A True and Perfect Knight (16 page)

“…just as we will share a bed.”

She eased her hand from beneath his, but the warmth of his stare held her in place. She watched as he put his lips to the cup. Did he realize that ’twas the same spot where she had sipped moments ago? He swallowed, and the muscles in his throat moved. Her own throat went suddenly dry. She licked her lips. He lowered the cup, and Gennie’s hand went to her neck. There was more than heat in his eyes now. She fled.

As Gennie began to disrobe, Haven turned back to the fire. It should be distasteful to bed his friend’s widow. He thanked God that nature was taking its course. For even as he had asked his questions, he had felt the rise of desire in his loins. It was simple lust, recalled by the firelight playing over her face as candle glow had over her body that one time he entered her tent unannounced.

In this case, the church sanctioned his lust. He need feel no guilt over an act that it was his duty to perform. So why did he hesitate to join his wife in bed? Did he really fear that Roger’s ghost somehow stood between them? He could hear Roger’s words from the gallow’s steps. “I cannot trust my wife.” Haven shook the thought from his head. Roger was dead. Gennie was no longer his best friend’s wife, she was
his
wife. And tonight they would consummate their marriage before God as was proper.

He should feel no guilt. Gennie had by her own admission agreed to share that bed with him. He was not forcing her. No more so than he forced himself. Haven shook his head. This bedding was a duty, and neither his feelings nor Genvieve’s were important. If neither of them received pleasure, at least their souls would be safe. He grimaced and drained the cup, trying to sweeten the bitter taste that duty left in his mouth.

Chapter Thirteen

From the bed, Gennie watched Haven drain his goblet. He set the empty vessel on the mantelpiece. Her husband stood for a few moments, staring into the flames that cast the only light in the room. Then he stretched his arms above his head, reached over his shoulders, grasped the back of his tunic and swept it over his head.

At the sight, Gennie’s face flushed, and her chest felt tight. Merci Dieu,
Haven cannot see me.
She had seen many men as tall as Haven; Roger had been one. She had seen many men whose backs were as broad as Haven’s. Even a few who had shared both height and breadth. But none had combined that height and breadth with the same sleekness of muscle and beauty of form that Haven displayed.

An upbringing fostered on legends and housewifery had not given Gennie the words to describe the muscles shaped by strength of sinew and length of bone into one of God’s most alluring creatures. Gennie felt as if Lancelot and Gawain combined had stepped into her chamber. The flutter that twisted her abdomen and the fanciful turn of her thoughts unsettled her. She drew the sheet up over naked breasts that suddenly acquired an almost painfully pleasant twinge.

Haven shifted, tossing the tunic toward a chest that sat beneath one of the chamber’s two narrow windows. The air stirred, and Gennie caught the faint scent of leather and man. He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the mantel. Firelight danced across muscles that rippled and stretched. His hose tightened around thighs that swelled with tension. Gennie felt her insides melt.

What was he thinking? she wondered. Roger, the only other man who had shared her bed—and that rarely—had never paused or hesitated. He had climbed into bed, spread her legs and thrust himself upon her as quickly as possible. He had even insisted she sleep naked so that her nightrobe would not inconvenience him. All men were the same, were they not? So what was de Sessions waiting for?

“Are you ready for me?”

The soft question exploded in Gennie’s ears. Was he being considerate? “
Oui
, I am ready.” As ready as any woman could possibly be to have her body invaded, she thought.

Haven turned around and bent to remove his hose. Gennie lay back and tried to relax before the coming onslaught. She closed her eyes. She did not want to see him. She just wanted to get the bedding over with, so she could go to sleep.

The covers lifted away, and Gennie felt the cooler air of the room sift over her body. The fire’s heat was weak and did not reach the bed. Gennie shivered a bit as goose bumps roughened her skin. The delay was intolerable. “What are you waiting for?”

“I wish to look at the woman who will bear my children.”

It was not enough that he had to examine her like a broodmare, he had to remind her of the real purpose for this mating. There would be no affection or love in this marriage. How could there be between two people who bore so little trust for each other?

Gennie cracked her eyelids. Fair was fair, and if he would examine her, then she was entitled to a peek at the very least. He was magnificent. All thick thighs and narrow hips. Lean-fleshed and sculpted like the ancient heroes she had been raised to admire. A dusting of golden-brown hairs glittered across his chest narrowing down, down to his… Gennie shut her eyes again.

She did not want to see. Did not want to know the too solid evidence of life that throbbed and pulsed within him. That would soon pulse and,
Sacre Dieu
, grow within her, if he was as potent a man as he looked to be.

The bed sagged. Gennie felt the covers slide back up over her. Heat from his body seared her. An answering flush sprang from the nerves that burned beneath her skin. But Haven did not touch her. Not even the faint mist of his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple.

“Open your eyes, wife.”

Gennie obeyed, staring ahead into the semidarkness. At least he had finally called her something besides “madame” or “widow”.

“I will try not to hurt you.” His easy rumble crossed her ears and sank through her body. Its vibrations joined the dance of butterflies that shifted from her breasts to her toes, causing her stomach to jump and her thighs to tremble. Was this some trick? Roger had never given thought to her comfort, why should Haven?

“I am not untried, sir.”

He had the ill grace to chuckle.

“Thomas is ample evidence of that. Nay, ’tis not lack of experience that would cause you harm.” He placed his hand on her arm and stroked from shoulder to fingers and back.

“What then?” Gennie’s mind scrambled for the possible cause of his words. Better to think than feel the terrifying tremors that shot through her at his touch.

The gentle caress continued, shifting by slow increments from arm to body, belly to breast, where his large hand finally came to rest. “Suffice it when I tell you that I’ve been about the king’s business for these past three months.”

He leaned closer to her. Gennie felt his lips on her forehead, her eyes, her cheek. He grazed her temple with his tongue and scraped his teeth over her earlobe. His palm closed around her breast, then opened, rubbing tiny circles across the sensitized tip.

Surely her heart would burst through her chest, it beat so hard and furious. She would bloody the sheets with such a violent death.

“You are not breathing, Gennie.” His lips moved constantly. Flickered over her ear, down her jaw. “You have to breathe.”

Mesmerized, she opened her mouth to obey. Those lips settled on hers. She sucked in air and his tongue, all in one life-giving gasp.

“Mmmm.”

That groan of satisfaction. Was it hers? His? It hardly mattered. No sooner had her mouth whispered its delight at being plundered than a thousand other parts of her body shouted their discontent at his benign neglect. Haven seemed intent on pleasing all of them. And her body, traitor that it was, seemed greedily intent on helping him.

She tried, she really tried to remain still and compliant as Roger had expected of her. But Haven’s wandering hands drew surprising urges from within her. His breath upon her face produced shivers throughout her entire body, as his lips, firm and soft, traversed the skin from her mouth to her ear and down her neck. When his mouth finally settled on her breasts, flaying each nipple with delicate strokes, heat flooded her belly. Her fingers itched. She clenched them against the desire to grasp his head, to press him more solidly to her breast and soothe the ache he stirred there. She would not be the cause of his displeasure in this mating. His teeth closed on her breast in a gentle bite. She could not prevent herself from arching her back or uttering a small cry.

“…so good.” His voice came to her as if from a distance. “Gennie, touch me.”

Touch him?
Roger had never wanted her to touch him. “Wh…where?”

“Here.” Haven grasped her hand and placed it on his hip.

Her palm uncurled of its own accord. Her fingers tested the texture of his skin and slipped around to his buttock.

“Yes,” he breathed into her ear. “More. Please touch me more.”

“Where?” she asked again, hardly daring to think as her fingers traced circles over his back.

“Anywhere, everywhere.”

His mouth closed over hers again.

She didn’t think, simply reveled in the strength and texture of him. How different the male form was. How unexpectedly wonderful to touch a man. What delicious torment to stroke her hands over him, to arch her body closer to his. She felt the press of his knee against her limbs. Her legs shifted beneath his weight. She flung her head to the side, breaking the kiss.

He propped himself on one elbow and cupped her cheek with his free hand. “What is it, Gennie? Did I hurt you?”

“Nay.” She looked at him, looming over her, his eyes agleam in the dark. “I…I don’t know what it is. I feel so strange, so…needful.”

The sheen of his teeth revealed his smile. “I feel needful too.”

“What can we do about it?”

“Let me show you?”

She should fear him, this man who had betrayed his friend to seek the king’s favor, but in this moment, she could not. Somehow he created such desire in her that she would risk all for the satisfaction he promised. She nodded.

His hand left her face and traveled the length of her body to the patch of hair where her thighs met. He rested there a moment, then pressed with his palm.

“Ahh,” she breathed. Her legs parted, and she lifted her hips.

His fingers slipped between the folds of skin that hid her womanhood. She felt the slickness that his handling drew forth. Dear Lord, what was he doing to her? She thrust her hips against his hand. It wasn’t enough.

She felt his legs slide between hers. The hair of his thighs tickled the sensitive skin of hers. She spread her legs wider. He moved his hand upward to her breast.

His hips sank down on her. His manhood pressed at the entrance to her body.

She closed her eyes. ’Twas madness surely to let this man she didn’t trust take her body so easily, the thought skittered through her mind. But he was her husband, and the madness was so very sweet.

“Gennie look at me.”

She lifted her gaze to his.

He eased his way into her and out again, then again. She felt her body stretch and clasp around him. She moved beneath him and drew from him a groan. He thrust faster, so she shifted her hips again. His groan became a roar. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, exposing her to his touch. She sobbed with each stroke of his body, each flick of his finger over her sensitized flesh. She reached for his hips. Her nails sank into his flesh. He thrust deeper and harder until her body lifted from the bed and she tumbled into a fantasy of splintered darkness and heat where Haven was the only solid presence. She clung to him, certain that she would be lost forever without him.

Haven drifted back to reality. He felt Gennie’s heart pounding beneath his own. Heard her shallow breathing. The musk of sex swamped the lavender he had come to associate with her. He lifted himself away, and her breathing eased. He looked down at her. Her body, flushed and sweaty in the firelight, was more beautiful than any other woman he had ever met.

In her he found delight and wonder. So sweetly untutored when he demanded she touch him and she asked where. He had shown her. She became ravenous in search of her satisfaction, and his. He smiled, settled beside her and brushed a finger against the lashes that dusted her cheeks. He wanted to see once more those green eyes dazed with passion and desire because of him.

What kind of man had Roger been to find such a treasure unappealing? Haven thought he had known his friend better than anyone, but he had not known that Roger would treat women with callous selfishness. And he had not believed that Roger was capable of treason all on his own.

Guilt flooded Haven. What kind of man was he to slake his body so thoroughly on a woman he couldn’t trust? To lay with Roger’s widow, when he was sworn to protect her, despite that lack of trust?

He gathered Gennie to him, pulling the covers up to ward off any chill. She may have been Roger’s widow, but she was his wife now. The tenderness he felt for her at this moment frightened him. He was unused to fear and did not understand how this woman could inspire it in him. He shoved the feeling aside. He would keep her safe for the sake of the children she would bear him. And since he could not bring himself to trust her, he would guard his heart against her.

Gennie wakened to the feel of Haven’s arm around her waist, anchoring her back to his chest.
Merci Dieu
, bedding with Roger had never been like that. If all men were alike, she wondered, then who was the aberration, Roger or Haven? For the sake of every other woman in the world, Gennie prayed that more men were like Haven than Roger.