Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (37 page)

He gently squeezed her hands. “What is your question, Martine?”

She shook her head in evident bewilderment. “Why? Why were you willing to do it? Why were you willing to die?”

“Someone had to—”

“Nay,” she said firmly, and met his gaze almost fiercely. “Why you? Why you alone, when ‘twould have been safer with Peter and Guy to help you? I think,” she added, her voice quavering with emotion, “perhaps you wanted to die.”

He let her statement hang heavily between them for a moment, and then said quietly, “There’s a difference between wanting to die and” —he shrugged— “not particularly caring whether you live.”

She frowned. “Everyone wants to live.”

He looked down at his hand caressing hers. “Not if you have nothing to live for. Not if what you most desire in the whole world is forever denied you.”

Their gazes locked in intimate communion for a wondrous moment. But the moment ended abruptly when Martine’s eyes registered a sudden realization and she turned away. “Your land,” she said.

Land?
“Nay, I meant...” He meant what? What was he thinking, saying these things to her, preparing to deliver some sort of declaration of... of what? Love? Love was a liability he could ill afford.

That afternoon, when Peter had come to the infirmary to say good-bye before returning to Harford, he’d handed Thorne the little chess piece carved in Martine’s image. “You dropped this.”

Thorne had accepted it wordlessly, tucking it carefully beneath the straw mattress, where Martine wouldn’t find it.

“Do you love her?” his friend had asked.

“Nay,” Thorne had answered quickly. “I need her. It’s not the same.”

Peter had chuckled. “Isn’t it?”

It wasn’t, Thorne told himself, with more conviction than he felt.

“Don’t worry, you’ll earn a manor eventually,” Martine said now, her tone that of polite conversation.

Thorne looked away from her and nodded. “Aye.” Disengaging his hand from hers, he took her by the shoulder again. “Help me lie down?”

She wrapped her arms around him and eased him back onto the bed. He put the discomfort out of his mind, wanting to cherish the pleasure of her embrace, imagine it to be the embrace of a lover. His head sank into the feather pillow, and he closed his eyes, willing the last of the hurt to recede. When it did, and he opened his eyes, he found her looking down on him, her expression solemn, her sapphire eyes huge and glittering in the muted firelight.

“I owe you a favor,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

Her innocent words shot a thrill of excitement through him. He could ask anything of her, anything at all, and she’d be honor-bound to comply. Swallowing hard, he reminded himself that she had spent the past four days and five nights nursing him back to health. It would ill repay her kindness to take advantage of her. He therefore resolved only to ask the favor he’d originally intended.

Raising his hand to her veil, he fingered the heavy linen. “Take this off.”

If the command surprised her, she gave no hint of it. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached up, unfastened the head covering, and pulled it off, tossing it onto the chair, then shook her head. His breath caught in his throat as her hair, freed from its confinement, spilled onto his bare chest, a cool, heavy mass of gleaming silk.

Her scent—sweet woodruff and lavender, warm skin and sunshine—blossomed into the air, enveloping him, overwhelming his senses. He brought a fistful of hair to his face and inhaled, breathing in her essence. She leaned over him, her hands braced on either side of his head, her face very close, her eyes fixed on his. Her hair enclosed them like a perfumed satin tent—a luxurious hiding place for just the two of them. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being completely surrounded by her, warm and golden, fragrant and mysterious. His mind reeled; his heart galloped in his chest until it pained him just to breathe.

Thorne couldn’t keep from touching her, regardless of his good intentions. He brought his hand up and cupped her cheek. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if trying to resist him; but in the end, with a sigh of capitulation, she turned her head and pressed her warm lips to his palm. “Martine,” he rasped, curving his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer, closer...

She paused briefly just before her lips touched his, and he saw the apprehension in her eyes. But then she closed them and kissed him, really kissed him, with a passion and intensity that drew an ecstatic moan from his throat. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gripped her head harder than he knew he should, deepening the kiss, reveling in her taste, her warmth.

Unable to stop himself, he trailed his hand down her throat and covered one soft breast through the wool of her tunic, thrilling at the little whimper of pleasure that escaped her. His body responded instantly. He’d never grown so hard so fast.

“Lie next to me,” he whispered gruffly.

She kicked off her slippers and lay half on top of him, her mouth seeking his again, her hands in his hair, on his chest, stroking, caressing... With a mindless urgency born of fierce arousal, he tugged at her skirt, yanking it up and gliding his hand between her soft thighs. He lightly stroked her with his fingertips, then found her tight entrance and probed deep.

She gasped. She was wet. She wanted him, was ready for him. He explored her with a sense of awe, enthralled by the narrowness of her passage, its slick, inviting heat. Withdrawing his finger, he slid it upward until it grazed her most sensitive flesh. She quivered. “Oh! Oh, God!”

She buried her face in the crook of his neck as he touched her; he kissed the top of her head, nuzzled her hair. “Yes,” he whispered as her hips began to move to the rhythm of his caress. Her breath grew quick and shallow, her entire body tensed, and then she trembled all over, her fingers digging into his chest, her soft cries muffled by the pillow.

He held her until her breathing steadied, and then took her hand and guided it down over the sheet, shaping it to his aching need.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

“You’ll have to be on top.”

Martine’s eyes widened, but then she nodded, seeming to comprehend. She shifted position, glanced around to make sure the curtains were drawn, and then lowered the sheet to expose him.

“I’ll be quiet,” he promised—a promise he broke almost instantly, crying out in agony when she tried to position herself astride him. Her knee barely nudged his splinted leg, but it was enough to send a bolt of fire along every nerve in his body.

“Oh, my God—Thorne!” Martine knelt beside him on the bed, cradling him helplessly as he panted like a wolf caught in a trap. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s not your fault,” he managed between clenched teeth.

She stroked his hair, leaned over to kiss his temple. ‘Twas foolish of us to try to... We can’t do this. ‘Twill hurt you.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “Some things are worth a bit of pain. But perhaps... well, perhaps not quite that much pain.” He listened carefully to the quiet, rhythmic breathing from beyond the curtain. “I didn’t wake the others, but they won’t be able to sleep through much more of that.”

She glanced down at him. “Won’t you be... frustrated?”

Thorne smiled. “I have no intention of being frustrated.” He took her hand and closed it over his throbbing shaft. “There are other ways.”

She watched for a few moments as he guided her fist up and down, and then he released his hand she continued the caress on her own. “Is this what you want?” she asked. “I mean, is this all, or is there—” her hand stilled and she glanced up at him a bit timidly, “something else?”

His gaze strayed to her mouth, to her lush lips the color of crushed berries. There was something else, of course, but he was loath to ask it of her. It was a service only whores had performed for him, and for extra payment, at that. Despite her intellectual sophistication, Martine was, he reminded himself, very much an innocent. Such an act might disgust her, make her feel defiled.

She had evidently noticed the direction of his gaze. Her tongue flicked out to moisten those tempting lips, a charmingly unconscious, but nonetheless provocative gesture; Thorne closed his eyes, praying for self-control.

“Last summer,” she began, “at the river, when we... when we were together, you... kissed me.” He knew without elaboration what kind of kiss she meant. “Is that something that a woman could do for a man?”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

She glanced down at her hand resting on his erection, and then looked him in the eye. “Would you like me to do it for you?”

She seemed so sweetly sincere that he couldn’t repress a smile. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

“Show me,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

He trailed his fingertips down her face and tenderly brushed them across her lips. “Just... I don’t know. Do whatever you think I’d like. You could hardly go wrong.”

Looking decidedly unsure of that, she lowered her head, her incredible sweep of hair blanketing him like a silken cape, obscuring his view of her—possibly, he thought, a deliberate ploy on her part to protect her modesty. He closed his eyes, and after what seemed an eternity, felt the first light touch of her mouth on his tormented, straining flesh.

Thorne bit his lip, struggling for composure. He felt the whisper-soft pressure of her lips, and presently the hot, wet tip of her tongue. The tentative nature of her efforts only intensified the stimulation. “Oh, God,” he whispered shakily, his fist closing around a handful of her hair.

He’d told her she could hardly go wrong, and she didn’t. The most practiced courtesan could have done no better. What she lacked in experience, she more than made up for in her touching desire to please him. Her generosity in doing this for him moved him profoundly, and he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps, deep in her heart, she still harbored some real affection for him.

When she finally took him full in her mouth, he growled deep in his throat and shoved his hand through her hair. “Martine... oh, God. Yes!”

His climax approached swiftly. He released his grip on her head. “Martine, I’m... close.” She didn’t understand, and made no move to substitute her hand for her mouth. Given her inexperience, he thought it best if she did. “Martine,” he gasped, taking her by her shoulder and pulling her up.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nay.” He wrapped his arm around her, urging her to lie beside him. “Just touch me... like that. Yes... yes...” His heart seemed to swell in his chest until he couldn’t bear it for another second. He clutched at her, his head back, groaning.

“Yes. Oh!” Spasms of pleasure rocked him. He erupted in her hand, losing all conscious thought, all sense of time and space. Nothing existed but this moment, this blinding burst of sensation.

Nothing existed but Martine and him.

*   *   *

Martine raced past the chapter house and refectory, around the cloister, and through the passageway to the outer courtyard. She held her skirts up off the snow with one hand and gripped her veil with the other, her hair fluttering wildly with every frigid gust of wind.

It was almost first light. The brothers would be up soon to file into church for lauds, and she had promised to avoid direct contact with them. Since the infirmary was in their private area of the monastery—an area normally off limits to her—this meant she had to time her comings and goings in keeping with their observation of the holy offices.

She saw not a soul as she entered the prior’s lodge and sprinted up the stairs, but in the doorway of the central hall she stopped short, biting back the oath that rose to her lips.

Brother Matthew sat at the little table in the middle of the room, reading the Bible by candlelight. He looked up at her as she paused breathlessly in the doorway. His calmly assessing gaze took in the veil clutched in her fist, the loose hair that hung to her hips in a wind-whipped tangle, and, she had no doubt, the quick, scalding heat that stung her cheeks.

He nodded. “Good morning, my lady.”

She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Brother.”

She turned and swiftly ducked into her chamber, then collapsed on her bed, struggling to catch her breath and speculating miserably on how much Brother Matthew had surmised from her disheveled appearance—and her all-too-telling blush.

“Lady Martine,” he said from the other side of the curtain. “May I have a word with you?”

Damn
. She covered her face with her hands and sucked in a deep, pacifying breath, then sat up, swiftly tidying her hair and tunic. “Yes, Brother. Come in.”

He crossed to her and crouched down next to the bed, taking her hands in his. For some reason—perhaps exhaustion, perhaps relief at his obvious intent to make this as easy on her as possible—her eyes began to burn with impending tears.

“Please don’t misunderstand me, Martine,” he said gently. “I have the greatest respect for Thorne—and for you, for that matter. I view you both as friends—very good friends.”

She nodded, her throat too constricted to speak.

He drew a thoughtful breath. “And I’m not without compassion. Just because I renounced the pleasures of the flesh when I took my vows doesn’t mean I don’t understand them, even appreciate them. Such pleasures are a part of God’s plan, after all.”