Nothing Else Matters (16 page)

“I don’t think I’l ever get to my feet again.”

Stian dropped down beside her. His blue eyes were ful of mischief. “If you can’t get to your feet,” he told her, “it’l be easier to tip you over backward whenever I desire.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and Eleanor quite abruptly col apsed against him. She didn’t know where the tears came from so suddenly but they

flowed like water. She couldn’t stop them and she couldn’t let go of Stian even though she smel ed the dry mustiness of the wolf’s coat on him as he held her close.

When she stopped crying she began to laugh. Stian preferred the laughter to the tears, though they both had the same wild sound to them. He just let her have her head, let her get out al the emotions until she was drained and exhausted. He just held her, giving her his warmth, not knowing anything else he could give.

It was Eleanor who final y found words, though it seemed to him as if the sun had shifted far to the west before she was able to find her voice. When she did speak, it was with her head pressed to his chest so he had to strain to make out the muffled sounds.

“No,” he said after he was sure he’d understood. Then, “Yes. You are a fool.” She looked up slowly. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed, brimming with tears again. “Not for coming here,” he added, hoping to keep the tears from spil ing over. “This is a good place to come.”

She raised her head a bit more. “We should go back to Harelby. You’l want to be with Nicolaa.”

He didn’t see any reason for either. “Why?” Her veil had long ago slipped from her head. Stian pushed strands of hair from her face. “I can’t carry you al the way home,” he added, though that was probably untrue. She probably weighed less than his armor.

Her expression changed from miserably bleak to curiosity. “Why would you carry me home?”

“You told me you couldn’t walk.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Isn’t a gentle knight supposed to serve his lady?”

“I’m not your lady,” she protested, pushing her smal hands against his chest. “I’m your wife.”

She was upset. She truly was jealous. He couldn’t keep himself from teasing. “If you’re not my lady, then whose are you?”

“I’m no one.”

Her answer shocked him into seriousness. It occurred to him that she hadn’t answered him at al but that she had spoken what was hidden in her heart.

And he understood exactly what she meant, for in this they were very alike. He held her face between his hands. Hers was a smal , delicate face. His

hands were big, red and rough from swordplay, scarred and freckled and altogether unlovely. He held her gently even so. He caught her gaze with his and dared her to look away, just as he’d made her dare the wolf. She didn’t flinch. She blinked as tears spil ed down her cheeks but she didn’t look away.

“You are Eleanor,” he told her. “Wolf mistress. Lady in the shadows, aye, but a power in your own right. You think no one sees you for Edythe and mostly you are right. I see you, Eleanor,” he told her. “Though you have to kick and bite and scratch me to do it, I see you. I’ve lived in the shadow of a celebrated man myself. It’s not such a bad place, much of the time.”

“It’s ful of mice.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s a brave mouse, you are. You ran here to be alone, didn’t you? When you couldn’t stand it anymore? Not just Nicolaa’s kissing me but being at Harelby? Being in Edythe’s shadow? You needed to get away from al of it for a while, didn’t you?”

He waited a long time for an answer. “You were kissing Nicolaa,” was what she final y said. “Not just her kissing you.”

“You should have moved faster than she did,” he teased.

“I won’t come between the two of you,” she said. She tried to pul away but he wouldn’t let her go. “I understand these things.”

“Do you? Then you’d best explain them to me.”

“You wanted to marry her.”

“Aye,” he agreed. He found himself massaging her temples with his thumbs. Her eyes were wide, studying him earnestly. He went on. “Aunt Beatrice

thought it a good marriage. I had no objections. Better to wed a friend than a stranger, I thought.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry you were made to marry a stranger.”

“It’s done me no harm,” he waved her apology away. “I may have a few scars from it. I’m a warrior, I can live with scars.”

That he recognized her own scars, the ones Edythe had never meant to inflict, the ones Eleanor hadn’t admitted existed until he spoke of them, was a

marvel to her. He was a marvel to her.

Tentatively, shyly, she reached up to touch his face, to run her fingers along the red fringe of his mustache.

“Tickles,” he said.

“Earlier today I thought you were an angel.”

“Can’t be an angel,” he said. “I’m not dead.”

“Then with the wolf, I thought you must surely be a demon.”

“In time, I wil be. I doubt even Hubert’s best prayers wil serve to save me.”

“You are a barbarian.”

“I’m a man,” he said, and kissed her to prove it.

She had thought al her emotions spent, but eagerness kindled in her as his mouth took possession of hers. It was only moments before she wanted more

than just a joining of their lips and tongues. She wanted al she could get of Stian of Harelby.

She suddenly craved his flesh next to hers, his strength covering her, his seed making a new life in her, everything that could join them together.

She hadn’t known how lonely she was until now, how incomplete. It was Stian’s touch that gave her hope for completion. It was Stian’s presence that

made her feel whole. His touch, the heat of his mouth, the tang of sweat and wolf on his skin, the sweet memory of his words, al these things combined into a longing for him that would not be denied.

She heard herself moan and strained against him as his lips moved to her throat. His hand touched her breast beneath al her layers of clothes then

moved to unclasp the pin holding her cloak closed. Her hands found his thighs, running her palms up the long, muscular length of them to find the place where his bracceas were tied at the waist.

They stood together without any consultation. Their hands worked together with no need for consent or directions, unfastening, untying, pul ing off and pushing down until al their clothes heaped in a colorful pile on the cave floor. Then they came together again, al skin and heat, fair and dark, male and female fitting exactly. Touching, they were gentle and fierce in turn as they explored and claimed each separate part of each other. It was a long time before they lay down together.

A longer time stil was spent kissing and caressing and finding love words for each other, love words that included mouse and wolf, angel and demon.

Half the time Stian spoke in the dialect of the Border, half the time Eleanor used the soft tongue of the poets of Poitiers. Neither had any trouble

understanding the other.

As night drew down, urgency overcame the use of words. If the spring evening was cool, they didn’t know it. They knew nothing but the warmth they gave each other, the surcease of loneliness, the intensity of pleasure.

When Stian entered her, Eleanor understood the songs of the troubadours for the first time. She had known some pleasure, born of angry passion, the

last time they had had sex but it had been feeble compared to this coupling. This was passion born of gentler emotions, yet the feelings were stronger.

Now they were one being, moving together, sharing pleasure instead of taking it from each other. Her head reeled as though she’d been drinking strong

wine, her blood was pure fire. Her body strained to meet each thrust, to give herself and take al of him. She panted and moaned and clutched at the

straining muscles of his back, drew his head down to capture his mouth. It went on and on until final y whatever their bodies did together was forgotten as the pleasure they built together consumed them both.

The ecstasy was bright, indescribable, ephemeral and forever. It left her feeling both sweet and a little sad, lost and yet complete, exhausted and elated, heavy in body and light of head. It had been wonderful and she wanted more than anything to find that bright moment once again. But not just yet. She was sated, spent, satisfied. Happy.

Gradual y as the world came to include more than just Stian and herself, she also realized that she was shivering from cold in the spots where his body didn’t cover hers. It was a warm, fur-lined cape she wanted more than another indescribable experience.

“Cold?” Stian asked, before she could summon energy to speak.

It left her wondering if he had absorbed a part of herself with their lovemaking. Had she absorbed a part of him?

“Cold,” she agreed. She found she was too tired to manage more than the one word.

Stian’s answer was a grunt, but he managed to rol off her, find their cloaks and tucked the cloth around them. She rol ed grateful y into his embrace and had no idea why he said, “Maybe now you’l know I’m not Edythe,” as she fel happily to sleep.

* * * * *

Roger wished Lars would stop looking at Edythe like that. The feast was done, the tables cleared, the wine and ale were flowing free. Roger wished Stian

was in the hal and that he hadn’t broken his lute over someone’s head in a drunken brawl, for music would suit the company wel tonight. His guests were ful of laughter and sated from their supper. It was a festive time and Roger felt wel content with the world. Except for the way his nephew looked at his wife. Not that he blamed the lad for worshipping at her lovely, delicate little feet. Edythe was a great prize, the perfect toy, a lovely ornament, and damned hot in bed.

But that was not for anyone but him to know, so young Lars could just stop sniffing around her skirts. Roger scowled at his nephew as Lars fol owed

Edythe away from the hearth. Lars took no notice of him so Roger got up from his chair and went down to join the circle of people Edythe was forming for a game. He noticed that even Beatrice was taking part in the merriment.

It cheered him, for his sister-in-law had not been her usual pleasant self of late. He’d watched Malcolm cajole and tease her al evening, and she seemed to be in as good a spirits about Bertran’s freedom and her nephew’s comeuppance as everyone else in the hal . It was good to see her remembering her

love of games and frolic. For it was Beatrice who had brought some joy back into his life after the death of his first wife.

“What’s this?” he asked, displacing Lars from his present wife’s side. “What sport are you planning?”

Edythe held up a square of cloth, a clean napkin Roger had watched her request from a serving page earlier in the evening. “Hoodman blind, my lord,”

she announced. She waved the cloth airily above her head as she cal ed, “Who wil be the first to seek the quarry.”

“What token is the prize?” Malcolm asked as he joined the group.

“Why, a kiss, of course,” Edythe answered with a bright laugh.

Malcolm looked around the group. “But what if I take the chal enge then capture my uncle? Must he kiss me then?”

Beatrice slapped Malcolm playful y on the arm. “Just be sure to capture something in skirts then, you fool,” she told him.

“That would be simple,” Malcolm said. “If I hood only one eye.”

“But that would be cheating,” Roger announced. He took the cloth from his wife. He looked about with a grin. “We can’t have cheating. I’l just have to show you how it’s done. Form the circle.”

He waited until Edythe and he were standing alone in the center of a cleared space between the hearth and the dais. The players included Malcolm and

Beatrice, Morwina, Fiona, Hubert, two squires and Lars. It was a goodly number for a game of hide and seek. Lars looked eager for a turn, for the hooded man had much license to grope and fondle the captured prey to try to guess their identity in the dark. Roger knew his wife would be much sought after

tonight, but he intended to find her first then whisk his lady off to bed while their guests continued the game.

With thoughts of that pleasant future in mind, he bent down to let Edythe tie the cloth snugly over his eyes. Then she turned him around until he was near dizzy before retreating into the anonymity of the circle of players. Roger lunged after her.

He felt a swish of skirts against his legs, heard the chime of her laughter, caught a whiff of her scent, but Edythe eluded him easily. He turned the way he thought she’d gone and stumbled forward. He grabbed at air and heard a girlish giggle. Morwina or her twin, he supposed. He turned again. There was

much laughter, drowning out his hearing. People circled him in the dark. He felt their movements, now and then a touch on his shoulder or backside. He fol owed after the circling players. He fol owed one laughing lady in particular, feeling the heat when the game moved near the hearth then the air on his skin grew cooler as his prey retreated toward a wal .

One more quick lunge and his arms circled a slender waist. He didn’t need sight to draw her wil ing form to him and extract the prize of the touch of her soft lips. As the kiss deepened, it was her tongue that searched his mouth, her hands that held him fiercely to her voluptuous body. His hands roved over her, from breast to thigh to rounded buttocks. Ah but she was a wondrous handful!

He was breathless, his passion rising by the time he lifted his head to whisper, “Edythe, my sweet.”

The hands holding tightly to his back grew talons that dug into his shoulder blades. Before he could protest the sudden pain, the hood was snatched from his eyes. It mattered little that he now had eyes to see, for the corner where they stood was deep in shadow.

“You were ever a fool,” a voice came from the darkness, husky with unfamiliar emotion, yet very wel known to him. He caught a glint of pale eyes, the set of her angry mouth, the proud lift of her chin.

“Beatrice?” he asked, as though he’d never before seen this woman he’d known for near twenty years.

Her hands had dropped from his back. She was leaning against the tapestry-covered wal . He knew he should move away from her, take a step back at