air, and I am rising on the clouds.” Guilt clouded her eyes and Falke instantly regretted his banter.

“Laugh all you wish, my angel.” He gripped her softly curved backside and brought her forward as he thrust. “While I travel with you to the heavens.” Want dictated the pace. The thrust. The quickening.

Comprehension left her. Caution deserted her. She met Falke’s gaze, darkened to midnight from his lovemaking. His hot, pulsating shaft reached deep within her. She trembled from the sheer pleasure. How could she explain this gift he bestowed on her? A life spent guarding her feelings. And now, Gwendolyn could release. Let them fly free.

And she was flying, higher and higher. Faster and faster. She felt herself rise above the soft mossy ground, her soul reaching to merge with Falke’s. Her blood pounded. She couldn’t get enough breath. Still Falke drove deeper, faster.

The whirlwind grew within her, fueled by Falke’s exquisite dance, twisting Gwendolyn into an explosive ball of want, desire and passion. And then she
exploded. Great waves of bliss undulated through her and she groaned in pleasure.

Her fulfillment was Falke’s undoing. He could not withdraw, only join in her completion. With a mighty plunge, he released his hot seed, clutching her to him as she racked his back with her fingertips. Time ceased as he emptied his loins within her waiting womb, joining as he had with no other woman.

Sated, exhausted and still transfixed by the intensity of their lovemaking, Falke laid his head on her breasts. Inside her, he could feel the spasms of her fulfillment ebbing. And his desire reawakening.

’Twould be cruel to have the woman again after so thorough a joining. With regret, he withdrew and lay beside her.

“Nay!” She protested feebly and lifted her heavy lids.

“Aye.” Falke smiled at the rosy glow across the skin and the deep even breaths of her naked chest. He kissed her shoulder, then slipped up the edges of her gown. “You must rest.”

Like a kitten, she curled up next to him, her body molding to his. “I’m not tired. I’m…wonderful.”

“Aye, that you are.” Falke wrapped his arms around her, pulling her even closer, thinking she was correct in both statements. Later, after she napped, he would ask about her lies. Mistress? With her maidenhead intact? Yet he found it hard to be cross with her. The knowledge that he alone knew her as a man gave him great satisfaction.

Chuckling, he intertwined his fingers with her own and kissed each blunt-nailed fingertip. Her callused hands showed the signs of hard work and strength. Nestling her head under his chin, he wondered just how long he should let her rest before he could justify another round of foreplay. As he felt his manhood quicken, Falke knew the wait would seem like centuries.

Gwendolyn fought to reach wakefulness. Something was skipping along her hip, reaching under her gown, playing in the down between her legs. A recognizable warmth crept up her limbs and lodged at the pit of her stomach.

“Falke!” She turned and smiled as she met his mischievous gaze. She could feel the strength of his desire pressing against her shift. His hand sheltered the triangle of her womanhood.

“Twice we’ve made love and now you wish it again?”

“A thousand days and nights would not be enough with you.”

His hand traveled along her inside thigh, making her skin spark with anticipation. How could she deny this man who had opened the gates of her soul? Had let her feel for the first time the tremendous waves of passion?

“But alas, I fear I must return to the village. The sun has already crested—”

“What?” Gwendolyn stumbled to her feet, searching
for some break in the leaves. Panic seized her as she spotted the golden disk in the western sky. She had missed the midday meal. What would Cyrus think? How could she explain away her absence for the entire morning and afternoon?

Gathering up her belongings, she wrapped her recognizable old gown beneath her belt of pockets. “I must leave. Now.”

“Wait, Angel.” Falke jumped to his feet, searching for his breeches, boots and tunic as he spoke. “Come with me to the village—”

“Nay, I cannot.” Gwendolyn spotted the bowl of hair dye and snatched it up. Perhaps she could find some copse of trees and reapply her disguise. Her hair was dry, but a fast application would stay for a few weeks at least.

Falke pulled up his breeches and gave her an indulgent smile. “Have no fear, Angel.” He pulled on one boot. “And no excuses. I took your maidenhead.” The bravado in his voice grated on Gwendolyn’s ears. A man
would
crow about taking a woman’s virginity.

Giving her a wink, Falke added, “So there is no lord to keep you from me. There is nothing to separate us. I will have those thousand days and nights to love you.”

“Nothing stands in our way?” Pray God, let him see the error of his ways. Let him see he misspoke and let tenderness rule his heart instead of lust.

“Nothing. I will find you a place in the village. The work is hard, but the nights will be worth—”

Stunned at his audacity, Gwendolyn sputtered, “You expect me to just accept you bringing a mistress in right under my—” All the tender feelings for the golden giant scuffling for his clothes dissipated. “My friend’s nose.”

He didn’t care about her. Or rather, Lady Wren, Gwendolyn corrected. Oh, he wanted his angel, lusted after her, but the woman he should cherish above all others he didn’t concern himself with, not even wondering whether this would hurt her.

“Of whom do you speak?” Confusion wrinkled his brow as he grunted to get on his tight leather boot.

“Lady Wren,” Gwendolyn fumed. “Your fiancée. Remember, the woman who aided you? At her own peril, I might add. The woman who saved your sorry hide by treating the sick, helped you gain your knights’ approval. And you would return these favors by parading a mistress right under her nose? Spurning and embarrassing her in front of the peasants? Have you no heart? No thought of loyalty?”

Fueled by anger, her heart slashed with hurt, she unleashed all her fury. “I’ll not put my faith in your cheap vows and promises.” She released one last blow. “Your father was right not to expect much from you. It saved him the heartache I now feel.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, and again Falke felt
the same sense of déjà vu; as though he had seen her just this way before. He reached out to give comfort.

Turning her back to him, she glided away, blending in with the forest, disappearing as the underbrush concealed her. Sinking to the ground, he rubbed his fingertips over his eyes, worried that there might be tears. Every word she’d spoken cut him to the quick with its truth.

He always seemed to fail the ones he loved. Mother, Ozbern, Angel—and most of all, Lady Wren.

G
wendolyn wiped away the perspiration on her cheek, then returned to stirring the enormous vat of laundry. The bright sun, along with the fire under the kettle, made the air stifling. Few came her way, avoiding the heat and the chance she might ask them to relieve her.

But she wouldn’t. The laundry was the chore Falke detested most, and the least likely place for him to visit. For the past week, since their afternoon of lovemaking, she had managed to avoid him. And if he sought her out, there were plenty of reasons to explain away her absence. Ill to tend, soap to make, huts to repair, women to instruct in herbal medicine. Anything that would keep her away from Falke’s presence.

But this hour, midday, was the worst. Falke and his men would leave the fields for their meal. Even now she could hear their easy laughter and banter as they approached. Villagers called out joyful salutations and the knights returned each greeting by name.

Though she should rejoice at the bond now forged between the warriors and serfs, only selfish thoughts filled her. Did Falke ever think of the mealtime he’d spent gorging himself on her kisses and lovemaking? Did he realize how much he had hurt her?

’Twas all that Gwendolyn could think of. Gooseflesh prickled along her skin as she recalled the sensual touch of his hands on her body. Like a bellow, Falke’s full, masculine laughter carried across the village, flaming the embers of want she struggled to extinguish.

Gwendolyn clutched the paddle, leaning her forehead against the work-worn surface. Her fervent pace had not even gifted her with dreamless sleep. When fatigue forced her eyes shut, she was still haunted by him, reliving those sweet hours, and the terrible heartache caused by his callow soul.

A mistress right under her own nose! It made little difference that the woman was herself. Falke didn’t know that. And thank goodness he didn’t.

What if he chose to announce to the world that she was no longer a virgin? ’Twould be her word against his that ’twas he who’d deflowered her. He could give her back to Titus as soiled, and thereby free himself of a forced marriage to retain his land. Unmarried and devoid of any masquerade, she would be without protection against her uncle.

“Gwendolyn!”

The sharp call brought her back to attention. Cyrus had his arm around her waist, while Blodywn tugged the hem of Gwendolyn’s gown back from the flames.

“Milady, ye near fell right into the fire.” The laundress unclasped Gwendolyn’s hands from the wooden paddle. “Ye need to sleep.”

“I am fine, only careless,” Gwendolyn argued. Sleep would bring dreams of Falke. The drudgery of work occupied her agitated mind and kept her from confessing all just to have one more kiss.

Cyrus, his arm still around her waist, guided her toward the canopy. “There are plenty of vacant beds. Take a few moments and nap.”

“Nay!” Her curt tone hurt even Gwendolyn’s ears. Contrite, she explained, “There’s much to do.”

“And many to help.” Cyrus studied her, an anxious frown on his craggy face. “You’ve been working yourself ragged since you disappeared last week.” Rubbing her hair, he showed her the stain on his thumb and fingers. “And still you’ve not got the dye right.”

Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn to the group of warriors. Cyrus turned, following her gaze, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “Lord Falke was missing for a time that day, also. The two of you haven’t spoken ten words to each other since. Did you have an argument? Did he see you coloring your hair?”

Sighing, Gwendolyn admitted only a small fraction of what had transpired between her and the lord of Mistedge. “He does not know who or what I really am, Cyrus.” Summoning up all her foster parents’ training, she withheld her sorrow and tears as she revealed her true pain. “I think he never will.”

Falke and the small group of knights collapsed at the far end of the village, where the cool shade of the woods offered a respite from the noon sun.

Ozbern pulled his sticky linen shirt from his chest, smelled his armpits, then screwed up his nose in distaste. “Stars! I need a bath.”

“We all need a bath,” Falke commented. “A blind man could not tell us from those field beasts.”

“Aye, that he could. We are more agreeable.” Sir Clement rolled his eyes in despair. “How those field hands can get those oxen to move is beyond me.”

“Robert had one step on his foot. He broke three toes,” a young knight said.

“Oh, Robert deserves it. He’s almost as bad-tempered as the cattle are.”

“I take exception to that.” Falke’s young friend, still weak from his recent illness, called from beneath the shade of an elm tree. “And when I’m up to it, I’ll see you for that comment. Right now, ’tis too damn hot and I’m too damn tired.”

Falke enjoyed the sounds of camaraderie from his vassals and knights. The quiet animosity of Mistedge’s knights had warmed to tentative friendship and regard.

These men, more accustomed to the feel of a weapon in hand, were breaking their backs to make the fields ready to sow. Villagers and soldiers who were healthy enough, were already planting seeds for the harvesttime crops. If the weather held, and summer
offered no drought and winter came late, then Mistedge had a fighting chance.

For Falke, this past week had enabled him to sow the seeds of respect in his vassals. Laron would not be able to turn these men against him easily. Yet one woman held the power to do so—Lady Wren. She had only to hint that Falke had insulted her, and the newly forged loyalty between him and the vassals would sever. Falke had their service; she had their love and respect.

’Twas plain she knew of his affair with Angel. Why else was she avoiding him? Every day more serfs joined him in the field, and under the canopy, more and more empty beds appeared, which meant there were more and more helpful hands. Yet, Lady Wren could not spare even a few moments to speak with him.

At first he had tried to waylay her and explain away his sin. But he had forgotten how quickly she could disappear in a crowd. Each of his attempts failed. Finally he relented. If she didn’t want to see him, he’d not force his attentions on her, no matter how much her absence pained him.

And that was the true surprise. He rubbed his chest, a vain attempt to massage away the hurt stabbing his heart. All of Angel’s beauty and passion could not mend him. Their hours of lovemaking seemed nothing more than a regretful memory, one he would rectify if he could. Mayhap a good marriage to one of Falke’s lords? Anything that would
convince her to intercede and help him heal the rift with Lady Wren.

What he longed for was the opportunity to bring one half smile to Lady Wren’s somber mouth. He missed her scolding, aye, and even her lectures. But most of all, he longed for her belief in him.

He had not known how precious a jewel she offered him until it was gone. Faith, shining in her eyes, had pushed him to fight for Mistedge. Hope, radiant in her smile, had given him strength. Even now, as his men waited for the women to bring the food, Falke found himself searching the group for a glimpse of the one person who’d taught him to believe in himself. The void in his heart grew larger as he saw she was not with them.

“Water, Milord?” Blodwyn handed a gourd to Falke. Her forearm bulged from the weight of the water bucket in her other hand. Other villagers were offering water to the rest of the weary men.

Taking the vessel, Falke let the cold spring water trickle down his throat, then poured the rest over his head.

“That looks delightful.” Ozbern took the gourd from Falke’s hand and dipped it into the wooden bucket. He scooped out a cup of water and splashed it over his own sweat-stained tunic. Soon the other knights and workers were doing the same.

“My thanks for the refreshment.” Falke snickered as a few knights grabbed water buckets and dumped them over Sir Clement’s head.

“Milord, I need to speak to ye about Lady Wren.”

The serf woman had his full attention now. “What’s wrong? Is she ill?” Crushing bands of icy fear wove around his heart.

“Nay, milord. She’s not got the fever—yet. But I’m afeared for her.” The woman glanced about at the now quiet group of men.

“Pray, tell us your fear, dear gentlewoman.” Sir Clement stopped his antics. “The lady Wren’s welfare is of concern to us all.”

“Aye, she’s a queer one,” Robert commented. Falke shot him a black look. The young man faltered on with an explanation. “I mean no disrespect. If not for her, I’d not be here now, dripping wet, bone tired and glad of it. ’Tis just, well, she’s hard to figure out.” A mottled red blush spread along Robert’s neck and face.

“I know the truth of your words, Robert.” Falke motioned toward the villein woman. “Come, tell us your fears.”

Taking a deep breath, the woman clasped her thick, stubby fingers together in prayer. “’Tis been over a week since that soldier died, the last death in the village. And nearly a month since any new have fallen to the fever.”

Falke rose in one swift movement. “My God, that means—”

“The fever has run its course,” Ozbern finished. Looks of startled wonderment, then joyful reprieve gave new vigor to the men.

“Aye, Milord Falke,” Blodwyn agreed. “But that don’t mean nothin’ to Lady Wren. She ain’t slept nor
ate proper during this entire scourge. She shan’t last much longer.”

The loud celebration faded to silent concern.

Again in command of the knights’ attention, the servant warned, “Me and her man, Cyrus, just caught her as she fell asleep at the wash fire. That rag of a gown was this close—” the woman held her fingers a splinter width apart “—to the fire. ’Tis only a matter of time afore she hurts herself.”

“Order her back to the castle,” Robert suggested. “There she can rest in luxury and peace.”

“Peace?” Falke snorted. “You think she would get any rest from the likes of those behind the stone walls?” He stabbed his finger toward the dark gray outline Mistedge. “We know her, we owe her, we…care for her. Not them.”

“’Tis true, they’d be back to poking fun at her the moment she returned. Some of us must accompany her.” Ozbern lifted one brow and gave Falke a hard look.

“Order her back?” The aged knight, Cyrus, dumped a load of dirty linen on the ground. Shaking his head, he muttered, “She can’t leave. The ghosts of the past won’t let her.”

Exasperation made Falke clip each word. He’d not fail her in this small regard. “By God, if I order her to leave, she will leave.”

“You don’t understand, Sir Falke. Chains bind the girl to the sick, each and every link forged by the evil hand of Titus. A chain all my wife’s and my
love cannot undo.” Cyrus’s face became more wrinkled, older and haunted.

“Murdering her father ’twas bad enough. But her mother….” As he combed his arthritic hand through his still-thick gray hair, the older man’s voice became harsh. “Titus made her mother suffer for three days in pain, unaided by any physician or medicine. Three days of Gwendolyn hearing her mother’s cries echo in the halls of Cravenmoor, with no place to blot out those heart-wrenching calls for mercy.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, so like his foster daughter. “Gwendolyn sees in the sick and hurt her mother. And unlike Titus, she cannot stand by and see them suffer. And I must protect her from danger, both from Titus and her memories.”

“Sir Cyrus,” Falke said, calling the old man by his long-ago title, “rest assured, Lady Wren will be protected. From herself, as well as from those who would do her harm. You no longer stand alone in this mission. I stand by your side.”

“As do I.” Ozbern stood next to Falke. One by one the rest of the knights formed a circle around Cyrus.

The old man’s voice wavered as he spoke. “My thanks. But the castle offers dangers as well as a reprieve for my lady. Titus will know by now that Gwendolyn tricked him about her wits. And about a few other things he’s bound to discover soon.”

“Such as?” Falke queried.

“She’s been fixing the books. Making her promised
dowry appear not so profitable. She figured Titus—”

“Would never let her leave if it meant losing a sizable sum,” Falke finished. He chuckled as he shook his head. “I’ll wager she gave the lands enough of a profit that Titus kept her alive, yet not so much that he’d risk war over losing them.”

“Aye, you know my lady well.”

“’Twould be what I would do.”

Appreciation shone in Cyrus’s eyes, bringing a flash of hope to his dour face. “I have a feeling you’ve got a handle on some other plot, or you’d not have posted the sentries when we were in the castle.”

The old man still had the senses of a fighter. There was no use hiding the danger. “Titus offered to have Gwendolyn murdered, and spare me a marriage,” Falke explained. “Ferris gave Laron the same offer, framing me for the murder.”

“She can’t go back in there.” Sir Clement struck his fist on his palm. “The Cravenmoor knights don’t stand a chance against us, but Laron is another story. The man is sly. We won’t know what lords he might have already swayed.”

’Twould be just a matter of time before Titus or Ferris reached her. And if Titus learned the truth of Gwendolyn’s holdings, then he’d whisk her away, keep her imprisoned in Cravenmoor, and she would never escape his cruel domain.

There seemed to be but one way to protect the woman. And as the idea tumbled around in Falke’s head, it didn’t seem so disagreeable. In fact, the emptiness
in his heart lightened. Every instinct hummed with accord. There was respect, at least on his part, and with time, he would earn Lady Wren’s good graces again. After all, was he not known for his charm? And genuine fondness—that she could not have forgotten so quickly. And he needed her, for she made him a better man than he’d ever thought he could be.

’Twas true, she deserved better, but no other could cloak her from Titus’s evil. Nor would Falke tolerate another man trying to do so.

“We need to protect her just long enough for her strength to return. A few days.” He clasped Ozbern on the shoulder. “Then neither Titus nor Laron will be able to harm her.”

“Do you have a safe haven for her?” Ozbern asked.

“Aye, that I do.”