Immortal Champion (12 page)
He stared at the cards a moment before he saw it. “Aah. I think that that is triumph?”
“Triumph, indeed.” Henry Percy threw down his cards in frustration. “First the earl and now you. The cards do not favor me tonight.”
“You have picked up on the game quickly, Sir Gunnar,” said Westmorland. “You’re ready to play on your own, I think.”
Gunnar shook his head. “Hardly, my lord. I owe this one small success to the lady’s skill, not my own.”
“Hold fast to Eleanor, Sir Gunnar,” warned one of the earl’s older sons, laughing from where he leaned against the wall watching. “My lord father tries to puff you up, so you will think yourself done with lessons and ready to wager on your own.”
“He has done it to all of us,” said Sir Gilbert from his spot by Lady Anne. “His lordship much enjoys winning.”
“At everything,” added Eleanor, and Gunnar thought he caught a hint of accusation beneath her light tone.
But if there was, Westmorland missed it. Laughing, he scooped the cards together to begin again. “Of course I enjoy winning. What fool wouldn’t? Help him with another game or two, then, Eleanor, but don’t jump so quickly to tell him what to play. Let him try it on his own first.”
“Yes, my lord.”
So the torture continued, made worse for its inconsistency. Not knowing when she would lean in to help, Gunnar found himself waiting, anticipating. It was far more difficult, he discovered, to steel himself to touches that fell like random drops of rain.
His head whirling, he pulled out the wrong card.
“Ah, no,
monsire
.” She leaned especially close to point out his error, and he swore—
swore
—he could feel a pebble of hardness at the peak of the breast that pressed so firmly against his arm. Or was it merely a seam of her fitted bodice? If he could look, he might be able to tell, but with her father right there, not a yard away, and all her brothers and half brothers watching, too, he didn’t dare.
monsire
.” She leaned especially close to point out his error, and he swore—
swore
—he could feel a pebble of hardness at the peak of the breast that pressed so firmly against his arm. Or was it merely a seam of her fitted bodice? If he could look, he might be able to tell, but with her father right there, not a yard away, and all her brothers and half brothers watching, too, he didn’t dare.
And yet he so wanted to know.
Sanity battled desire. His crotch throbbed in time with the minstrel’s music. Perhaps just a glance . . .
She shifted away again. “Do you dance, Sir Gunnar?”
The question, coming from nowhere as it did, shocked him back from the edge of madness. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “It has been far too many years since I had a chance to practice.”
“A pity. Margaret, Mary, and I had discussed having dancing tomorrow after supper. If my lord approves.”
“I’m sure he can manage a dance or two,” said the earl, still unaware of what was really going on, thank the gods. “We will discuss it on the morrow. Just now, it is time for the women to retire.”
“But it is early yet,” Eleanor began. Her father glowered at her, and she quickly clamped her lips together. “Yes, my lord.”
Gunnar stood and offered his hand to help her rise, relishing the excuse to touch her at last, to get a good look at her, to discover whether those eyes of hers held innocence or . . . no, mischief. Definitely mischief.
Had her color been that high all evening?
He held back a grin and gave her a bow. “My thanks for your aid tonight, my lady. God’s rest.”
Had her color been that high all evening?
He held back a grin and gave her a bow. “My thanks for your aid tonight, my lady. God’s rest.”
“You were a most excellent student,
monsire
.” Eleanor did her courtesy to Gunnar, to the other guests, and finally, to her father. “God’s rest to you all, my lords.”
monsire
.” Eleanor did her courtesy to Gunnar, to the other guests, and finally, to her father. “God’s rest to you all, my lords.”
Westmorland waved her off impatiently. He sat back until she and the other women left, then leaned forward, his expression avid. “Go on, Lumley, it is your play, and I wager you tuppence you cannot complete that suit.”
THE WIND WAS
rising.
rising.
Eleanor lay in bed beside Lucy, listening to the rattle of the shutters against the window frame alternate with her cousin’s snores. Noisy as they were, wind and snores had little to do with the wakefulness that had dogged her all night; that she blamed on the remembered pressure of Gunnar’s muscled arm against her breasts.
It wasn’t his fault, by any measure. To his credit, he’d said or done nothing her father could take badly, remained so stolid, so impassive, in fact, that for a time she hadn’t been certain he even noticed what she was doing. But then she’d watched him wiping his palms on his thighs to dry them, caught a sideways glance that he couldn’t quite control, and known she was winning.
He wanted her.
And why not? She was young and fair—some even said comely—and she knew what she was doing, thanks to too many years spent watching ladies and knights play the games of love while she waited for Richard. She’d set out to make Gunnar desire her, and she had succeeded.
“Gunnar.” She pronounced his name soundlessly into the night, testing its strangeness on her tongue for the thousandth time.
Sir Gunnar wanted her.
And she wanted him. She hadn’t allowed for that, that in seducing him, she would seduce herself. Brushing against him had had far more effect on her than she would have guessed, the pleasure spreading like fire from breast to belly, growing hotter until she could think of little else.
She wanted Gunnar.
She wanted him with an urgency that kept her whole body trembling, making it impossible to sleep. If she could get up and do something—sew, read, anything—she might be able to distract herself, but what could she do in the middle of the night? Perhaps if she could just see him, she could . . .
No, that was foolish. But the notion wouldn’t leave her be. It sat in her belly like common hunger, demanding satisfaction. A taste. A moment. She lay there wrestling the craving as long as she could bear it, then carefully crawled out of bed. Lucy mumbled and rolled over, and Eleanor froze, one foot on the floor, and waited until her cousin’s soft snores started up again before she continued. Moving as silently as an owl, she found her slippers and a robe to pull around her shoulders, then took a stub of candle from the basket, lit it from the night lamp, and eased out the barely opened door.
Her tiny flame lit only the circle around her, leaving the far end of passageway in blackness. She hesitated, certain that what she was doing was not right, but hoping that if she saw him just for a moment, she’d be able to sleep. Careful that she made no noise to echo in the stone hall, she set out and found her way to the darkened solar and over to the grillwork where she could see into the hall below.
He was the only one awake, a solitary figure that sat staring into the fire. He’d said he slept fitfully, but as she watched his fingers work a length of rope, tying and untying knots like the sailors that worked her father’s ships, she couldn’t help but wonder if his wakefulness tonight was related to her own.
After a time, he laid aside the rope and stretched his long legs toward the hearth, much as he had done that night at Richmond. Eleanor smiled at the sight. She couldn’t remember now what had drawn her to approach him that first evening, whether it was mere childish whim or some deeper augury, but now, standing here in the dark and looking back from a distance of years, it seemed she could have done nothing else.
The wind howled louder, raising drafts that sent shivers down Eleanor’s back and set the candle flame dancing. Below, the shadow of the screen rippled and wavered against the far wall. Gunnar’s head jerked up to stare.
With a start, Eleanor pinched out the flame, but it was too late. He’d seen it. He shot to his feet and spun, looking straight at her through the darkened screen. He knew it was she, she was certain of it, and that certainty was confirmed as he started across the hall. A moment later, his boots sounded on the stairs.
And then he was there, a phantom in the darkness, and even in the thin light that seeped through the grill from below, she could see the desire that glittered in his eyes.
Aye, he wanted her.
She shouldn’t be here. She should go. But her belly tightened with anticipation, and she could do nothing but meet his eyes, his desire, with her own. She ran into his arms.
Gunnar caught her up and spun her back against the wall, his mouth covering her gasp of shock before it broke the silence. His tongue plunged into her open mouth and found hers. She’d never been kissed like that, devoured like that, but it seemed the most natural thing to devour him in turn, to challenge and parry and lick and suck like he did. His responding groan was a bare exhalation, almost without sound, but it set her blood pounding through her body so hot it drove away every sense of modesty along with the chill. Heated to the very core, she moved restlessly against him.
Somewhere far away, a door hinge squealed. Gunnar broke away, lifted his head, then put his lips by her ear. “Someone comes. You must go.”
She cocked her head to listen, heard the door shut and the distant footfalls coming from the direction of the kitchen.
No, not now.
No, not now.
“No time.” She grabbed Gunnar’s hand and led him across the solar into the retiring room, where they ducked behind the draperies that covered a hidden niche beside the window. Pressed together there in the dark, they listened to the footsteps enter and scuffle closer. Eleanor held her breath as a stripe of torchlight grazed their toes beneath the draperies. If they were caught, her father would have Gunnar’s head on a pike. But the watchman, whoever he was, turned. He continued on his rounds and the light dwindled away.
As his footsteps faded into the distance, she started to part the draperies to leave, ready to forego this dangerous liaison, but Gunnar tugged on her hand, wordlessly pulling her back to him. In the blackness, he had to trace up her arms to find her face. He cupped her head and held her still, one thumb beneath her chin as he carefully lowered his mouth to hers.
This time his kiss was more careful, the exploration of his tongue slower. It was his hands that plundered her now, tracing over her boldly in the dark, down over her arms, breasts, belly, hips, and finally around to cup her bottom and pull her against him. She felt a leap of hardness against her where they touched and that was enough to plunge her back into the heat. It was she who pulled him back toward the wall.
There against its support, their hands and mouths were free to do their worst. The dark made their mutual assault both more difficult and more delicious, heightening every touch and taste. He taught her how to use it by example, trailing kisses everywhere, molding curves and planes with his palms, and silently encouraging her to do the same.
She’d touched him a little earlier, as she’d seen to his clothes, but not like this, not at leisure and with such awareness. His muscles were bulky but lean under her hands, his chest as hard as stone, and she knew that beneath his clothes, his skin must surely be as fevered as her own. Wanting to know, she slipped her hands up beneath his cote and found the gap between his doublet and hose. Flattening her hands over the narrow band of skin, she felt the heat that poured off him, sensed the quiver beneath her palms, and knew both the power she had and how badly she wanted that skin against her own.
He let her explore that small territory while he turned his attention to her breasts, slowly circling them with fingertips before he cupped them and dragged his thumbs over the peaks. She shuddered with the pleasure of it and pushed toward him. He pressed her back with one hand and held her while he kissed his way down her neck once more, then farther, past the neck of her chemise, to find the breast he still cupped. His lips closed over her nipple through the linen.
The flame that roared through her turned want into need. Her fingers clenched mindlessly, digging into his sides, and she lifted her hips toward him, searching for relief from that terrible, empty ache between her legs. With a barely audible growl, he drew her nipple into his mouth hard, his tongue working the tip through the thin cloth until she had to press her lips together to hold back a cry.
He shifted, forcing a knee between hers and lifting so she straddled him, his thigh hard against the place where she ached. The breath caught in her lungs, and she thought to say stop, but before she could, he shifted his hands to her hips and dragged her forward over his thigh. Every thought of stopping him vanished in the realization that this, this was what her body cried for.
His broad hands guided her, showing her the rhythm until she found it for herself. As she ground against him, searching for the perfect motion, the perfect pressure, the perfect end, his hands busied themselves with something else. And then they were on her, not through cloth, but skin to skin, her gown up around her waist, his palms on her belly.
She gasped, and he silenced her again, his tongue plunging into her mouth in the same perfect rhythm as her hips had discovered. One hand moved slowly lower, brushed through her woman’s hair, then slid lower still, until his fingers slipped between his thigh and her quaint. Ah, yes. She recognized the touch, his intent, and moved to welcome him, the need worse than ever. Hanging on the edge of the unknown, she adjusted a little, putting his fingers to the exact spot, and thrust at him. Wanting. Close.
A footstep echoed somewhere beyond the draperies, the guard coming back through the solar, and the sound, the knowledge they could be caught, tripped her over the edge. Pleasure flashed through her like lightning and shattered her. The steps and light neared, sending her deeper into the spasms. A moan gathered at the back of her throat. She fought to hold it back, the struggle making her body quake harder. Gunnar quickly covered her mouth with his and curled his body around her protectively, holding her together as she shook.
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