Her fingers unwound from his coat and slid up his chest, arms moving around his neck. Her body was suddenly pressed tight to the length of his. Small breasts crushed against his chest, and her spindly arms embraced. He pulled her up until he was sitting back against the chair and she was standing between his spread legs.
They kissed deeply with a mutual need that sent Crispin’s senses spiraling upward. Lips and mouths slid together and they knew nothing but each other’s breath and taste, felt their two bodies react to each other. His hands eased over her shoulders, back, buttocks.
He stood and held fast to her lithe frame, holding her so that her feet lifted from the floor. She was so small, like a child, and her kisses, too, were like a child’s in their sweetness while at the same time like a woman’s in their bold exploration.
He swung her around to the table and laid her down, pushing up her skirts, but she shook her head, rolling it from side to side, nearly toppling the candle. He drew back, perplexed, and she sat up, hopping off. Her wicked smile was back and she curled her fingers over Crispin’s belt and dragged him toward the bed.
He followed without complaint and stood over her as she sat on the straw-stuffed mattress. She busily unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the floor, then began on the buttons of his cotehardie from the bottom up, determined, it seemed, to unbutton each and every one slowly but efficiently.
She stood and peeled the coat off his shoulders and let that, too, fall. Digging into the laces of his linen chemise, she spread open the neckline and used both hands to push the fabric up his chest until Crispin took the hint and lifted it over his head himself, letting it join the cotehardie.
Standing in only his braies, stockings, and boots, he reached for her, but she stretched her open hands over his chest, sliding her fingers through his dark chest hair before they found the many scars puckering his flesh. Her fingers, touching light as a butterfly’s wings, skimmed over the knife wounds, the sword cuts, the burn marks of torture.
They told the story of his life, and her fingers moved over them as if reading their tales. He stiffened and didn’t move as her hands and fingers paused over each one. Her gaze was intent on his skin with parted mouth, until those large, luminous eyes flicked up to his face.
Her brow furrowed and she gestured as if to ask, “Why?”
He closed his hand over hers and breathed again, holding her small hand against his chest, which was rising and falling vigorously. “I was once a man of great property and responsibility. I was a knight. But I chose an ill-considered path and lost it all.”
She pulled her fingers loose from his hand and sketched the scars from the torture of ten years ago. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Those were inflicted upon me. They were deserved. I committed treason, after all. But I live, as you can see.”
Her face expressed her disbelief, but he offered a grim smile. “It’s quite true, I assure you.” He sat on the bed beside her. Her head came only to his shoulder. She wore no veil, and he looked down upon the shiny crown of her hair. It was gathered in one large plait at the back of her neck. He lifted it, feeling the heavy, silky braid. He wrapped it around his wrist, toying with it.
She reached around, grabbed the end of the braid, and slowly began to unwind it.
He watched her for some moments. Each strand of hair that was freed kinked and lay raggedly on her shoulder. His fingers found them and he ran the silken strands over the calluses on his palms and fingertips. “I know nothing about you,” he said, though she wasn’t watching his lips as he said it, so he knew she could not “hear” him. “You are from France, but that is all I know. I don’t know your age or your family or … anything else.”
She pulled her fingers through her hair, loosening it all, and shook it out. White hair, fine like spun silk, drifted over his hands, a waterfall of elfin silver. He twisted it in his fist and bent her head back, leaned in, and kissed her again. Her fingernails ran hard over his bare skin, raising gooseflesh.
He drew back. His fingers caressed her face where the red mark from his hand was fading. “I’m sorry for this.”
She blinked slowly and looked up at him with drowsy lids, breath slipping over her parted lips. Her tongue poked out and licked them to dampness, and he decided to speak no more.
He unbuttoned her cotehardie, laying open the rough-spun material and pushing it down her shoulders. She shifted to slip it farther. He didn’t wait. He attacked the laces of her chemise and opened it wide, reaching in with his hands and closing them on her small white breasts.
His face fell to her neck, nuzzling the musky scent of her. The fine strands of her hair fell over his nose and cheeks. She was silent, except for her ragged breathing and small sighs.
7
The captive looked up as the pale man returned, stomping through the dark room. His hands scrambled over the shelf, making noises of wood against stone, until a spark struck and he moved back within her vision and lit the cold hearth.
“Well,” he said. His tone conveyed anger, and anger was the one thing she did not wish to cause. “So. We are delayed.” He stood up from his ministering to the fire and turned, looking down at her. “Shall we see about food?”
“Please,” she said softly. “You must let me go. There is no profit in this, you know it.”
“Profit? Oh, but you are wrong. There is indeed great profit. More than you realize. Yet there are … forces … in my way. But that is no matter to you. What matters is, you must be hungry.”
She hated that jovial tone that masked his ire. It was a false beguilement, and for its strangeness it seemed more terrifying than his anger.
He continued to move about behind her, outside her vision. She tried to turn, to see what he was about, but she could not twist that way in her bindings. He dragged something to the table-a sack-and drew something out. She heard him sawing on it. Bread, she hoped. But water would be better. She was so thirsty, and she had been alone for so long.
“Your soul, then,” she said softly, licking her dry lips. “Your soul does not profit from this.”
“What do I care of that? God will deal with me one way or another.” The sawing went on. More sounds. Liquid being poured into a wooden cup. She licked her lips again. It smelled like sweet ale.
“Now then.” He moved to crouch in front of her. His eyes tracked over her face in so familiar a gesture, it almost made her weep. Weep more than she had. At first she had wept for the sight of him, and then for all that came after. “You must be thirsty,” he said. He seemed oblivious to her turmoil. “But just to make this interesting, let us see if you deserve this ale.”
“Please. For the love of our Lady…”
“Now, now.” He raised one hand in a gesture of silence. In his other hand, he clutched the cup. She could see the glimmer of the foamy liquid within. “This will be amusing.” He set the cup behind her again on the table and took a deck of cards from the scrip on his hip. They seemed newly printed, like the finely carved block-printed decks she had seen before in Paris. The reverse design was Moorish, and the deck itself was clean and unmarred. “Tell me what the card is on the top of this deck, and I shall grant you a drink.”
She shook her head. “I am no seer.”
“It’s only a game, Madame. Come. Play with me. Look, I’ll make it even easier. You just tell me the suit. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? That’s a twenty-five percent chance. Much better than most people get. Much better than I got.” His eyes gleamed with a malicious glint, with memories that should have been long forgotten but had, instead, festered.
He tapped the deck with his finger. “Tell me.”
“I don’t want to play this game. Please. Just give me the ale. I thirst.”