“Undo the codpiece first,” he grinned at her, “or you’ll ruin me, my love.”
She recoiled slightly, but fingered the bowl between his legs, and looked at him, questioning. “How can I ruin you that way?” she asked. “Last time you certainly didn’t seem so delicate.”
“As delicate as a meadow lark’s egg.”
“You’re teasing.”
“There’s places where I’ll risk injury, and places where I’d sooner not.”
First she untied the laces holding the braies tight to the hose, then found the small ties which kept the codpiece in its place, allowing for hasty removal. She began carefully to slip it undone, whispering, “How confusing men are.” And, very slowly, eased the hose down his legs. Once the knitted silk reached his knees, she paused.
Still sitting in front of her, he leaned forwards, his hands to her shoulders. His voice was very low now, and gruff, as if he had forgotten the laughter. “No stopping. Kiss me,” he told her softly. “No, not like that. Kiss me there.”
She blushed, “I don’t know how to do such things. I might hurt you.”
He swung his legs suddenly to the side, pulled off his hose and slung them to the ground. Then he took her in his arms. “I’m not so easily hurt, unless you mean to bite it off. Yes, I was teasing when I said I was delicate, though the scraping of stiffened leather is something I’d sooner avoid. So I’ll teach you slowly, little one, lesson by lesson each time I bed you, and you’ll learn not to be timid. But now I want you too badly to stop for education. So I’ll swive, not talk, and the rest can wait.”
“Do I disappoint you?” she whispered as his fingers sought her own secrets.
He chuckled, though his mouth was against her breasts and her hair was in his eyes. “In no sense and in no manner, my love,” he told her. “I’m unused, perhaps, to bedding innocent virgins, but I’m learning too.”
“You said – you touched yourself – when we were apart.” She took a deep breath, but her voice faded out and she had to start again while he watched her, waiting and smiling. She mumbled, “If you show me how you do – then I can learn to do the same.”
“But I can’t suck my own prick,” he said, and the laughter was back in his eyes. “A fine trick if I could do it, but I’ll teach you in time. Now, breathe deep again, and I won’t hurt you.” He lay her back, straddling her, his fingers between her legs and his mouth to her ear. “And next time I’ll show you other positions, but for now I’ll keep it easy.” He pushed her legs a little further apart, then entered her quickly, thrusting deep. “Now,” he whispered, his own voice tightly under control, “put your legs up under my arms and around my back. Good. Link your ankles. Like this you’ll hold me deep, and I’ll discover all of you,” and he pushed suddenly and hard, making her grunt. “Hurting?” he asked, but she shook her head, and he took his weight on his elbows, laid his head against hers, and forced deeper.
Each thrust was fast and hard before he stopped abruptly, sinking down on top of her, panting as if gasping for breath, and she felt him pulsing inside her. She squeezed around him as he had told her before. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, and she smiled. Turning his head, he kissed her, his tongue searching out her tongue. She could taste the wine he had drunk for supper, and the rich fascination of his own spent desire. “Next time,” he murmured, “will be better. I was impatient. Each time – I promise – will be better.” And he rolled away, curled behind her, tucked the covers up across them both, clasped his hands around and over her breasts, and within one minute was asleep.
For some moments more Emeline felt his breath warm against the back of her head, and the heat of his body snug at her spine, his knees beneath hers. Then she too slept, and was not aware of dreams.
She woke to his kiss on her forehead, blinked and looked up. He was fully dressed, bending over her. “Your woman is waiting to dress you.” He spoke softly, and smiled as though not to alarm her, and she saw Martha standing behind him. “There is some visitor of importance downstairs,” he said. “And it appears we are both needed.”
The shutters, since they had never been raised the evening before, still stood below, and the sun streamed through the little casement window. Emeline mumbled, “A visitor? We never get visitors.”
“This one,” said Nicholas, “is come to see your mother, but it seems she is confused, and also distressed. She has sent the steward for us.” He waited a moment while Emeline blinked again, clearing her head of sleep. Then he said, “News perhaps. Pirates or portents, storms or secrets. Are you ready for the next adventure, little one?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Emeline sat up in a hurry, pulling the coverlet with her. “Visitors? Adventures? Is it morning? Then it will just be the butcher wanting to know what to deliver in time for my father’s return. Or the smith with a special price to offer on horseshoes.”
“Or the raker’s assistant, come to swill out the privies? No, my dear, it is none of those things, or your mother would not be acting as she is. Dress, and be quick. Then hurry downstairs.”
Emeline recognised the visitors as soon as she reached the lower sweep of the main staircase. The Sheriff of Gloucestershire stood solid, legs wide, as though expecting attack. His assistant, who was considerably taller, stood quietly behind. The baroness faced them, standing before the great empty hearth in the main hall. Nicholas stood beside her. He appeared to be supporting her, having taken hold of her elbow and with his other hand to her back. As the baroness saw her elder daughter approach, she went white and trembled.
“Emma, my dear. There is something which has happened – so very unexpected and very – very hard to fathom. But must be faced. Come here, my love.”
She went, standing quickly beside her mother and her husband. She faced the sheriff, saying, “There must be something very wrong, sir. Is it Avice?”
Nicholas said softly, “Your sister is still asleep upstairs. It is better you know first.”
“Then it’s my father,” Emeline said. “Tell me.” The baroness appeared dizzy, and stood a little bent, swaying and barely upright, though Nicholas held her firm. He signalled for the sheriff’s assistant to bring a chair, and sat his mother-in-law firmly down. He then moved to his wife’s side, his arm around her waist. She looked up at him.
Quietly he told her, “Emma, your father was found in Gloucester yesterday, although there was some delay in informing us since he was not immediately recognised. It seems he is dead. It was not, I understand, a natural death.”
Emeline stood a moment in appalled amazement. Then she whispered, “He was murdered? Like Peter?”
“Very like Peter,” Nicholas said softly. “Now I must speak to these officials in private, and leave you to comfort your mother. I shall be back shortly. If you want me sooner, I shall be in the side chamber.”