Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (15 page)

“Over Caradoc, a suspected wife killer.” A tiny smile tugged at that down-turned mouth.

“Aye, but you professed your love for me to Edward in his chamber, and that is why he decreed our marriage.” She laughed. “'Tis what the handmaiden told me.”

“Makes a pretty tale.”

If only it were true.
This honorable man had saved her from a traitor's death, kept her safe from Caradoc and Nels, fought a fearsome enemy for her castle, and never once harmed her in word or deed.

“You tremble, my lord.”

“I am not your lord.” He sank to the window seat.

“You are my husband. What should I call you?” Did he not think himself worthy? Could he not see how great he
was? “I have a private name for you, but I doubt you want me to address you that way.”

“Let me guess. Sir Cowardly Knight.”

“Aye. I once thought it fitting.”

He faced her, his gaze shimmering with a strange tenderness. “Not now?”

“You are not the coward I'd hoped for.”

“Fie, but you make me laugh.” Starlight dusted him so that he was more shadow than darkness. “You make me feel.”

“You mean I cause you pain?” Sadness swelled behind her breastbone. “Because I am sharp-tongued and do not simper?”

“Nay. I've been coldhearted so long, is all.”

“From the Outremer.” The words whispered across her lips. His sadness weighed as deep as the night and felt as endless. “That time is past, Malcolm.”

“Nay, I shall always carry it inside me.” He bowed his head and dark locks tumbled over his brow.

His pain wrapped around her, thick and choking. Tears beat behind her eyes, and it took all her courage, but she stepped between his parted knees. He did not look repulsed as his steely arms pulled her hard against him. He buried his face in her breasts and held her. Simply held her.

He seemed to resonate regret and despair, and her heart ached. How she wished to do something for him. To take away this piece of his pain and this brand of his darkness. She cupped her fingers around the back of his neck. She held him and did not let go.

“By the rood, but you make me feel.” He lifted his head and loosened his hold. “When I never thought I could again.”

How anguished he sounded. “Tell me what you need, Malcolm. Name aught, and I will do it.”

“You know what I need.”

“Aye.” She shook with the fear of it, but covered that fear with teasing. “'Tis a terrible thing, being close to you, but I shall endure it. The handmaiden said we are in love.”

His chuckle vibrated from his chest to hers. “You make me laugh and feel and live. What am I to do with you?”

“I know not, but pray, do not consider the dungeon.”

That dimple flashed in his cheek as he gave her a smile, slow and lopsided. “You know a way out through the bolt-hole. 'Twould be unwise to leave you there.”

“Then what will you do with me?”

His eyes grew black like midnight and mysterious like shadows. She ran her hands along the line of his shoulders. Muscles steeled beneath her fingertips. Want mingled in her blood. This desire for him was both frightening and exhilarating.

He caught the tie at her waist. Her shift parted to allow a glimpse of her naked breasts. Uncertainty fluttered in her chest as she waited, but he did not touch her. A muscle worked in his clenched jaw, as if he were fighting from within. As if, like a drowning man, he dared not hope to find the shore.

No one in her life had ever needed her. And now this man did. Malcolm with a strength greater than all in the land—he needed her. His chest rose and fell in quick breaths. Want and need darkened his eyes and drummed in his pulse. But he did not reach out.

She pressed him to her bared breasts. He leaned against her with an anguished sigh. She felt the silk of his hair and the roughness of his stubbled jaw, the fan of his breath and then the heat of his tongue. He laved gently, exploring the valley of her breasts. Then his mouth descended hard upon a nipple and suckled with such force her knees buckled.

His big hands clasped the backs of her thighs and kept
her from falling. He lifted her onto his lap and straddled her over his erection. She felt his hard shaft nestle against the cradle of her inner thighs. He tugged at his chausses, and soon no fabric separated them. He was all thick stone and jutting heat pressed against her thighs and stomach.

“How I thirst for you.” His hands nudged the linen wrap from her shoulders. They were flesh to flesh. His erection pulsed against her. His fingers smoothed over the curves of her shoulders and down her arms, then up again in a wondrous wash of sensation. It fired her blood and left her aching for more.

“Tell me, Elin. Do you truly want this?”

A strange excitement pulsed within her. He needed her now and in this way. And she would not deny him. Not if it might ease some of his anguish. “I do.”

“By the saints, you make me ache.” His low voice rumbled over the damp peaks of her breasts, still pebbled from his suckling. His thumbs brushed her nipples, circling and teasing.

A band of pleasure stretched from her breasts to the apex of her thighs. The pleasure shimmered like sunlight on water, bright and captivating. “Malcolm, you make me ache, too.”

“Already? I've only begun to torture you.” His hands spanned her breasts, kneading them. “Is this not torture?”

His wondrous touch swept over her aching breasts, then down her ribs and over her stomach. His caress lingered there, both demanding and sensuous. Her womb beneath his touch jumped again and again.

Then his fingers grew bold and stroked through her thatch of curls. He found a place that made brightness burst behind her eyes when he touched it.

“See?” he murmured. “Torture.”

“'Tis terrible to endure.” She moaned in pleasure and arched into his hand.

Control snapped. Need quaked through her limbs and tore away the last bit of fear. Want drove her, and Malcolm's hands gripped her hips. He shook with this same need for completion. Without a word, he eased her over the head of his straining shaft.

The first touch of his hardness against her snapped her spine taut. A quick flicker of fear twisted through her, but only a flicker. He pressed a kiss to her brow and drew her down the length of him. Sweet heaven, but he was fire hot and iron hard, and he filled and stretched her in one long thrust. She felt a snap of pain that evaporated as quickly as it came.

Then she felt a thrilling sensation that burned hotter and brighter. Air tore from her throat. She shivered, awash with so much feeling she did not think she could stand it. Malcolm's hands on her hips guided her. He showed her how to set a rhythm that made their pleasure build.

“Am I hurting you, dove?”

“If pleasure hurts, aye.”

Malcolm drove into her again and again. She cried out, head bobbing forward, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She clung and met him thrust for thrust. She was a pleasure he could not have enough of, a fire that burned and raged. Buried to the hilt within her gloving tightness, he could not maintain his control.

Release tore through him, and he raged against it. He did not want this to end, but her muscles drew tighter around him. He fought, but her ripples and cries of release crashed through him, like a mighty wave against the shore, and took them both under. He roared with rage, but still he could not hold back the searing pleasure and the pulse of his seed.

He opened his eyes. Starshine dusted through the win
dow to gleam upon her, naked and still impaled upon him. She was beyond beauty. Her mouth smiled with contentment. Her face and chest were flushed. Looking sated, she pressed a kiss to his mouth, then wrapped her arms around his neck. How tightly she held him and how trustingly.

Guilt twisted through him. He'd taken her for his own needs. He'd stolen her innocence. Jaw locked, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and simply held on to her.

She moved on his still-hardened shaft, and he caught her thighs to stop her. “Nay, dove. I've taken enough from you.”

“Not enough. Love me again, Malcolm. Please.”

How she could make him vulnerable with that husky need in her voice! He would hand over his life to hear it again. “As you wish.”

She smiled, then groaned in pleasure as he drove into her, hilt deep. She held him tight and met his vigorous thrusts. He rocked hard and fast, losing himself again in her bright passion and untamed fire.

 

The new moon's darkness sketched the room in black and kept Elin from slumber. Malcolm slept with his head pillowed between her breasts and his body hard and heavy over hers.

She stroked her fingers through his hair lightly, so she would not wake him. How vulnerable he was in his sleep, his substantial body relaxed, his powerful muscles slack. It awed her how much he trusted her, to sleep like this without a thought to his safety.

She pressed a kiss to his brow and felt his heat. Why had she not noticed it before? Malcolm burned with fever; 'twas why he slept. Not because of a bond or a new trust. He was ill.

Why hadn't he told her? He'd climbed from his bed too
early to heal the wound properly, and had gone without sleep. The trip to London had been rainy and cold, and he'd looked more pale every step of the way. Yet he'd denied it and spurned her care.

She slid out from beneath him, careful not to disturb his slumber. A tenderness burned within as she laid him gently on the mattress. 'Twas sweet caring for a man. He was so big and yet helpless, too.

She lit a candle to guide her steps across the room. Chilled, she grabbed her nightdress and her small supply of herbs from her bags. She tested the heat of the water in the basin. Tepid. Not good enough.

She left the chamber and nearly tripped over a body. The shadow shouted and rose, a sword gleaming in the darkness.

“Giles!” She caught his hand.

“By the saints, you startled me. I thought you were a murderer.” He lowered his weapon.

“Why are you sleeping on the floor?”

“Edward commanded it. With Rees dead and only some of his conspirators caught, he thought it best. I agree. How fares Malcolm?”

Elin lowered her voice. “His wound has festered.”

“Nay, it cannot be.” Distress rose in Giles's voice. “He made the journey without complaint or a hint of weakness.”

“Would you expect him to show weakness? I need boiling water to tend him. Please, run and order it.” She heard the beginning to his protest and silenced it. “I have both a sword and dagger within the chamber. I'll not let a murderer harm him while he sleeps.”

“You were capable enough to save my life, and I've not forgotten. I shall leave only long enough to find a servant for the task.”

“You're one of my favorite knights, Giles. Thank you.” She dashed inside and barred the door.

A shadow moved on the bed. Malcolm, awake, struggled to sit. “You wear me out and then go in search of another man.”

She heard both the jest in his voice and the seriousness. “Why would I bother? Naught could compare to the great le Farouche. You ought to be sleeping.”

“I heard the door open and Giles draw his sword.” Malcolm reached out. “Come to bed.”

She sat on the edge of the mattress and laid a hand to his brow. How feverish he felt. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Sleepy. Let me hold you.”

“You, sir, are a liar. And here I thought you were honorable.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and an ache built behind her breastbone. “Move from that bed and I'll take up my sword to stop you.”

His chuckle warmed like fire. “'Tis across the room.”

“Aye, but I run fast.” She stood to light a candle, and the weak light from the new flame flickered along Malcolm's wide back. The wound remained red and swollen, although the skin was healed over. Fear drummed with every heartbeat. “You should have allowed me to tend this.”

“Forget the injury, Elin. I am well enough.” He rolled onto his back. “If you do not wish to sleep, then we can—”

If she were blind, she couldn't miss the sight of his jutting hardness. Her body responded with a heavy twist of desire, but she refused to give in to it. He needed a different kind of care from her now. “Behave, le Farouche, because we will not be alone for long.”

“What have you done?”

“I'm disobedient. 'Tis my way.” She tossed a sheet over
him, although all it did was form a tent over his erection. “A serving girl will soon arrive with boiling water. Whether you like it or not, Fierce One, I am going to take care of this wound. And if you argue, I'll fetch Giles and Justus and Ian to hold you down.”

“Elin, I need no care.” How dark his eyes, sincere with belief.

She laid a hand to his jaw and rubbed her thumb over the dark stubble there. His hand trapped hers, harsh fingers banding around her wrist. He was a man who had served others all his life. And who had served her from the moment he'd been proclaimed her husband. Was it so hard for him to need?

“'Tis time to put down your weapons, Malcolm. There's no one here to protect. Just close your eyes.” She pressed a kiss to his fevered brow. “And let me care for you.”

He turned away as if she'd shamed him, his body rigid. Tendons strained in his neck and muscles bunched in his arms. He would not look at her. She may have angered him, and the possibility wrenched her heart.

She pressed a kiss to his back, where the massive shoulders met, but he remained silent. Tears pricked her eyes. Had he rejected her? Did he not want affection from a traitor's daughter?

A rap against the door announced Giles's return. She opened it to see Jonna holding a steaming basin.

The girl, still in her nightclothes, stepped out from the shadows and into the room. “I'll build up the fire, too. Giles said Malcolm is fevered. Glad I am that my brother is in your good hands.”