The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (28 page)

William released his hold upon her foot, having ventured no farther than her ankle in his northward movement. His hands next caught and held her hand, rubbing with his thumbs along the line of her pulse and the muscled joint between thumb and fingers.

Could the touching of hands be so intimate? She would never have thought so, but now she was unsure. He had declared that he would bathe her, and she had imagined his hands upon her breasts and hips, and mayhap his mouth... but there was none of that in this. It was as he had said: a washing such as Christ had given his disciples; yet they had all been clothed for that cleansing, and though William was dressed even out to his mantle, she was completely nude, covered only by the darkened water. And why did that realization, that he was clothed and she was nude, cause her pulse to jump and her eyes to flutter open? There could be no further denying of the word. It was erotic.

Slowly, ever slowly, he moved his hand to the hollow of her elbow and caressed the tender skin there. He was dangerously close to her bosom, yet his hand did not stray and she found herself wondering why, relieved and puzzled at once.

He moved to her shoulders, a hand upon each one, and gently massaged them. She moved her head to give him greater access, a cascade of golden ripples trickling to the floor with the motion.

"There is a small mark of dirt upon your breast," he whispered near her ear. "May I cleanse you there?"

"Yea," she answered in a like whisper, her eyes closed against his nearness. Her heart pounded in expectation.

She knew that he would touch her there. She expected his touch there. Still, he moved slowly from her shoulder down to her breast and massaged gently. Quickly he was finished and moved his hand away. Odd, but it was almost disappointment she felt.

"Your leg has a smudge of wood ash," he said.

"Yea, my legs are dirty," she agreed, waiting for his touch upon her leg.

A soft caress, once, twice, up the length of one leg and he was through. Her extremities began to shake and disturb the stillness of the water.

"You tremble," he observed, his tone husky.

In truth, she did, and from the center of her soul to the outermost parts of her, but she would not admit the cause to be his touch.

"I am chilled. The water has long since lost its heat."

He would not allow such deception from her.

"But you have not." And with his hand he lifted her chin so that she could not escape the penetration of his smoky eyes. "You are as warm to my touch as sun-baked steel."

With no words of warning or intent, William lifted her from the bath and stood her upon the rough floor, the water sheeting off her to soak the boards. Briskly he rubbed her dry, the linen sheet quickly becoming wet through.

She was dizzy from the heat of the water, the proximity to the fire, the length of her time spent soaking... or was it the heat of his hands, her proximity to him, the length of him almost rubbing against her upthrust nipples? She could not say, but she could not find the strength to stand.

He caught her against him and then set her back upon her own feet, holding her by the waist and looking deeply into her dark eyes.

"Are you clean, lady?" he asked, his own eyes dark.

The double meaning was there, but this time she understood what he asked of her. He wanted her to be clean—clean of Lambert, clean of guilt.

Hesitantly she answered, "I know not," for it was the truth, and then laughed, turning aside his deeper meaning. "I should be."

His eyes missed nothing as he answered, "And so you are."

He fingered a tendril of her falling hair and she did not fight him; in truth, she leaned toward him, almost eager for his touch. Another lock of hair found its way into his tender hands, and another and yet another, and she allowed him access to it. She wanted his touch upon her hair. She wanted his touch until his hands were buried in the richness of her hair, and when he had achieved it, she reached up for his kiss as he was reaching down and their mouths locked in a kiss that was in no way hesitant or shy. It was a kiss of passion, with tongues and teeth in play and his hands bound within her hair, holding her as she held him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting on tiptoe to attain a firmer purchase. She rubbed the length of herself against him, her nipples rising and enlarging at the friction. She whimpered into his mouth and thrashed her head.

He did not relinquish his hold upon her hair.

In time, William straightened and pulled away from her.

"What do you want, Cathryn?" he said under his breath, his eyes as bright as any dragon's.

"I... I know not." She gasped, hanging on to him for support.

William grinned down at her, "Well, think of something, lady, or my Frankish pride will suffer a near mortal blow."

And then she smiled, catching his mood. "I would see
if
you
are clean, Lord le Brouillard,"

"Well said and timely, lady," William answered, pulling off his clothing as he spoke. When he was as naked as she, he pulled her against him and kissed her soundly.

But the effects of the bath had cooled and she was not so heated a partner as she had been just minutes ago. The fire within her required rekindling.

"Touch me, Cathryn," he urged. "Know me."

Obeying him, she touched him, her hands skimming over the planes of his chest in a light flutter that was not quite a caress, enjoying the feel of him, the strength of him. Enjoying the control of touching him and of not having him touch her.

For he did not touch her, though he yearned to. He let her explore the sum total of his skin, and he made no move to explore her in turn. She needed to become familiar with his body as much as she needed to be in control of her own involvement. He would not force her. He would wait until she could wait no longer.

She grew bolder, touching his back with long strokes, watching the play of muscle ripple the ivory of his skin. Moving to his front, Cathryn laid a soft hand against his cheek, her fingertips resting near the long curl of his lashes. The blaze and glitter of his eyes almost seared her.

But she did not pull away her hand.

With one hand on his cheek, she slid the other down the tapering line of chest and waist to hip and paused with her hand upon his naked hip. Amazingly, his skin was almost hairless at that spot, and she stroked it lingeringly, allowing her fingers to graze behind to the hard mound of his buttock.

The faintest growl rumbled in William's throat and she jerked back, startled. She had almost forgotten he was a living man so enraptured was she with the perfection of his form. Looking back into his steely eyes, she remembered with a start that he was a man very much alive.

Her backward flight was so abrupt and so unplanned that she stumbled and landed on the bed, flat on her back.

William grinned as only a man can grin when a naked woman appears in his bed, and said lazily, "You had but to ask, Cathryn. Of course I will recline with you. Tonight I am in attendance upon you and will follow your inclination."

With those words, her nervousness at her position was replaced with the urge to laugh. Truly, the man would be capable of urging a chuckle from her on her deathbed.

The urge to laugh was soon swallowed by another urge even less familiar to her. His kiss, so delicate, plucked away all thoughts save one: she liked his mouth on hers. With the tip of his tongue, he explored her mouth, stopping now and again to nibble on her lower lip. It was a kiss most sensual. Her flesh seemed afire and she writhed, her movements sensuous in the extreme, though she did not know it.

William did not touch her unless she initiated it by moving her body against his; so it was that her breast nudged his hand, seeking a caress with wordless eloquence, and when he touched her there, his fingers plucking gently at her nipple, she arched beneath his hand.

"I almost expect to hear you purr, Cat, you are so warm," he said softly.

Cathryn reacted like a cat doused with ice water. "Do not call me Cat!" she cried out hoarsely.

It had happened each time before, and at just such a moment. He had thought that it was their physical bonding that caused her to go stiff in his arms. Mayhap it was more than that.

He did not move. He was as still as she. The sound of the fire and of her labored breathing were the only noises, yet William believed that Lambert lurked within their chamber with them.

Taking Cathryn in his arms, he lay down facing her, nestling her against him and stroking her back.

"What is it, Cathryn?" he questioned softly, trying to split the heavy silence that had fallen like a sword between them.

But Cathryn, a master at regaining her composure, would not answer. She pushed against his chest with the palms of her hands in a polite struggle to be released.

"'Tis a name I do not care for," she said simply, hoping the matter would end there.

William understood. He understood that she had retreated from him, closing all roads between them. He understood that he would need to cause a fire to blaze in her again before she would melt against him. But this time it would not be the fire of passion. This time he would fire her anger.

Picking up a thick strand of her hair, he flicked it casually against her nipples.

"That is strange," he said conversationally. "Cat is a name that suits you well. The way you arch and rub against me, the sleek grace of your form. Yea," he said against her erect nipples, causing them to tighten even more, "you are a most sensual cat."

He cast her hair aside, sweeping it behind her shoulders so that her breasts were revealed to him without defensive covering. He covered one small mound with the flat of his hand, rubbing the sensitive peak with the callused heel of his hand.

"Cat," he whispered just above her ear, "you are soft. Wrap yourself around me, Cat. Purr your pleasure, Cat, and I will stroke you."

"Do not call me Cat!"
she shouted, pushing his hand from her frantically, fighting to escape his touch, shaking violently.

"Why, Cathryn?" he questioned again, his voice as hard as gravel beneath bare feet.

Her arms continued to flail against him, but he was not moved. She could no longer escape the pain that lay like a wolf waiting to destroy her in the black depths of her soul.

Sobs, so long held back, rushed up and now choked her. Wrapping her arms around her torso, trying to keep herself from being torn asunder by the force of those racking sobs, Cathryn rocked herself with the wordless misery of a child.

"Cathryn," he murmured.

"He called me Cat," she said in a sob, the words wet upon her tongue.

She turned away from him and continued her mindless rocking. William reached out his warm hand and rubbed her back, his hand tracing the bumps of her spine.

"He called me Cat," she repeated, her cries almost making her words unrecognizable. "He called me Cat and laughed when he said it. He called me Cat every time... every time."

And when her husband touched her and called her Cat, she saw Lambert, felt Lambert's hands upon her. This he understood. He watched her rocking and felt her sobbing cries as if they were his own. She was so thin, and she had borne so much in Greneforde's name.

He longed to heal her.

He longed to kill Lambert.

"He called me Cat and nothing else," she continued, the words bubbling up from her as from a spring, "in the hearing of his people. And mine."

No man addressed a lady with such casual disregard. To do so was to strip her of her rank and to heap humiliation upon her. This Lambert had done.

"And when I walked in the yard, I would hear the sounds of his men meowing, the high-pitched calls echoing against the walls."

Yes, he could imagine it. The men, following the sordid example of their master, and Cathryn alone against them all. And he knew how she had responded to their base cruelty: with her head held high and with her dignity unconquered. Such was her courage and her pride that, in the depths of profound defeat—the defeat of her lands, her home, her people, and her body—she had sought and achieved a victory. She had let no one witness the evidence of her shame and loss. Until now.

Turning her in his arms, he rocked with her, cradling her as easily as he would a heartsick child, for so she was. She did not turn to him, yet she did not fight him. Eventually her tears stopped. Her rocking did not, and he rocked with her, holding her against his warmth and his strength, willing her to avail herself of both.

Finally she lay still.

"I ask you again," he said with gentle force, holding her against his chest. "Are you clean, lady?"

Cathryn squirmed until she could see his face. With eyes as lifeless and hopeless as those of a corpse, she answered him.

"Nay. I will never be clean."

"You are wrong, Cathryn."

Again he had pricked her anger, though this time it was unintentional.

"Of all matters on earth which man may know," she spit out, "in this one I am expert. I am not clean! His seed stains me inside and out. I am as soiled linen, fit only for the fire."

"Again you are wrong," William argued, his voice low and vibrating. "Did not our Christ's sacrifice wash us whiter than snow? Is there any sin that man can devise that can outpace our Lord? Have you forgotten that you are redeemed, having been washed in Christ's sacrificial blood?"