Читать книгу Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 70

Chapter Eighteen

I must remember everything, Anne thought, as the door closed behind them. Every moment so that I can relive it later.

Until Nicholas, she had known nothing of loving or kisses. Yet she had spent a lifetime near a woman who loved men. Lady Joan had borne Thomas five children. Some nights, Anne had heard them, through the door. The panting, the groans, the screams. And with the Prince, it was the same.

But for herself, beyond the kisses she had shared with Nicholas, there was only the mystery of want.

He put the candle down beside the bed and she looked at the straw mattress, hesitant to take that step. Now. It must be now.

Suddenly, he scooped her into his arms and carried her there and all her awkwardness fell away.

Tonight, she would be the Anne she was inside.

Nicholas sat beside her on the bed and looked at her, head to toe, without speaking. The silence lengthened, her cheeks grew hot and she looked away, unaccustomed to being examined instead of overlooked.

He reached for the fall of her hair and lifted it behind her shoulder to reveal her face.

Her breathing quickened. ‘What are you doing?’

A gentle smile in answer. No need to be urgent this night.

‘Looking at your hair,’ he said. ‘It is one of my favourite parts of you.’

Foolish flattery. ‘Red hair is frowned on.’

He furrowed his brow and skewed his lips into mock consideration. ‘Then I will not call it red. Shall I name it sanguine? Or gules? What shall I call it?’

‘Call it nothing at all. Don’t look at it at all.’

‘You’ve taught me to see.’ His fingers played with her hair, a gesture as intimate as if he was stroking her skin. ‘Yet you do not want to be seen?’

No. She did not. She wanted to close her eyes and disappear into him, consumed by this mysterious thing between men and women.

‘You have always seen me more clearly than others do.’ Be brave. Look at him. But she could not.

‘That’s what I want to do. I want to spend this night looking at you, from head to—’

‘No! You must promise me.’ She bent her knees, drawing up her legs hiding her foot, still in its red hose, safely beneath her skirt. ‘Don’t look...’

And of course, he did. ‘I’ve already seen it. You don’t have to hide.’

But she did, she had to hide so many things. ‘Don’t look at me at all.’ She leaned over and, with one breath, the candle went dark.

Outside, the sun had set. Fading light still smudged the room, but she felt safer now. More hidden. Less Anne.

He inhaled, as if to argue, and then her lips took his and there were no more words.

He broke the kiss and pulled off his tunic and hose. In the near dark, she was brave enough to shed all but her chemise, letting him help.

She felt his hands stroke her arms, explore her neck and she could scarcely breathe for the joy of it.

A human touch. She had not realised that skin could crave such a thing. Air, velvet, linen, silk, sun—all had stroked her skin without her notice.

But when had any man ever touched her with tenderness, with passion?

Touched her at all?

Now, everywhere, his fingers, lips, as if kindling flame wherever he touched. She succumbed to the feeling, to being pleasured, and then, as he cupped her hip, stroked her thigh, she tensed.

No lower. He must not go lower...

‘Shh. I promise.’

And because she believed him, she let the want crash through her.

Soft surprise, to discover how alive she could feel. Skin, breath, something even deeper trembling, fighting to break free, escape, faster than a horse could gallop, mobile as a falcon in flight. Soaring. Never, never wanting to touch earth again.

Here, now, finally, she was not slow or awkward. She did not stumble or hobble. Nothing held back her kisses or her touches.

Even though she had never loved a man before, it felt easy and natural. As if she were not the Anne everyone saw, but the Anne she had always wanted to be.

Free.

* * *

This, Nicholas knew he would remember.

Don’t look at me, she had begged. Yet as the last light of dusk ebbed from the room, he filled his eyes with the sight of her face, lips parted, eyes half-closed, freed of pain and worry, feeling only the pleasure of his touch.

He explored her skin with gentle fingers and watched her stretch and sigh and offer herself for more. His lips took the tip of one breast and she moaned in delight. Trailing kisses, he discovered one, then the other, the same, yet different, until he was certain he would know one from the other, even in the dark.

Now came the curve of her hips. A kiss where a bone lay beneath skin impossibly fair and pale. Skin no man had ever seen.

Her belly next, and a kiss for the dip of her navel, the centre of a woman’s wantonness. Yet she did not writhe, as he expected. Instead, she laughed, truly and lightly, with only the rounded edges of joy. And at that, he laughed, as well, as glad to coax her joy as her passion.

The passion would come.

Her legs next, for him to explore, but as he went lower, she tensed, so he stopped, and let her pretend that she could move as freely as any other woman.

Here, she could.

Her thighs were firm beneath his palms, the muscles grown strong from days of gripping the horse. But between them, ah, between her thighs he would find the seat of her passion.

A kiss there, too. A kiss on her secret centre. No hesitation now. No resistance. She opened to him, her slick scent showing that she was ready.

But he was not. He wanted to savour this moment, to relish her release instead of his own. He wanted to see her face when she felt for the first time that shift in the earth that signalled she had crossed to the other side.

And so, instead of taking her, he led her. First, with his tongue and kisses, tasting her sweetness, loving the sound of her breathing, shorter, faster. Then, because he wanted to miss nothing, he moved his kisses higher until he could look at her face again.

Her eyes, still closed, fluttered open. Then, a smile.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Now.’

And he did not take his eyes from hers as he slipped inside her.

* * *

Anne had thought she understood something of lovemaking. But as Nicholas filled her, she realised she had known nothing at all.

Man and woman did not fit together as two people who clasped hands, but remained in their own bodies. Instead, they merged into one being, no longer separate. He breathed in. She exhaled. His heart beat. So did hers. He pulsed within her and she answered, over and again, higher and faster and stronger.

And then, the strength exploded into shards of shining weakness and in that, too, she knew they were as one.

* * *

Nicholas awoke feeling as if his world was upside down.

Anne still slept beside him, but restless, he left the bed, pacing, realising quickly how small the room was.

Standing as far away as he could, he looked at her, curled atop the bed. Her pale reddish-blonde hair hung over the side of the mattress. Her foot was safely hidden beneath the covers, but the red woollen hose that had covered it had escaped and lay tangled in the linens.

And he thought of last night.

He had prided himself on many things during his life, but this, knowing that his lips, his fingers, had brought her such joy...

This made him feel finally, truly, a man.

He had taken women before, but he had taken them as he had ridden over the land, barely stopping to glance at it on the way. Were they fair or dark? Round or sharp? It did not matter. Each was only there to get him where he wanted to go.

But Anne...

It did not matter that the room was dark. He would know her anywhere now. Her scent. The curve of her hips, one different from the other, as each had a different job to do. He had traced her pale eyebrows now, memorised them with his fingers, learned the shape of her jaw by kissing it, imprinted her body on his own as if he were earth.

No woman had ever given herself to him so freely, without expecting anything in return. He had thought he would have to coax her. To tease her slowly, to lead her bit by bit. A touch on the hand, then on the neck. A soft kiss first. He had thought that passion would have to wait, as he drew her in.

Instead, the barest touch, the first meeting of lips and tongue, and all the hesitation was gone. She had yielded, pressing herself to him as if he were her returning lover, coming home from the war.

When in his life had he ever given himself so completely? When had he ever known a woman so completely?

If he never saw her again, he knew he would carry the memory until the day he died.

If...

There was no ‘if’. There was only the certainty that he must take her, as he promised, to a small, cold convent near the end of the world and leave her there, far away from the very world she hungered to experience.

He could not leave her.

Could not or would not?

To the Prince, of course, he had owed his duty. There was no duty here. There was only...

He refused to think the word. The woman was nothing to him. She would tie him down, even more than an ordinary woman.

And he was trapped by the argument, unable to do anything but watch her and wait for her to wake, not knowing what would happen when she did.

* * *

Anne knew she waked, but she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to face the dawn. Oh, she had given herself last night and she had no regrets. It was better than riding a horse, or chasing a hawk. It was as if her own, poor body could fly.

Oh, it had been more awkward, she supposed, than it would have been for some women, as he honoured his promise and did not look at or touch her foot, but at the end, it was as if her spirit, at once in her body and mingling with his in the air, was no longer felt trapped.

That was the memory she had wanted. That was the memory she would cherish in the long, dark days to come.

The bed was empty, but she heard his breath, near the hearth.

Life. Life must be resumed.

Stretched on her stomach, she pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at him, her breath catching in her throat all over again. She had felt him all over, but in the dark tumble beneath the covers she had not seen him.

Not like this.

Now, she could see those legs. As long and straight as she had imagined, and yet the thighs...well, now she knew. The strength it took to sit on a horse.

And the curves she had caressed on his shoulders and arms, smooth like the worn steps of Canterbury, now she could see the blue of his veins, strong as a river, coursing beneath his skin.

She would remember this, exactly. Later.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He opened his mouth and shut it, for once without words.

She felt, now, that her foot was naked and she sat up, looking frantically for the sock to cover it. ‘Don’t look,’ she warned, before she pulled her foot from under the covers, and he sighed, but turned his head.

Covered again, she tried to swing her leg around, suddenly awkward, all the freedom and grace of last night gone. Immediately, he was there, settling her with a touch, as if he knew just how to help without making her feel clumsy.

Oh, the tenderness in just that simple gesture. Equal to every passionate touch from last night.

He sat beside her and turned her face to his. ‘Anne...’

She jerked away from his hands. ‘No words. What are words compared to what happened last night? Nothing.’ Weak, worthless things.

‘But everything has changed.’

‘Nothing has changed.’ All gone. All the joy of the memory. Not to be visited again until she was safely away from him. ‘Everything will be as it must.’

He rose, pacing again. Ah, how she envied him those simple steps. ‘As it must? Or as Lady Joan wills it?’

Anne gripped the bedpost and pulled herself to her feet. ‘Or the Prince or the King or the Pope.’

‘What about what Anne wants?’

The sad smile came before she could stop it. ‘I know what Nicholas wants. Nicholas wants freedom. Nicholas wants to roam the earth of France or Italy or Castile or even Cyprus. Nicholas wants to roam unfettered.’ She bit her lip.

And so did she.

‘So Nicholas,’ she continued, ‘will do as he said he would and take me to Holystone to rest. Then, he will be free.’

Oh, the ache that word put in her throat.

She could not read his face clearly, but she saw a struggle there. Some tug of war between what he wanted and what he...desired.

‘I am not a man who falls in love.’

‘I know.’ And now for the lesson Agatha had taught her. ‘I am not a woman who expects love.’ Wants it, yes. Oh, yes. But she had known, always, there would not even be marriage, let alone passion. ‘This was one night. A gift.’ A memory to be taken out and relived when the cold walls of her sister cell closed in on her like the short, dark winter days.

And then his eyes warmed. ‘Not just one. We will have more nights to come.’