Alain finally managed to reclaim his lips and, yes, his whole mouth, from the last admirer, dazed and incredulous to hear the men still cheering all about him. Were none of them jealous? Were there no sweethearts among the girls who had just kissed him? He realized, with a sense of amazement, that he was rather enjoying the whole affair.
They ushered him to a table and sat him down. Before him, a whole pig was roasting over a fire. The aroma reached him, and he breathed it in eagerly, suddenly realizing how hungry he had become.
And how thirsty. A girl thrust a flagon into his hand and her mouth against his—only this time, however it may have looked to the outside world, her tongue trickled fire slowly over his lips.
Then she straightened up with a glad laugh, and to cover his confusion, he took a deep draft from the tankard. It was new ale, nutty and strong. He came up for air. Geoffrey slapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. "Drink deeply, my friend, you have earned it."
And Alain did, wondering whether country ale always tasted so good, or if it was only so after a feat of valor. Indeed, all his senses seemed to be heightened—the village lasses seemed to be prettier, their cheeks redder, their eyes brighter and more inviting. The aroma of the roasting meat seemed almost solid enough to bite, and the piper's notes sounded far keener than they ever had, stirring his toes to movement. He took another draft of ale; then a girl was pulling him up from the bench, laughing, and another took his other arm. They led him to a flat, level green, and began to dance. Alain knew the steps—he had seen them often enough, at festivals, and his parents had seen him schooled in the more stately steps of the court dances. He began to imitate the girls' movements, slowly and clumsily. Then he noticed that other girls had stepped out to dance with the young men, and he could copy the boys' movements. He did, with increasing sureness and speed, turning back to his partner. Her eyes glistened, her teeth were very white against the redness of lips and tongue as she laughed, and he found himself caught up more and more in her movements and his own, thought suspending, sensation claiming.
Then, at some unseen signal, the girl whirled away, and another took her place. She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss, clapping his arm about her waist, and moved through the same steps, but much more quickly now. He gazed down into her eyes, feeling his own grin widening, and let himself be swept up in the movements of the dance. Dimly, he noticed that Geoffrey was dancing, too, but it only seemed to be of passing interest.
Then, suddenly, the dancing was done, and the girls were leading him back to the place of honor, thrusting another tankard of ale into his hand. He took a long, thirsty pull at it. As he lifted his head, Geoffrey scoffed. "Pooh! That is no way to drink village ale, Alain! You do not sip it as though it were a rare vintage—you pour it down your throat!" So saying, he lifted his own tankard, tilted his head up, and drank it down—and down, and down. Finally the tankard exploded away from his lips and thumped down onto the table, empty.
"Aye, that is the way of it!" a village youth next to him cried with a laugh, and lifted his own tankard to demonstrate.
"Come, confess it!" Geoffrey cried. "You cannot even keep pace with these stalwarts!"
"Oh, can I not!" Alain retorted, and tipped up his own tankard. The ale was good, very good—but he did begin to wish he could breathe. Nonetheless, he was hanged if he'd admit defeat, so he hung in there, swallowing the rich dark tide, until suddenly he gulped air. He thumped the tankard down, drawing a very deep and welcome breath, and was amazed to hear the villagers all cheer. He looked up, smiling, not quite believing it, then grinning as he saw they were delighted to see him enjoying himself. A fresh tankard appeared next to his hand. Across from him, Geoffrey raised his mug in salute, and Alain felt a sudden surge of determination not to be outdone. He clinked his tankard against Geoffrey's, then copied his motions as he swung the vessel up. He swallowed greedily, though to tell the truth, he was liking it less than he had at first. When the tankard was done, he slammed it down, almost in unison with Geoffrey. The two young men stared each other in the eye, and Geoffrey grinned. After a moment, so did Alain.
Then the tankards were whisked away and full ones set in their place, but Alain was saved, because a trencher of sizzling pork was slapped down in front of him. "Eat, as a hero deserves!" someone cried, and he did.
He ate, he drank, and the notes of the pipes filled his head, along with the scents of the meat and the ale. Things seemed to be blurring together a bit, but the villagers were such warm and friendly folk that it didn't worry him. He chewed the last sliver of pork, and a girl was pulling him from his seat, laughing, out to the dancing. Laughing, too, he feigned reluctance, then fell into the steps with her, mimicking the extra sinuousness with which she moved, and if she took advantage of the dance to thrust herself against him, why, it seemed only polite to return the gesture.
Then Geoffrey's face was there again, laughing, raising his tankard in salute, and Alain was raising one in return, the nut-brown ale cascading down his throat, then the tankard gone, and the girl back, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile inviting, her body constantly against his as the dance moved them, till they seemed to churn as one. Fire threaded itself through him, tingling in his thighs, his hips, wherever his body touched hers.
Then she was holding up another mug of ale, and he was drinking it down, lowering it to look into her eyes, and they seemed to be huge and seemed to draw him in, and her lips were red and moist, so moist, but she was not holding them up to him now, but drawing him by the arm, out and away from the dancing, away from the fire, to a place where shadows gathered, where their bodies crushed soft bracken beneath them, and the music of the dance was distant, so distant, but her mouth was warm, very warm, encompassing him, and her touch thrilled him, so it seemed only right to return that thrill, if he could.
CHAPTER 6
The whole castle was agog, bubbling with excitement, for the elves hadn't made any pretense of keeping a secret. A brownie had popped up at the kitchen door to announce that their unwelcome guests were almost upon them.
Cordelia hurried out into the courtyard and took up her position in a patch of sunlight, doing her best to look stern and regal. She was resplendent in a white damask gown; the sunlight glowed in her auburn hair, carefully set off by a plain bronze circlet.
The bandits trudged in through the gatehouse, stumbling with weariness and coated with dust. Cordelia stared, appalled. Had they walked all night?
Then the foremost bandit looked up, saw her, and stared. Suddenly, the weariness fell away from him. Cordelia gazed back, amazed. Her first view of the bandits hadn't prepared her at all for this. He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen—though that may have been as much due to the hint of wildness in his face as to the actual set of his features.
Or it may have been some other attribute; there was a lot of him to admire, more than six feet, and most of it muscles. His legs were exceedingly well formed, she thought dizzily, and that sleeveless jerkin left one in no doubt as to the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, though she did have to guess at the massive chest beneath it. His face was open, his black eyes large and long-lashed, his nose straight though perhaps a little short, his lips full and red through the black jawline beard which blended into the wealth of black curls on his head. His teeth flashed white as he smiled, and the dangerous gleam in his eye as he looked at her struck like a crossbow bolt, arousing sensations inside her that she had never been aware of before, and wasn't at all sure she liked.