Unicorn Vengeance (25 page)

“Wolfram, I want to feel your skin,” she murmured urgently, but he would grant her no quarter. He slipped one finger into her and her eyes widened abruptly, her hands falling still within his shirt. A quiver shook her from head to toe and her body clenched around his finger with a strength that made Wolfram dizzy. He hauled her close and kissed her with savage intensity, but she met him touch for touch, quaking with her release all the while.

When her shivers had passed, Genevieve reached purposefully for the lace on Wolfram's chausses. He felt himself engorge yet further, but watched powerlessly as her nimble fingers made short work of the binding. She tugged at his tabard and shirt impatiently and spared him a glance so filled with frustration that had he not been so enflamed, he might well have laughed.

“I want you nude,” she whispered fervently. The ardor burning in her gaze had Wolfram complying with nary another thought. He cast aside the tabard and shirt, hauled off his boots and chausses with economical movements.

Wolfram had not even the chance to return to the makeshift bed afore Genevieve attacked him. Her bare breasts were against his chest, her arms were around his neck, the unfathomable softness of her stomach was pressed against his arousal. She rolled her hips against him and kissed him with abandon.

Wolfram was nearly lost. He locked his hands around her waist and they fell together to the pallet once more. Dizzy he was with the scent of her skin and the taste of her lips, but Genevieve wriggled atop him. Her knees were on either side of his chest before he could question her move. Then her warm dampness was atop his arousal and he could think of naught but having her.

Wolfram cupped Genevieve's buttocks in his hands and lifted her that he might slide within her. The collision with her tender spot left her gasping and she collapsed against him long enough for him to roll her to her back. Her eyes flew open as her knees locked around his waist, and Wolfram knew in that moment that she would match his passion.

The very thought sent him surging into her velvet heat. Genevieve writhed in a manner fit to drive him mad with desire. Hot she was, soft and tight, and when she moved, he was certain he had never felt such pleasure in his life. The pulse quickened within him, even as he hoped he could prolong this ecstatic moment.

When Genevieve's eyes met his with mischievous sensuality, Wolfram wondered how he had ever imagined he could resist this woman. She speared her fingers though his hair and hauled his head down for a heart-stopping kiss, and Wolfram knew he could last no longer.

He captured her delicate hands within his and stretched her out long beneath him. She locked her ankles behind his waist and arched to meet his thrusts. The heat that could not be denied rose unchecked within him. Wolfram locked his lips over hers in a demanding kiss and swallowed her cry of release in the same moment that Genevieve swallowed his own.

* * *

‘Twas much later, when Genevieve rolled away from him sleepily, that the scales were ruthlessly torn away from his eyes and Wolfram saw the magnitude of his error.

Genevieve's hair fell away from her shoulder in a dark cascade, revealing to Wolfram's entranced gaze a port-wine birthmark. He blinked, but the mark remained. Graced one delicate shoulder blade it did, and its very shape sent a chill through his heart.

‘Twas a cross. A cross over her heart. Wolfram propped himself up on one elbow to check, but his vision had told no lies.

‘Twas the mark of the guardians of the Grail.

Wolfram's mouth went dry. Any doubt he might have harbored about the truth of Odo's tale deserted him in the span of a single heartbeat. Convinced his eyes must be deceiving him, he leaned closer and peered at the mark. He ran his fingertips across it, and Genevieve purred sleepily. No counterfeit was this.

Genevieve was the last guardian of the Grail. Could this mean that all else Odo had declared was true? Wolfram frowned as he chased the fragments of the chanson through his mind. Had Odo not declared the Templars to be guardians of the family? Wolfram had granted little credence to the idea when first he heard it, but as he eyed Genevieve's mark, he wondered if that was true, as well.

He stared at her sleep-washed visage in wonder. If ‘twas true, ‘twas a travesty fit to strike horror into his heart that he, a Templar, had been the one to dispatch Alzeu.

Yet that was not the worst of it. Wolfram inhaled sharply. To err out of ignorance was one matter, but passion had led Wolfram down a dark path that had led to betraying Genevieve a second time.

Genevieve's virginity had Wolfram stolen in search of the satisfaction of his own base desire. Surely he could not have erred more deeply than this had he tried. He had betrayed the Order and its pledge yet again. Indeed, he was losing count of the incidences of his own faithlessness.

Such a knave as he should not be permitted to draw breath. Clearly his word—nay, worse, his oath—was worth naught these days.

‘Twas this he had to show for permitting the spell of the lute's tune to unlock the secret recesses of his heart. Long had he lived without the luxury of emotion, and too late Wolfram wished he had not turned his back upon that path.

Some stirring of tender feelings had prompted him to a betrayal that could not be brushed aside. He cursed the moment that he chose to ignore the lesson his life had already taught him. Naught was there of merit in tender feelings, and in the predawn greyness Wolfram decided he had best cling tenaciously to that belief for the rest of his days.

* * *

Genevieve awoke to fine clear sunlight spilling through the sole window in the loft. The air was warm, the light as crystalline and bright as it could only be when the ground was covered with fresh snow. No doubt had she that the sky was a delicately hued blue and that the air was crisp-edged with cold. The weight of Wolfram's arm was locked around her waist and the scent of his skin deluged her senses. Genevieve snuggled deeper beneath the coverlet with satisfaction and curled against Wolfram's warmth, more than content with the state of her world.

She opened her eyes and watched the light glint off his fair hair, realizing only when she met his eyes that he, too, was awake.

“I meant only to keep you warm,” he said with unnecessary haste. He stirred, but Genevieve had no intent of letting him move away. She smiled and locked her arms around his neck, her smile widening when he caught his breath at the press of her breasts against him. She pressed a kiss to his stubble-roughened cheek, loving the abrasion of his chest hair against her nipples. It seemed he stiffened, as though he might abandon the bed, but no place had shyness betwixt the two of them now.

‘Twas when her lips brushed his jaw that Genevieve suddenly realized why she had not been able to plunge the dagger into Wolfram's heart.

“I love you,” she whispered in awe.

But one platinum moment had she to recognize and savor the unexpected truth before Wolfram abruptly shoved her away. Gone from her side he was in a flash and hauling on his chausses purposefully.

“I said that I loved you,” Genevieve repeated slowly, stunned into silence by the glance of loathing Wolfram fired in her direction.

“I
heard
well enough what you said,” he muttered.

Indeed, this was hardly the response Genevieve had expected from her confession. She swallowed her disappointment, certain there must be some small misunderstanding at work. Mayhap he feared she meant to make him break his vows.

Determined to give Wolfram the benefit of the doubt, Genevieve sat up in their rumpled bed. Suddenly shy despite all that had passed between them, she carefully held the linens over her bare breasts and was acutely aware of the tangle of her hair hanging down her back.

“And naught have you to say in return?” she prompted with a feigned casual air. Wolfram shot her another of those ferocious glances, then tugged his shirt over his shoulders.

“I do not love you, if those are the words you seek from me,” he said tersely.

Genevieve caught her breath as his barb hit its mark, but Wolfram had already turned away in pursuit of his boots. Her mouth went dry, but Genevieve knew she could not let the matter be. His explanation did she need to hear, regardless of how deep the wound might cut.

“Why then did you couple with me?” she forced herself to ask.

Wolfram shot her a wry glance. “Because your form tempts me,” he said cuttingly. Genevieve knew he must be able to see the blood draining from her face. “Because I wanted you and you wanted me. Because ‘twas an experience I wanted to taste.”

Nay. He lied, she thought wildly. None could feign the wonder that had lit Wolfram's eyes when he touched her the night afore. None could pretend as skillfully as that, for Genevieve knew ‘twas more than the pleasure of the flesh that had made him moan against her throat.

But still his denial stung.

Genevieve licked her lips cautiously before she spoke. “So, you have no regard for me at all?” she asked, astonished that she could sound so calm.

Wolfram snorted with disgust. “No idea have I why you must complicate something simple with a confession that means naught.”

“Naught?” Genevieve asked, her anger rising slowly to the fore. “How can you say such a thing? ‘Tis love that is the gift making our time together so sweet, whether you would acknowledge the truth or not.”

“Nay, Genevieve,” Wolfram corrected in a low voice that told her he was serious beyond measure. “‘Tis pleasure alone that makes your flesh sing with mine.” As if to demonstrate his point, he leaned down and ran one hand over her skin. Despite her determination to resist him, Genevieve was powerless to keep herself from arching toward the weight of his fingers.

“You see?” he demanded with a triumphant air that made shame rise within her. “Animals and men both please their mates in this way, but men alone would sully the simplicity of it all with a confession of love. Make no mistake—‘tis love that prompts the scorpion's sting, not that rouses the heat beneath your skin. A false sweetness love promises, for ‘tis dishonest in nature, and wise is the man or woman who avoids its trap.”

The man protested too strongly to be believed. Genevieve propped herself up on her elbows and regarded Wolfram skeptically as he tugged on his boots. Truly these words could not be falling from the lips of the man who had just loved her with such abandon.

She refused to believe it.

“Wolfram, you cannot have known of love if you believe thus,” she whispered in a low voice.

But Wolfram's laugh was harsh, and Genevieve liked not the sardonic twist of his lips.

“Of love I know more than I would like to,” he said acidly. Genevieve left the bed and went to his side as she regarded him quizzically. No sense did his assertion make. Although Genevieve had intended to touch Wolfram, once she was beside him and felt the anger emanating from him, she could not. She clutched the blanket to her chest and leaned closer.

“How can you speak thus?” she asked. “I love you and I share myself with you because of that.” She reached out tentatively and, when he did not move away, ran one hand over his shoulder.

‘Twas then Genevieve felt the lingering chill within him. No longer did she question this insight she seemed to have of his thoughts when she touched him, for natural it seemed to Genevieve that there should be such a link betwixt herself and the man she loved. Hurt Wolfram had been, and well she could feel that that scar yet troubled him. That was at root here, and no more than that. He feared to be hurt again.

Well enough could she understand his resistance then, and she was certain ‘twas just a resistance to admitting the truth.

“Tell me the tale of it, Wolfram,” Genevieve whispered urgently. No other way was there to dismiss his fears than to talk about them. Mayhap if Wolfram told her, Genevieve would better understand the nature of his fears. He looked startled at the very idea, and Genevieve pressed herself against him, that she might encourage his confidence.

“Tell me your tale of love and I shall tell you mine,” she suggested impulsively. “And in the end, we shall decide together which tale speaks of the stronger truth.”

Wolfram held her gaze for a long moment, the expression in his silver eyes inscrutable.

“You do not want to hear my tale,” he said accusingly, though she heard the waver of uncertainty in his tone.

“Aye, I do,” she assured him solemnly. He held her gaze silently for a long moment, then cleared his throat and glanced away with a frown. He took a step away from her, but Genevieve was content to grant him his distance in exchange for the truth.

“‘Tis your lute that starts the trouble,” Wolfram began haltingly, though his voice seemed to warm quickly to the confession once it was begun. “For it recalls me to my childhood and the sweet cocoon of what my mother called her love.” He paused again and glanced to her skeptically, but Genevieve nodded emphatically.

“Tell me,” she urged. Wolfram propped his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.

“No fleeting golden moment were those years, for my mother was sweet of disposition, gentle and kind, and she lavished her attention upon me. ‘Twas she who played the lute, though I fancy her skill was not as great as yours, still she loved the music and played with a passion that could not be denied.” He swallowed, the gesture making Genevieve ache with the price this confession extorted from him.

“Loved her I did, with all my heart and soul.” Wolfram cleared his throat. Genevieve knew she did not imagine the tear that glinted in his eye. When she might have touched him, he moved farther out of her range, though whether by accident or design, she could not say.

“So implicitly did I trust my mother, that never did I doubt her intent that cold night that she took my hand in hers and led me into town. Late ‘twas and the windows were shuttered against the night, a light flurry of snow falling on the silent streets. Yet never did I even question the oddity of our being out at such an hour.