SEVENTEEN

Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. "And what hast thou mastered in thy study, learned husband?"

He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. "My lady, it is all nonsense. Better thou shouldst sayen me how to give thee pleasure. Ne am I accomplished in luf wiles, truly."

She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. "I would hear what thou hast learned. For my pleasure." With a light pluck she freed the topmost golden buttons on his doublet.

He made a low unhappy laugh. "I know well that ye wields more skill in this art than I."

She stepped back. Standing in the half-light, he appeared no innocent, but a man full in prime of carnal boldness, no more chaste than a stallion might be chaste, being beautiful and strong and only what it was, a creature made for life and union.

"But a child am I in the craft," she said lightly. "Thou moste be my master, or nill we proceed far."

He made no move, but stood with his hands open, a signet gleaming on his middle finger, the light sliding on his golden belt.

She lifted her eyebrows. "Or be thou courageous in war and coward in chamber, knight, for shame?"

She had not expected such a crude hit to touch him, but he flushed at her words, response so quick that she thought it a taunt he must have heard before. The severity came into his face again, the hunting coldness. He closed the space she had made between them and lifted his hands. Without speaking, he began to unfasten her gown.

Melanthe stood still. The cote-hardie was not an elaborate fashion, but simple and warm for traveling, ermine-lined and buttoned. He pushed it off her shoulders. The fur hem brushed over her hands, dropping to the carpet.

Her white damask kirtle laced beneath her arms, fitting to her body. He loosened the cords. She felt the lace slip and knot in an eyelet. He worked at it, looking down, his face close to hers. A line formed beside his mouth. He gave the tie a tug, and then a jerk, breaking it, a force that made her take a step backward for balance. Without even unlacing the other side, he lifted the damask over her head and tossed it away.

Through her linen, she could feel the cool air. He opened his hands over her, his palms against her hips with only her thin shirt between.

Melanthe closed her eyes. Abruptly she put her arms about his neck, arching against him on tiptoe as she had done before, seeking that delicious sensation he had given her at Torbec.

Velvet touched her breasts. She could feel his hard belt, and silk and pressure against her belly—but somehow she could not come within reach of the pleasure. With a small sound of frustration, she fell back onto her heels.

He pulled her closer. "Lady," he whispered against her ear. "Lie you down."

His hands slid upward, lifting the linen with them. On the eastern carpet before the chimney, he stripped her of her shirt, baring her of all but her white hose and garters, drawing her down with him as he knelt.

She lifted her chin defiantly, resting back on her elbows, refusing to be mortified by her nakedness like some fluttering novice nun given to visions and starvation. Shameless, he had called her—so let him see.

But she was terrified, her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure he must discern it. She wasn't a delicate blonde beauty, frail and dainty—she was dark-haired and white-skinned, and not a girl. Above the garters at her knees, she had two bruises on one thigh from some encounter on their wild travels, and another at her hip. He could not have spanned her waist with his two hands, and her breasts were too full to be the high round strawberries, or nuts, or even pears, sung of the ladies in romances.

He only looked at them for an instant, before he averted his face and closed his eyes, sitting beside her with his weight on his hand.

She lost her rebellious nerve and curled upright, hugging her legs to her. "Uncommon sour I am to beholden, then," she said sullenly. "Iwysse, a hag as old as thee!"

"What?" he said, in a distracted voice.

He looked strange and uneasy, frozen in place. For a moment she was in fear that he was near a swoon or a fit.

"What passes?" she demanded, catching his arm.

He moistened his lips, pushing off her hand as if she offended him.

"Avoi!" she hissed. "Do not say me thou art praying now?" She let go and plumped back upon a cushion. "Monk man!"

"I am counting," he said tightly.

She stared at him. "Counting what?"

"The chimneys."

"The chimneys!" she cried.

He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead over her. "The chimneys, the doors—for God's sake, ne do I hardly know what I count." He drew a breath. "I am—better now."

He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in her crumpled shirt. "Depardeu, I will cover myself, to spare thee this dire distress."

His hand landed firmly over hers. "Nay—lady. If you please." He turned a look full on her, his eyes near dark as the deep evergreens, the hidden life of winter. Like a secret his faint smile touched his mouth. "In faith, is nought affliction, but too great bliss."

Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he might say anything to maintain it. "In troth?"

He crossed himself, his face sober. She asked suspiciously, "N'is not my body uncomely, thou think?"

With a sound low in his throat, he stretched out his legs and lay at his length alongside her. He laid his hand between her breasts and drew his knuckles downward, over her belly. His dark lashes lowered. He smoothed his hand up to her knee and down her hose to her ankle, up again, then between her legs, burying his fingers in her curls.

"My lady, thou art lickerous." He smiled, pressing the heel of his hand against her.

And there it was, the pleasure, the sensation she remembered. Her breath caught. Her body seemed to stretch, to move outside of her mindful accord, arching up to meet the touch.

"Ah," she said, and strove to check her unsteady voice. "Ah, but this is a riddle." She took refuge in a mocking tone. "Lickerous to taste or lickerous lustful?"

"The both," he murmured, "an I prove fortunate."

She gave him an arch look. "This is luftalking indeed. I will think me I'm at court to hearen such."

His thumb slipped downward, seeking. Melanthe gave a little start and pressed her legs together to prevent him.

"Lady, thou art now at my court, where I rule." He gently resisted her effort, opening her knees. He stroked her, the inside of her thighs, her quaint, up and down again, touching her openly, making her flinch each time his fingers passed over that spot.

Her breasts and her body tingled. "Stop," she said, with a sharp intake of her breath.

"Nay, thou hatz bid me teach thee wicked delectation. This is the second sin of lust, my lady. Unchaste touch."

His thumb moved in a slow pulse. She swallowed. "That I can believe—is a sin," she said.

He shifted, moving up on his elbow. "And this is the first—" Without ceasing the stroke of his thumb, he leaned over her mouth. "Unchaste kissing." He tasted her with his tongue, then invaded deep. His fingers slid into her sheath, intruding, pressing, and stretching her. Melanthe whimpered into the double commixtion, the velvet weight and the hard graze of his jaw. Her heels slipped down the carpet; her legs strained as if she could have more.

He drew away, brushing his lips against her temple. While Melanthe searched for air, he bent to her breast. He kissed her there, at the same time thrusting his fingers full to the very depth of her.

All air seemed to vanish; she panted to regain it as he caressed her with his tongue, suckling her as if she were sweetmeat. Her body rose to him, to his mouth and his hand—unchaste beyond any recognition or heed that virtue might exist upon the earth.

"Unchaste kiss...unchaste touch." His breath was close to her skin, brushing and warming her as he spoke. "The third sin of lust is fornication, but we are wed, lady, so ne cannought I teach thee fornication. Ne also the fourth, o'less thou art a virgin, that I may seduce thee from thy purity."

"Nay," she whispered, curling her fingers in the thick silken nap of the carpet. "Not a virgin."

"I thought me nought so." His lips moved over her shoulder, a gentle searching. She could feel him smiling against her. "Ne can we adulter, neither by single or double, ne commit sacrilege—lest thou art under a religious vow?"

She gave a breathless laugh. "Look I to thee like a holy woman, knight?"

He lifted his head. "God shield," he said, with a sudden fierceness. "Nay, ye looks like my wife, fair and mortal—and no thing that we do between us be sinning, by the word of Saint Albert."

She lay against the cushion. In her life she had made certain that men thought her iniquitous, lethal in her loves and passions. The Princess Melanthe looked like no one's fair and mortal wife. But she had never before lain naked beside a man, uncovered, without shield or mask, reckless.

"Nothing?" She made a pout, stretching her arms overhead. "Alas, thou wilt destroy all my wicked disport."

He caught her chin, rubbing his thumb across her lips. "Does thou nought drive me to inordinate desire, wench, which is deadly sin, wed or no."

She brought her arms down about his shoulders. "And is thy desire now ordinate, learned monk? Haply we will delay this loving then, and take us to the chapel for a day and night of prayer and fasting, to prove thee."