"I'm but a child in the craft," she said lightly. "You must be my master, or we won't proceed far."
He made no move, but stood with his hands open, a signet gleaming on his middle finger, the light sliding on his golden belt.
She lifted her eyebrows. "Or be you courageous in war and coward in chamber, knight, for shame?"
She had not expected such a crude hit to touch him, but he flushed at her words, response so quick that she thought it a taunt he must have heard before. The severity came into his face again, the hunting coldness. He closed the space she had made between them and lifted his hands. Without speaking, he began to unfasten her gown.
Melanthe stood still. The cote-hardie wasn't an elaborate fashion, but simple and warm for traveling, ermine-lined and buttoned. He pushed it off her shoulders. The fur hem brushed over her hands, dropping to the carpet.
Her white damask kirtle laced beneath her arms, fitting to her body. He loosened the cords. She felt the lace slip and knot in an eyelet. He worked at it, looking down, his face close to hers. A line formed beside his mouth. He gave the tie a tug, and then a jerk, breaking it, a force that made her take a step backward for balance. Without even unlacing the other side, he lifted the damask over her head and tossed it away.
Through her linen, she could feel the cool air. He opened his hands over her, his palms against her hips with only her thin shirt between.
Melanthe closed her eyes. Abruptly she put her arms about his neck, arching against him on tiptoe, seeking that delicious sensation he had given her at Torbec.
Velvet touched her breasts. She could feel his hard belt, and silk and pressure against her belly—but somehow she could not come within reach of the pleasure. With a small sound of frustration, she fell back onto her heels.
He pulled her closer. "Lady," he whispered against her ear. "Lie you down."
His hands slid upward, lifting the linen with them. On the eastern carpet before the chimney, he stripped her of her shirt, baring her of all but her white hose and garters, drawing her down with him as he knelt.
She lifted her chin defiantly, resting back on her elbows, refusing to be mortified by her nakedness like some fluttering novice nun given to visions and starvation. Shameless, he had called her—so let him see.
But she was terrified, her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure he must discern it. She wasn't a delicate blonde beauty, frail and dainty—she was dark-haired and white-skinned, and not a girl. Above the garters at her knees, she had two bruises on one thigh from some encounter on their wild travels, and another at her hip. He could not have spanned her waist with his two hands, and her breasts were too full to be the high round strawberries, or nuts, or even pears, sung of the ladies in romances.
He only looked at them for an instant, before he averted his face and closed his eyes, sitting beside her with his weight on his hand.
She lost her rebellious nerve and curled upright, hugging her legs to her. "Uncommon sour I am to behold, then," she said sullenly. "Indeed, a hag as old as you!"
"What?" he said, in a distracted voice.
He looked strange and uneasy, frozen in place. For a moment she was in fear that he was near a swoon or a fit.
"What passes?" she demanded, catching his arm.
He moistened his lips, pushing off her hand as if she offended him.
"Faith!" she hissed. "Don't tell me you're praying now?" She let go and plumped back upon a cushion. "Monk man!"
"I am counting," he said tightly.
She stared at him. "Counting what?"
"The chimneys."
"The chimneys!" she cried.
He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead over her. "The chimneys, the doors—for God's sake, I hardly know what I count." He drew a breath. "I'm—better now."
He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in her crumpled shirt. "Sweet Mary, I'll cover myself, to spare you this dire distress."
His hand landed firmly over hers. "No—lady. If you please." He turned a look full on her, his eyes near dark as the deep evergreens, the hidden life of winter. Like a secret his faint smile touched his mouth. "It's not affliction, but too great bliss."
Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he might say anything to maintain it. "In truth?"
He crossed himself, his face sober. She asked suspiciously, "My body is not uncomely, you think?"
With a sound low in his throat, he stretched out his legs and lay at his length alongside her. He laid his hand between her breasts and drew his knuckles downward, over her belly. His dark lashes lowered. He smoothed his hand up to her knee and down her hose to her ankle, up again, then between her legs, burying his fingers in her curls.
"My lady, you're delicious." He smiled, pressing the heel of his hand against her.
And there it was, the pleasure, the sensation she remembered. Her breath caught. Her body seemed to stretch, to move outside of her mindful accord, arching up to meet the touch.
"Ah," she said, and strove to check her unsteady voice. "Ah, but this is a riddle." She took refuge in a mocking tone. "Delicious to taste or delicious lustful?"
"The both," he murmured, "if I prove fortunate."
She gave him an arch look. "This is love-talking indeed. I'll think me I'm at court to hear such."
His thumb slipped downward, seeking. Melanthe gave a little start and pressed her legs together to prevent him.
"Lady, you're now at my court, where I rule." He gently resisted her effort, opening her knees. He stroked her, the inside of her thighs, her private parts, up and down again, touching her openly, making her flinch each time his fingers passed over that spot.
Her breasts and her body tingled. "Stop," she said, with a sharp intake of her breath.
"No, you've bid me teach you wicked delectation. This is the second sin of lust, my lady. Unchaste touch."
His thumb moved in a slow pulse. She swallowed. "That I can believe—is a sin," she said.
He shifted, moving up on his elbow. "And this is the first—" Without ceasing the stroke of his thumb, he leaned over her mouth. "Unchaste kissing." He tasted her with his tongue, then invaded deep. His fingers slid into her sheath, intruding, pressing, and stretching her. Melanthe whimpered into the double touch, the velvet weight and the hard graze of his jaw. Her heels slipped down the carpet; her legs strained as if she could have more.
He drew away, brushing his lips against her temple. While Melanthe searched for air, he bent to her breast. He kissed her there, at the same time thrusting his fingers full to the very depth of her.
All air seemed to vanish; she panted to regain it as he caressed her with his tongue, suckling her as if she were sweetmeat. Her body rose to him, to his mouth and his hand—unchaste beyond any recognition or heed that virtue might exist upon the earth.
"Unchaste kiss...unchaste touch." His breath was close to her skin, brushing and warming her as he spoke. "The third sin of lust is fornication, but we're wed, lady, so I can't teach you fornication. Or the fourth, unless you're a virgin, that I may seduce you from your purity."
"No," she whispered, curling her fingers in the thick silken nap of the carpet. "Not a virgin."
"I thought me not so." His lips moved over her shoulder, a gentle searching. She could feel him smiling against her. "Nor can we adulter, either by single or double, or commit sacrilege—unless you're under a religious vow?"
She gave a breathless laugh. "Do I look to you like a holy woman, knight?"
He lifted his head. "God shield," he said, with a sudden fierceness. "No, you look like my wife, fair and mortal—and nothing that we do between us be sinning, by the word of Saint Albert."