The Craftsman (5 page)

Lifting his mouth from her breast, he studied her face as she felt the blood heat the surface of her skin.

His hand quickened between her legs and then went still. She knew he must feel her juices wetting the thin material. Before she had fully regained her wits, he was on his knees to investigate, lifting her shift to her waist. Emma leaned back against his work bench, needing it to hold her up. Her knees were weak after such a powerful orgasm. Of course, she’d occasionally given herself that pleasure over the past few years, but nothing compared to having another hand do it for her.

Raedwulf’s mouth sought her pussy, his big hands pressing her thighs apart. She held her breath as his tongue darted up between her nether lips. She was so sensitive there, she knew she could peak again with very little stimulation. And Raedwulf’s exploring tongue—thick and long as certain other parts of his anatomy—was no little stimulation.

* * * *

Lead by curiosity and his own instincts, Wulf lapped at the woman’s warm, wet slit. It was a taste he hadn’t expected to like, but he did. He was roused again already, so soon after spending in her mouth. He ran his hands down the back of her trembling thighs, trying to soothe her as he would a frightened stray put into his care, but he knew his hands were rough and callused. There was nothing he could do about his hard-worked hands and she’d have to grow accustomed to his touch. He pressed his mouth to the pink, fragrant folds and ran his tongue over them, between them, closing his lips to suck and kiss at that little mouth in the same way as he had done to the other—the one that gave him instructions and talked to him about duty.

Duty.

This didn’t feel or taste much like duty to him. He stiffened his tongue and thrust it inside that pretty haven. Wulf heard a series of tiny, hiccupping cries from above and her hips rocked; her knuckles turned white where they held they edge of his workbench. Deeper he went, flicking his tongue inside that narrow valley with its soft, pulsing walls, gathering her sticky honey. His feet shifted on the dusty floor, his grip tightened around her thighs to keep her still.

“Raedwulf! Oh…yes…no…stop…yes... Raedwulf!”

Since she couldn’t seem to make her mind up, he chose not to pay attention; instead he continued without pause, steadily eating that sweet, creamy sauce out of her. The more he suckled, the more it seemed to flow, until his mouth and chin were wet with it.

His wife-to-be let out a shrill scream and her feet came up off the floor, her legs over his shoulders. She fell back across his workbench, keening wildly as if she was in pain. And as her hips rode his mouth, he felt her inner walls close around his tongue like a sleeve with the laces suddenly pulled tight. On his arm it would have hurt, cut off the blood. On his tongue it felt good, because he imagined the same sensation on his cock.

This was, after all, one of the places he could fit it apparently. Although he had no earthly idea how, considering her dainty size and his great, clumsy awkwardness.

Very carefully, he set her feet to the floor, stood, gathered her hands in his and drew her upright. She was still breathing. Her green eyes were glassy, her lashes damp. The scarlet in her face was slowly fading now that she was vertical again. Strands of copper hair had stuck to her perspiring brow and the side of her neck. The woman looked exhausted.

Surely she wasn’t done yet. His balls were full again, his shaft throbbing. He would like very much to try fitting it inside her.

“What comes next?” he asked, holding her hands.

“Next?” She exhaled a little chuckle. “Next we have a wedding.” She must have seen the disappointment in his face, for she kissed his cheek with a little peck, like a mother comforting a child. “It’s only a few hours away now, Raedwulf. We should, both of us, get some sleep. Put your tools away,” her gaze drifted downward to the mound in his breeches, “until tonight.”

“Why?” He moved closer, pushing her back against the bench. “Show me what to do.” He was no longer fearful of mounting his bride. He wanted her now—this funny little woman who talked of pleasing him as if she was a servant meant to obey his every command and have none of her own. He wanted to make her cry out again and lose that tight grip she kept on her control. Had her first husband never made her do that? She appeared shocked by it herself.

She laid her smooth, trembling hands to his chest. “I’d rather take our time in a comfortable bed. Wouldn’t you?”

To be perfectly honest he didn’t care in that moment. He was eager to try everything and learn it all, especially if it felt as good as when she sucked his seed out.

“You’re very big for me,” she explained. “For the consummation, we’ll need to go slowly and spread out on a soft bed—not a hard wooden workbench.” She paused and then added, “Do you rush your work, Raedwulf? No. You are skilled at your craft so I hear, and you take time over it, treat every piece of wood with care. That is how it should be between a man and a woman. The first time.”

He understood. Still didn’t mean he was happy about it.

“Very well,” he grumbled, backing away a step. “Until tonight then.”

* * * *

Emma slid into her bed, breathing heavily, amused to see that Joan had not moved an inch while she was gone. So much for the faithful maid at the foot of her bed, ready to protect her from evil that came in the night.

She drew her hair over one shoulder and hurriedly braided it to keep it off her hot neck. Her fingers were still unsteady, her heart beating too fast. Emma knew she’d only just escaped a frenzied rutting over that workbench by the skin of her teeth and the use of her wits. That man was bone dry wood waiting for a spark. He could very easily have over-powered her in that woodshed. Luckily he relented when she was quick enough to think of comparing their love-making to his carpentry and thus he let her go.

She hugged her knees, staring out at the moon and stars, so bright and clear in the vast black sky. Raedwulf wasn’t the only one she’d had to rein in tonight, for her own eagerness threatened to sweep all proper considerations aside. But she’d reminded herself that they would be married soon enough. She’d only gone down to that woodshed to be sure he wouldn’t spend their wedding night alone with his tools.

Emma fell back to her pillow, drained.

Mission accomplished.

Chapter Four

“I just decided to bathe, that’s all,” he grumbled. “'Tis not a miracle.”

“Is it not?” his sister replied, amused. “I thought it would certainly take a visit from an angel before you submerged your full body in water.”

She had burst into the cookhouse that morning and found him soaking in the wooden tub, all the servants sent out while he bathed. Now she teased him without mercy.

“Aye. I’m not lead by my cock.” Even as he said the words, he colored. Last night, in the workshop, he had let his manhood lead the way. It was that woman’s fault for tempting him the way she did, touching and sucking… “Get out now. I want to dress.”

Deorwynn got to her feet with difficulty, holding her back with one hand, her heavy belly with the other. “Another day with this heat will send me to my knees,” she groaned softly. “Ouch, the babe doesn’t think much of it either. He’s kicking like a demon.”

“You should be abed.” Most women took to their chambers and remained confined for the last months of their pregnancy, but not his sister. She was stubborn and defiant as a mule with a sore foot.

“Too much to do, dear brother. Now don’t forget to wish your bride good morning today and don’t—”

“Just go,” he snapped, growing tense now that the wedding was almost upon him. “Don’t you think I know what to do with my own woman?”

She laughed over her shoulder and waddled out.

He slumped in the cold bathwater.
His own woman
. A daunting prospect—especially when that woman was Emma—a wench who hid her fiery auburn hair under a wimple and her passionate, lusty temperament under a calm, ladylike, submissive
demeanor.

Last night, when she kissed and caressed him, he forgot his fears about coupling. She’d brought out something new in Wulf; the desire to pleasure another human being. But today, waking to bright sun, he remained confused, a novice. He couldn’t deny that her touch was more than pleasant. So was her taste. Yet there was something in those changeable eyes that troubled him. He couldn’t see through them, to what she was thinking. The obedient Lady Emma would give him her body, it seemed, but not her true thoughts or her heart.

Wulf didn’t want her dutiful submission. She’d teased him last night, like a new found piece of wood, excited his creativity and made him long to find its secrets.

When Wulf the Carpenter started a project, he saw it through to completion and he wouldn’t rest until he was completely and utterly satisfied with his work.

* * * *

She wore her best gown. It had not been her intention to do so, for she considered the bright blue too youthful for her now. But suddenly it felt right and she was glad she hadn’t burned it, as planned a few weeks ago. She would still mourn for Henry inside; outwardly she was a bride today, beginning a new life, turning a new corner. She let Joan braid her hair with gold thread to match the simple circlet she wore around her head. Today she wore no wimple, having noted that her host’s wife went bareheaded, as did most of the women in the castle. The rules here were relaxed it seemed. In this heat she was grateful to go without that extra covering.

“You look a treat, my lady,” Joan exclaimed. “More beautiful even than you were on your first wedding day! He is not worthy of you. A Saxon! He is not fit to kiss your feet. I spit on him, indeed I do.”

Emma sighed. She loved her maid dearly, but Joan had a tendency to be either too hot or too cold, denouncing people on sight for such a small thing as a dirty fingernail. And no one would ever be good enough for Emma in her eyes. Even Henry had taken a while to meet with her standards of approval and by then he was bed-ridden. Emma sometimes thought that was how Joan preferred men to be—in bed, weak and helpless. And harmless.

Placing a little kiss to the maid’s wrinkled cheek, she said, “Raedwulf had certainly better not be spat upon. He is my husband now. I expect you to treat him with respect.”

She felt her heart pinch, as if Joan had insulted her by insulting him. Strange that she should care what other folk thought of him, when she’d only known him since yesterday afternoon. “He is not stupid.”

“He looks it,” Joan declared. “Acts it, too.”

There was a tap at the door. Emma threw the maid a warning frown and gestured for her to open it.

Raedwulf’s sister entered, beaming with such merriment that anyone would think this was her own wedding day. The two women embraced as best they could with that considerable belly between them. Deorwynn stepped back to admire her gown. “After today I shall call you sister. I never had one of those.”

“Yes,” Emma replied politely, bowing her head. “I’m sure he does.” Secretly she mused that his heart was not what she wanted. There was something else in his possession wondrous and great in size.

“He will be an honest, faithful husband. There is no one so steady as Wulf.”

“I have no doubt.” Emma wondered why his sister was so eager to sing the man’s praises. She was there to marry him, was she not? It wasn’t as if she could get out of it, even had she wanted to. The king’s decision was law. Again she remembered Raedwulf asking her last night,
Is this duty all yours? Are the needs to be met all mine?

It seemed as if both brother and sister assumed she had needs worth caring about; as if she had opinions worth expressing. Odd. But it was kind of Deorwynn to take the trouble of reassuring her.

* * * *

The ceremony was over before he knew it had begun. Wulf was still distracted, counting all the colors in her hair when he was declared a married man and he looked down to find her long, slender hand in his. Last night her hair was a stunning mass of copper. In daylight, with the sun’s fingers caressing it, her mane was a brilliant, autumnal feast of color. Everything from dark, aged bronze to polished gold. He couldn’t take his eyes from it.