Knight's Captive (11 page)

“I cannot blame her for wanting you over the
priest. I think she must have been a very wise woman. You are a good man.”

He couldn’t help but let his gaze linger over
her lips as she spoke the words. With the wine warming his belly, he almost
felt his guard slipping away. Suddenly he no longer wanted to be this woman’s
imprisoner—or protector.

“I am not so good,” he said, his voice low and
dark.

Those lips that he couldn’t seem to drag his
gaze away from parted marginally. She was a clever woman. She had to know what
he meant. Had to know he was recalling the taste of those lips beneath his and
wishing he’d pressed the kiss deeper. Now he ached for the knowledge of what
her tongue would taste like, how she would sound if he gripped her tight and
took all he could from her. A deep, gnawing hunger opened in his gut.

He poured another helping of wine each and
chucked it
back,
noting they’d finished two bottles
between them. This was dangerous—for her. The wine had eaten into his control
and was but a thread away from snapping. Henry rose swiftly and in his haste he
knocked the chair on which he’d been sitting. It toppled to the floor with a
crash and Antonia jolted. He cursed and went to right it but not before
noticing the way she raised her hands as though to protect herself from him.

Henry scowled at those raised palms, and she
lowered them slowly before placing them to the table. “You startled me,” she
explained softly.

He’d startled himself but why had she cowered
from him? She had just been speaking of him being a good man—there was no
chance she feared him now, surely?

He offered her a hand and helped her to her
feet. “Come, ‘tis late. We must away to bed.”

Antonia stared at him and he realised too late
how his words must have sounded—that perhaps he intended to take her to his
bed. How simple it would be. She would be swayed with ease. It would take but a
few kisses and tender touches and he could have this woman writhing in his bed.

But his honour—yes, his damned honour—would not
allow it.

Damnation, there were times when he wished he
was not a good man at all. When he would like to take every moral and fling
them from the window. Then he could sate himself with this woman and not be
riddled by guilt the next day.

She swayed into him, sending blood rushing
through his body and down. Her fingers curled around his upper arms. That dark
gaze jarred with his. With the golden candlelight skimming her skin and those
long lashes dashing enchantingly over her skin, his need deepened—to something
more uncomfortable and less basic. A need not only for her body but for
something else...

“We are dancing.”

Henry had to take several moments to absorb her
words. “What?”

“Look,” she glanced down between them, “we are
dancing.”

He took notice of their movements, of their sway
back and forth and summoned a tilted smile. They were indeed doing a dance of a
sort. A slightly drunken dance, admittedly, but mayhap to another’s eye, it
would appear they were two lovers, clinging together and dancing to a
troubadour’s song.

“I cannot dance.”

“Surely not?”

“’Tis true.
I am
no dancer.”

His father had no time for the art of dancing
and so then nor did he. He’d never considered he’d been missing out on
anything...until now. To take this woman in his arms and charm her with
movements would be a great blessing indeed.
Or mayhap not.
It would only give him one more reason to keep her close to him, to feel that
sweet slender body pressed to him.

She moved away from him but kept her hand in
his. Her hips swayed to whatever music was in her mind. All he knew was that it
had to be like no song he’d ever heard. The village dances consisted of
foot-stomping songs about bonny lasses with bountiful curves, and there had
been few celebrations when his father had been alive so he hadn’t witnessed
more refined dancing. But he doubted the dancers ever swayed as she did—rocking
their hips side to side in a suggestive manner. Spanish dances were a lot more
enticing than English.

Henry couldn’t help let a grin spread across his
face. “Whatever are you doing?”

A glint of mischief flickered in her gaze. He
considered then that he would do anything to keep that intriguing smile on her
face and the slight crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Antonia was the sort of
woman who deserved to smile a lot and yet had not nearly enough to smile about.

“Is my dancing so bad that you do not recognise
it for what it is?”

“This—” he motioned up and down her “—is not
dancing. ‘Tis...”

“’Tis?”

He shouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

“Seduction.”

The word rang around the room like a pistol shot
even though he said it low and gruff with his throat full of tension. She paused
her swaying and her smile dropped. He noticed the flutter of her pulse at the
base of her neck.

He tugged on her hand. Not enough to have any
real impact but enough to imply he wanted her closer. It worked. She turned
into him, twisting so that her back met his chest. His arm encircled her. The
scent of flowers washed over him and he inhaled deeply when her hair brushed
his face. The silky softness begged him to bury his face against her.

Antonia tilted her head and rested it against
his shoulder. Still holding hands, still keeping her firmly against him, he
used his other hand to sweep aside her hair and reveal the expanse of her neck.
He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know if it was the wine making him weak or
simply Antonia, but he had to taste her.

“Antonia,” he grated out as he lowered his
head—a warning.

She simply sighed and sank farther into him.

The first touch of her skin on his lips sent a
jolt through him. The second touch made him feel as though his body were aflame.
Hot, searing need washed through him again and again. Her tiny gasp almost
undid him. He gripped her shoulder in his free hand and brought his mouth down
again to the crook of her neck. This time he used his teeth to nip lightly. A
tiny tremor ran through her body.

The taste of her warm skin made him forget
everything—forget himself. He twisted her to face him and cupped her chin.

“Tell me to cease,” he said gruffly.

She shook her head.

“Tell me!” Henry demanded.

“
No
.”

“Hell’s teeth.”

There, under the candlelight, with wine surging
through his veins, he gave in. He kissed her. She was sweet, succulent yet
fiery like the wine. She kissed him back hard, looping her hands around his
waist and giving him no way of retreating. His sore lip stung but he didn’t
care. Her lips parted and he slipped his tongue inside, tasting the rich wine
she’d drunk. She drew in a sharp breath and wriggled against him. Aware of
every sweet curve against him, his body responded with an agonising ache. He
shifted in a bid to ease that ache and she released a tiny sound of pleasure.

He wanted to curse more. To release a stream of
words that would have him in confession forever. This woman was dangerous. He
needed her more than he’d ever needed anyone. She made him forget
honour,
forget everything except the sweet taste of her and
the feel of her body flush against his. For the moment, they were not enemies
or prisoner and captor. They were man and woman.

He wanted to make them man and woman in so many
ways.

Releasing her face, he bundled her to him. She
staggered back and muttered something in Spanish when her back met the wall. It
almost brought him to his senses.
But not quite.
Because she was upon him with her lips once more, this time dragging them down
his face and nipping at his neck. He groaned and thrust his fingers into her
hair to draw back her head and repay the favour. Her fingers curled into his
shoulders. There was no escape for her here. Her body was at his mercy, pinned
between the wall and his chest. It was exactly how he wanted her.

Henry took her hands from his shoulders and
pressed them up above her head. With one hand curling around her wrists, her
body was open to him. He trailed kisses up and down her throat, paying
attention to her lips as she writhed and released small begging sounds. Her
curves enticed him and he dropped down low to trace the shape of her breasts
with his tongue. They heaved against her bodice, begging to be released.

With her wrists still caught up in one hand, he
slipped a finger beneath the bodice and eased out one ripe, round breast.

“Henry,” she cried when he plucked at her
nipple. Her whole body shook with what he assumed was the same desire that ate
deep into his gut.

He’d never seen anything more beautiful. Her
dusky skin, her dark nipple, the way her lips were parted in a silent plea.
With her head tilted back and her lids at half-mast.
Her
breaths heavy and wanting.
She was his for the taking.

“Nay.”
He
dropped her wrists. “Damnation.
Nay.”

Antonia blinked and straightened. “
No?”

He thrust a hand through his hair. “Forgive me,
I shouldn’t—”

She pushed herself away from the wall and
dragged up her bodice.

“Antonia, we have drunk much wine...”

“You think I am a weak
woman,
here to do your bidding, is that it? That I am ruled by my desires and that I
have no control over myself? Did I not kiss you in return? Do I not know my own
mind?”

“I know you are far from weak.”

“Do you?” She huffed out a breath and shook her
head. “It matters not. Good night to you, sir.”

She gave a little dip and hurried from the room.
The temptation to follow her was great. But he couldn’t seem to say or do
anything right with this woman. And he feared greatly he might do something
even more foolish, like attempt to bed her.

Henry pushed both hands into his hair and held
them there as he tried to rid himself of the taste and scent of her. He’d have
to write some more letters and hurry along negotiations. The townsfolk wouldn’t
tolerate the prisoners much longer, and he wasn’t sure he could survive many
more nights in her company without doing something wholly dishonourable.
Antonia did know her own mind, perhaps, but she had also just been through
several traumatic events. There would be nothing worse than taking advantage
then seeing the regret the next morning.

He eyed the left over wine and slumped into the
chair. Henry threw back the remains of the drink. Mayhap if he drank enough
he’d forget the taste of her. He sat there for some time, eyeing the empty
goblet and pondering the dripping wax candles as they burned down. Fatigue soon
ate into every part of him and the wine made his lids heavy. Shaking his head
at himself, he stood. No amount of sitting around would help him puzzle out
that woman.

He made his way upstairs and eased open his
bedroom door. Kate had left some candles lit. He blew them out, covering the
room in a blanket of darkness.

“Careless,” he muttered to himself as he
stripped off his doublet and shirt before clumsily pulling off the rest of his
garments. He’d have to have a word with the housekeeper on the morrow.

Staggering over to the bed, he grimaced as his
head began to pound. Spanish wine was potent indeed. He feared he’d suffer in
the morning. He drew back the sheets and slipped into bed.

Something moved.
Then
screamed.

Antonia.

Ears ringing, he found himself having to shield
himself from her fists as they flew at him. He grasped them and pinned her in
place. How had he forgotten he’d given her his bed? That wine really had made a
fool of him.

“Antonia,” he said softly. She must have been
dreaming. She wriggled against him and he tried not to think about the bare
skin under that thin chemise.

“
Por favor
,” she sobbed then began
spilling out endless words in Spanish. He only caught a few of them but it
sounded as though she was pleading. She’d relaxed in his hold, boneless. Her
fight had gone. For some reason, that disturbed him more than anything.

“Antonia, ‘tis I, Henry.”

Her mumbling continued, increasing until she was
almost hysterical. He stumbled from the bed and fought to get a candle lit.
“God’s blood.”

When the faint flicker of light cast over her
face, he saw her eyes were open but she couldn’t see him. She was locked in
some kind of terror. She remained on her back, like an offering.
But not a willing, sensual one.
Nay, like someone who was
resigned to her
fate.
Antonia flung an arm over eyes
and pleaded again.

He snatched up his shirt and thrust it over his
head. Not that she had noticed his naked state, but he wouldn’t have her anymore
terrified. He eased down next to her and tried to stroke her face but found
that only sent her rigid and made her tremble.