The Stone Rose (67 page)

She wound slight arms round his rib-cage. Their lips joined, and their tongues tangled. He heard her moan of pleasure, and slid a hand over the thin linen of her undergown to capture one of her breasts. Her body’s instant response fired his senses, and sliding his hand to her other breast, he repeated the movement. The response was equally delightful, and he heard her catch her breath. Feeling as though his loins were on fire, he shifted his hand from one breast to the other, and buried his head in her neck. The scent of rosemary enveloped him. His mouth searched for the small patch of skin he could reach through the neck of her shift. She groaned, and shifted against him.

‘Hold me, Alan.’ Her voice, broken and husky as he had never heard it, disordered his senses further. ‘Hold me tight.’

He moved his lips down the bodice of her undergown to her breasts, and experimentally, tenderly, bit the soft flesh through the fabric. She gasped. Lifting his head, he saw she was regarding him through dazed brown eyes.

He stroked the length of her body and admitted, somewhat wryly, ‘I would far rather eat you than your shift, Gwenn.’

She bit her lip.

He lowered his head and, keeping his gaze on her, nuzzled a breast through the linen. Her nipple tightened. Her eyes were cloudy. With desire? ‘Take this off, my Blanche. Let me love you properly.’ And without breaking eye contact, he caught the hem of her undergown. He pulled it up and with cheeks as bright as the poppies in the fields, she lifted her hips to assist.

Her skin gleamed pearly pink in the glow from the fire opposite the tent flap. Naked, and with as yet no outward sign of her pregnancy other than an attractive darkening of her nipples, she was more slender and delicate than he had imagined, and more beautiful by far. Defensively, she crossed her arms in front of her. ‘Oh, no, sweet love,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’ Relentlessly, he peeled her hands away and pressed a kiss between her breasts. Her heart was racing and her breathing ragged. He heard himself say, ‘You’re lovely.’

‘Alan.’ There was a catch in her voice, and definite need.

He stretched out beside her and drew her into his arms, and the feel of her breasts sliding warm against his chest wrenched a groan from him. It would have to be soon...

‘Gwenn.’ His lips travelled down, found a taut nipple, and he circled it with his tongue in a leisurely manner, giving her time to grow used to him, while he tried to dampen his ardour for her. But it was difficult, the way she twisted and turned, and clung to him.

Hands twining possessively in Alan’s thick hair, Gwenn found she was losing herself in a mass of sensations that she had never known existed. The breast that he was devoting himself to was aching, wanting more of these incredible caresses. What was he doing? It was so intimate, this kissing that was like, and not like, a baby’s suckling. She had a tightness in her belly that while it was a pleasure, felt almost like pain. Whatever it was, she welcomed it, for it made her forget other, deeper pains. Her neglected breast was aching for similar treatment from Alan’s clever lips. Mindlessly, she guided his head towards it.

As Alan’s mouth closed obediently over her other breast, he smiled. His Blanche was ready for him.

His hand traced the slight curve of her hips and, tentatively, he let his fingers drift across her pubic bone. She tugged his hair, pulled his head towards her mouth. Alan kissed her, fingers drifting lower. Gwenn squirmed like a siren against him, and he pressed himself against her, letting her feel how much he desired her. She groaned, and bit his bottom lip. Her nails were cutting into his flesh, as though she was afraid to let go of him in case he should vanish. She was moist inside, ready for him. Alan wondered why she was so shy about caressing him, surely no married woman could be as innocent of a man’s needs as Gwenn seemed to be? But the hot blood was beating in his brain, and the last rational thought that he had was that if there was any doubt about Gwenn’s sexual experience, there was no question about her response. He desired her, and she wanted him, and if all she wanted to do to him was to hold him, then that was enough.

He slid his breeches over his hips and eased her legs apart, moving the hardness of his thighs between her softer ones. Her eyes were shut. He wanted them open. He levered himself onto his elbows. ‘Gwenn.’ He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Gwenn.’ Brown, loving eyes opened and turned his limbs to water. ‘Now?’

‘Now,’ she agreed. ‘Only, please, hold me...’ And putting her hands to his hips, she pulled him towards her.

His body joined hers as though they had been made for one another, and he smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. She fitted him like a glove. He kissed her with rough passion, and when her hands slid up his back, they loosed a shudder of delight that shook his whole frame. Alan began to move inside her, and heard his voice, hoarse, call her name.

‘Love me, Alan.’ Dimly he made out her words. Each thrust brought him nearer the edge. ‘Love me...as hard...as you can. Oh, Alan... Alan. Hold me tight.’

This last was unnecessary, for he was already holding her more tightly than he had held any woman. He wanted to be closer, to merge with her. ‘Gwenn.’ He gasped his delight in her ear. She was kissing his neck in glorious abandon, licking him, biting his skin. Her hips arched to his, she twined her feet round his calves, and pushed and pushed and pushed towards his every thrust.

‘Alan. Oh, Alan.’

Her soft, delirious cries filled the tent, the most potent aphrodisiac on earth. He wanted it to last forever. What a transformation, he thought in wonder, from the shy creature he had held in his arms a moment ago. He felt his climax approaching. ‘No...no. Not yet.’ He almost screamed in frustration. ‘Tell me you hate it.’

He was astonished to hear a throaty giggle. ‘I hate it.’

Startled, and put off his stride, he lifted his head and looked into brown eyes that were as soft and welcoming as a man could wish. He was deep in passion’s thrall, but despite this, an answering smile tugged his lips. He moved inside her.

She let out a gratifying groan of purely shameless pleasure. ‘I hate it, Alan,’ she gasped, pushing at his hips when he stopped moving. Insides dissolving, Alan managed another thrust. ‘I hate it.’ He rewarded her with another. ‘I hate it.’ One more. ‘I hate it. I... Oh!’

He was witness to the wonder which flared in her eyes, and for one glorious moment she looked at him as though he were a god. Then, shuddering and pulsing all over, she closed her eyes and hid her face in his chest. Her delight was too much for him, and a couple of thrusts later, it was over for him too.

***

Berthe, the middle-aged alewife at the Sun Inn, stood by her cooking fire with her arms akimbo and regarded the blond foreigner who had drunk her out of mead.

The last of her customers to leave, he was a large lad – a Norseman most likely – and currently he looked harmless enough with his helmet at his feet and his corn-coloured head slumped over her trestle. The discarded remnants of a meal sat at his elbow. But Berthe had seen it all before, and she knew appearances could be deceptive. She reached for a broom, and thus armed, approached him. Prodding him roughly on the shoulder, she did not wait for him to stir, but asked, ‘You sleeping here, laddie, or will you be leaving?’

She didn’t see him move, not so much as a flutter of the heavy eyelids, but suddenly, one ham of a hand whipped out, caught hold of the broom handle, and before Berthe had time to drop it, she was hauled towards two red-rimmed blue eyes and an untidy beard.

The eyes blinked. ‘I don’t like your tone, mistress,’ the stranger said.

Berthe didn’t like his, but prudently decided not to tell him. ‘Sir?’ She was not alarmed, all she had to do was give a shriek, and her Alfred would charge in from the storeroom. It gave a woman confidence to have a husband like her Alfred. Simple, but strong, and completely devoted to her. What woman wanted more from a man?

The Viking released the broom and Berthe took couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘What did you want, woman?’ He scowled into his empty cup.

‘I’m locking up,’ she told him, bluntly. ‘And if you want to stop here, there’ll be the price of the bed to pay for. In advance.’ Berthe had learned the hard way. People with infinitely more charm than this fellow had slept in her beds and blithely skipped off before sunrise without settling their debts. She was wise to that trick and was not about to let this one try it on her. The Norseman’s bloodshot eyes were sharp and cunning, and cold as a wolf’s. So cold they made Berthe want to shiver. He smiled, and Berthe did not like his smile any more than his eyes. He slapped a coin on the table and her heart sank. She did not want this one to stop here. Like as not he’d slit their throats in the night and skip off with the takings.

‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, and relief flooded through her. ‘I want information. I’m looking for a young woman, name of Gwenn Her...Fletcher. She’s Breton; small, very dark, and travelling with an armed soldier. They were last seen riding north along this road. Have you seen them?’

Berthe remembered the couple who had eaten at the alehouse earlier and gone on. A nice-looking couple, obviously recently wed and very much in love. She recalled the man calling the girl Gwenn. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.

The stranger gave Berthe another spine-chilling smile. ‘Oh, aye. We go way back.’

The alewife didn’t like the foreigner, and neither did she believe him. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she said, firmly.

The dead eyes narrowed to slits. ‘They were riding this way.’

His gaze was boring holes in her, but Berthe was determined not to flinch. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she repeated, and scooping up his coin, tossed it back to him. ‘Here, take this and be on your way.’

‘They were seen this morning.’

‘They may well have been on this road, sir.’ Berthe made her voice as casual and convincing as she could, for though she had Alfred dozing in the back, this man had succeeding in frightening her. ‘But they could have turned off, or they might have ridden past without stopping. Whatever, I’ve not seen them.’

Pouching his coin, the Norseman stood up and his stool toppled to the floor with a crack. Berthe winced. He was a tower of a man, no question of that. He caught her wrist and leaned towards her. ‘If I find you’ve lied to me, woman, I’ll come back and flay you alive.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Berthe said, steadily.

Walking to the door, the stranger paused and threw her a final, terrible smile. ‘I hope for your sake you’re not.’

***

Gwenn woke at dawn to a chorus of birdsong and a luxurious feeling of warmth and contentment. She had slept properly for the first time in over a week. She was lying on her side, and one of Alan’s arms was draped around her shoulders. His hand rested lightly, protectively, on her breast. She didn’t move for fear of waking him and breaking the spell of the moment. She breathed in his fragrance, happy to drowse, happy to remember the joy of giving herself to him. She had not known, had had no idea, that making love could be so astoundingly beautiful.

How was it that Alan who had not said a word about love had managed to loose a storm of sensation in her, while Ned who confessed his love daily, had left her almost unmoved? Gwenn beginning to accept that Alan found her as attractive as she found him. Was he beginning to care for her? Did he need her as much as she suspected she needed him? He was certainly looking after her. But no, she must not get carried away because he happened to be a good lover. Alan had wanted to come to England anyway, he was not here for her sake. She must remember who she was dealing with. This was Alan le Bret, a man who prided himself on his independence, a man totally unlike his cousin.

As Gwenn thought of Ned, the miserable knot in her stomach made itself felt once more. Her sense of wellbeing diminished. Making love with Alan had banished her unhappiness, but only for a time. She supposed she ought to be grateful for little blessings.

‘Gwenn?’

She turned and, gazing into dove-grey eyes that were sleepy and smiling and soft as the dawn, was attacked by a painful rush of longing. If only he would always look at her like that; as though he did love her, as though he did need her. Hastily, she pulled herself together. That tender look would vanish when he was fully awake. It was only there because they had been lovers last night. Besides, love brought pain. Alan had learned that years ago. What would it take to teach her the lesson?

‘Good morning,’ she smiled shyly, suddenly conscious of her lack of clothes and of their intimacy.

‘Regretting it already?’ he asked, quietly.

‘N...no.’

‘You liked it.’

It was a statement, but she took it as a question. ‘Aye. And so, I think, did you.’

Alan did not deny it, and let his fingers wander through the silky strands of her hair. Her mouth had a bruised look to it. He was tempted to kiss it and take the taste of her onto his tongue again. His loins throbbed, and inwardly he cursed. He had hoped to be free of the demon desire this morning. He stretched his arms above his head. They should be getting up, but he felt very lazy, very comfortable where he was. Forcing himself upright, he noticed Gwenn’s saddlebag lay where he had left it by the entrance. That had been careless, in view of what it contained, but fortunately it didn’t look as though it had been rifled while they slept. Perhaps a discussion about the contents would quell his ardour.

He told himself that he was not picking this topic because he wanted her to trust him. Far from it, he was trying to distract himself from the feel of the warm, relaxed thigh pressed against his. He was trying to prove that he didn’t want to roll over with her in his arms and make love to her just one more time...

Her eyes were on his mouth, and he wished they weren’t. It was very distracting. ‘Ned wasn’t carrying anything valuable in his pack was he?’ he opened, cautiously.

She jerked, and turned her eyes away. ‘V...valuable? No, I don’t think so. Like you, he took to carrying our money on his person. Why?’

Smiling, he pressed on. ‘And you? Do you keep things of worth in your bag?’