Knight In My Bed (32 page)

Lightning quick though it'd been, the mere touch of his tongue on her lips had been powerful enough to send a surge of white-hot need shooting through her.

She slid her arms around his shoulders and thrust her fingers into the thick gloss of his hair. She pressed herself into him, not caring if she exposed herself to be as shameless as Evelina. Parting her lips, she used her urgency to beg for more, ached for him to kiss her deeply, thoroughly, as he'd done before.

"So eager, my love." He set her from him, his use of the endearment melting her heart as surely as his touch ignited her blood.

He rested his forehead on hers, his warm breath a sweet caress on her skin. “Your appetite pleases me immensely. Aye, lady, you rouse me to the limits of my restraint," he murmured. "And I shall give you all the knight's kisses you desire and more, much more, but before I do, you must fulfill your two promises."

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Will you?"

"What is your will?" she breathed, nigh melting at the thought of giving herself to him so wholly she'd do whate'er it was he wanted of her.

Do
anything
for him.

He lifted one of her braids, rubbed his thumb over its thickly woven strands. "You are not blessed with much restraint, are you?"

She shook her head, beyond speaking, so eagerly did she crave his will.

His touch
.

He let the braid fa1L 'There is much I would have you do for, and to me, sweeting. And I to you," he said, his eyes darkening, his voice low and ... seductive. "But the keen edge of anticipation is almost as sharp as the final pleasuring
 
and should not be missed."

He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, down her arm. “I want to initiate you into carnal pleasures one luscious step at the time," he vowed. "Such a tender fruit as yourself ought
 
to be savored fully, but slowly.
Very, very slowly
."

“And how do you wish to ... t-to savor me?" her newly discovered wanton self wanted to know. "What two ways?"

He reached for her braids, taking them both this time.

Looking deep into her eyes, he said, "I want you to undo your hair for me, Isolde."

Disappointment and confusion welled inside her. The pulsing need she'd hoped to see quenched, cried out in pained rebellion. "Un-braid my hair? That is all?"

"That is the beginning." He lifted her braids. "To look at your hair," he told her, "to watch my fingers touching the strands, watch me feel them, caress them as they slide like ropes of golden-bronze silk over my palms."

The pulsing in her belly flared anew, and with a greater vengeance than before. Faith, but he could work a fine wizardry with simple words.

"Do you see, my sweet Isolde, how aroused you are merely by watching me fondle your braids?" he asked, and she knew he spoke the truth.

He was arousing her.

His lips curved in a slow, lazy smile. "How do you think it will make you feel, make me feel, to revel in your unbound tresses?"

A deep, throaty sigh rose in her throat, and she released it. The thoughts he put into her head, the shivery tremors his words sent tumbling through her, inspired a whole fleet of breathy sighs.

One more gusty than the other.

"I want to bathe in your hair," he told her, finally relinquishing her braids. "Drink in its fragrance, lose myself in its satiny warmth."

Isolde swallowed. She wanted that, too.

Badly.

But he'd had one more request.

One more desire.

Her pulse raced with anticipation. "And what is your second wish, milord?"

The slow burn in his eyes turned wicked.

Very wicked.

"I want to see your breasts," he said, and her heart slammed against her ribs.

She'd waited all evening to bare her breasts to him, fretting she'd not have the nerve after losing Evelina's nipple cream. A veritable fire wall of heat swept through her, and a wild tingling began in her breasts, its intensity mirroring the pulsing sensation in her belly.

"You want to look at them? Simply look?" the steely wench asked, inexorably pleased when he slowly shook his dark head.

"Nay, sweeting." He smoothed the backs of his hands very lightly down the outer swells of her breasts. "I want to do much more than look." He paused. "Dare I?"

She nodded. "But I would hear the words," she said, already finding this ... this speaking of such acts highly stimulating.

Just as Evelina had promised.

"Aye, I would hear in the greatest detail what you mean to do to my breasts," she said, the heat pooling in her woman's core now pulsing with heavy urgency. "Tell me and I will undo my hair, then free my breasts to your will."

"You please me well, Isolde of Dunmuir, and so I shall oblige you," he said, tapping a finger against his chin. "First, I shall simply look at you, but from all angles. From afar, and up close.
Very close."

"I would hear more," she urged, enjoying the game, her cares and woes forgotten.

He smiled. "I shall touch you with my hands, and in many ways." He let his gaze roam over her breasts as he spoke. "I will smooth the backs of my fingers down, around, and under your breasts, move my fingertips over you in feather-light circles that will send shivers of delight the length of you until, finally, I turn my attention to the peaks of your breasts ... your nipples."

He peered at her, waiting for a nod, a word, for him to continue. She purposely stalled, just a short moment, then inclined her head. “Your words stir me," she admitted, scarce believing her wantonness. "Pray continue. What else shall you do?"

"Ohhhh ... I shall lift and weigh your breasts. I will fondle and palm them, mayhap a bit roughly, but only enough to heighten your pleasure."

"Is there more?" she asked, a pleasing warmth coursing through her, her woman's core weighted and pulsing.

"Aye, much more," he promised, the intense bliss his words instilled in her startling and amazing her. "I shall worship you with my lips and my tongue. I shall lick, lave, and-" He broke off, hopping on one bare foot.

"What the..." He reached down to retrieve something from the thick layer of floor rushes. He examined whatever it was, then held out his hand, a little earthen pot resting on his palm.

Isolde flushed scarlet.

'Twas the blush of rose.

Evelina's nipple cream.

"Is this yours, my lady?" He snatched his hand back when she reached for it. "I see it is by your flushed cheeks."

He opened the jar and peered inside. A look of astonishment, then recognition flashed over his handsome face.

He knew what it was
.

He looked at her, high amusement coloring his own cheeks. "This is vermilion," he said, staring at her. Flummoxed. "Whore's paint."

Isolde glanced away, too embarrassed to admit she knew its common usage.

"You meant to use this to seduce me," he said, the odd catch back in his voice.

"Aye, I did," she allowed, beyond pretending false modesty after the bawdy talks they'd just indulged in. "But I lost it.”

His dark eyes twinkled. "And here it is again."

"So?" Her heart began to pound.

Faith and mercy, he wanted her to use the nipple cream.

"I want you to put this on," he said, confirming what she already knew. He handed the little pot to her.

"If it will please you," she said, feeling somewhat disappointed. The surprise effect she'd hoped to achieve with the cream had been lost. "It won't be the same if you know it's there."

He shook his head. "Sweeting, surprising me is no longer the nipple paint's purpose."

Now he'd confused her. "Nay?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How bold can you be, lass?”

"As bold as your pleasure," the wanton in her replied.

"Then you shall please me indeed if you will let me watch you apply the paint to your nipples."

Isolde gasped, the idea first repulsing her, then arousing her.

Very much so.

She curled her fingers around the little earthen pot, her cheeks flaming.

Blush of rose.

An apt name indeed.

And she could scarce wait to sample its power.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Liquid Fire
.

Spun gold kissed by moonglow.

Shimmering, watered silk of untold luxuriance
.

Donall's brows drew together at the sumptuous bounty presented by Isolde of Dunmuir's unbound hair. Blessed be, she whiled before the window, bathed by the night's silvery luminosity, whilst he lingered in the safe concealment of the shadows.

Hidden in the cool dimness out-with the reach of the revealing silver-blue tight. A delicate glow spun of the night's magic, spilling into her bedchamber, and highlighting her charms so sweetly.

Bewitching him and laying bold claim to a heart no other maid had e'er heard beat, much less possess.

His scowl deepened.

He' d
 
have to remove the hard-earned suffix from his name should she catch him making fawn eyes at her.

And, curse his bones, that was exactly what he was doing. Staring at her all agog, captivated as an untried youth scenting his first whiff of a bonnie wench's roused desire. And, saints stay him by, she had yet to completely loosen her braids.

She'd only unraveled half their glossy length.

The sheer temptation of what she'd displayed thus far bit so deep, the fetching sight had him composing lines more suited to an over-perfumed French courtier than a red-blooded Islesman known as the
Bold.

The only thing bold about him at the moment was the iron-hard press of his arousal against the snug confinement of his hose.

His mouth dry, his loins painfully tight, his heart ... lost, he rested his shoulder against the wall, secretly borrowing from its solidity to help him to stand tall through the ongoing torture of watching her unravel her braids.

Her slender fingers released one sheened section at a time until the whole wealth of her bronze-gold tresses rippled free to spill in wild abandon around her hips.

The flowing length tested his knightly skills of restraint beyond even his well-practiced endurance and set loose a low moan of insistent need somewhere deep inside him.

A lament, torn from the very roots of his soul and born of the spell she'd cast over him.

A living thing, hot and fine.

An unrestrained fury whirling 'round the hard knot of nerves lodged in his gut, skipping past his slow-bounding heart, and then, with a boldness even he had to admire, plunging right through the tightness in his throat to burst from his lips with all the aplomb of a randy stag suffering a sore throat.

“Do I displease you?" Her voice, soft and sweet, dispelled his grousing demons with a greater ease than a well-wielded sword.

Her hesitancy, the way her fingers ceased arranging the lustrous fall of her hair, tugged at Donall's heart. Pulled on the fool organ in ways far more troubling than the aching constriction in his throat, more disturbing than the fire licking at his loins.

Saints, the lass had his heart!

A comely maid, the finest he'd e'er seen, yet one who'd allow him tortured, lied whene' er she had the chance, would harvest his seed if allowed, and ... and drank foul potions.

Sharp-smelling elixirs he knew had naught to do with banishing freckles and purging animals of fleas.

"Do I?" came her soft-as-cream voice again, teasing him, tempting him with its soothing melody, its warmth.

Donall blew out an aggravated breath, and glanced heavenward.

"I see I do."

“By the Rood!" He looked at her, stunned when she didn't bar an eye at how ... how exposed he stood before her. And not simply his bared chest. Nay, 'twas his bared heart, the laid open secrets of his soul, he didn't want her to see.

But she simply peered at him, looking irresistibly vulnerable. "Do I?" she reverted to her original question.

Donall blinked, totally captivated. Saints, couldn't she see what she did to him? Was she truly unaware his heart, his very soul, rested at her feet?

"Do you what?
Displease me
?" The words came in a high-pitched tone.

Hellfire and botheration, but the fool squeak had caught him off guard. Turning away, he shoved his hair off his forehead, then covered his mouth with his hand and coughed.

Hopefully she'd think a coughing fit and naught else had caused him to speak with the voice of an eunuch.

" 'Twas you who bid me to undo my hair, but you look displeased," she pressed, the note of pride underlying her words doing fine battle against the doubt swimming in her eyes.

"Shall I redo the plaits?" She lifted two handfuls of her bonnie tresses, offering him their bounty. Thick, satiny skeins of glossed bronze pouring through her fingers.