The Knight (4 page)

Her eyes met his; she looked unaccountably relieved. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course.” He frowned. “Do you doubt me?”

“Never. But I don’t need a palace; I’ll be happy anywhere as long as we are together.” She beamed up at him, as brightly and warmly as the sun, and like Icarus, he was helpless to resist the magnetic pull. With a groan, he covered her mouth once again and eased her back on the plaid.

He propped on his side to protect her from the brunt of his weight. The benefit was that it not only gave him a better angle to kiss her, it also gave his hand free access to explore.

While his tongue delved into the warm recesses of her mouth, his hand roamed over the lush curves of her body—
all
over her body. He couldn’t get enough of touching her, feeling all that soft feminine flesh filling—spilling over—his hand, feeling her flush and heat for him. She was so hot. Hot and anxious and needy.

She writhed and arched under his fingertips, unconsciously seeking the pressure and friction her body desired.

She moaned into his mouth when he finally cupped her breasts.

He kissed her harder, working her mouth with the stroke of his tongue, as his hand did the same with her breast. Cupping, squeezing, circling the taut nipple with the pad of his thumb before finally taking it between his fingers and giving it the friction her arching back demanded.

Despite the cool February day, sweat spread over his skin as the force of his desire grew hotter and harder to control. He felt as if he were about to explode. When her hips started to lift, he let her find him.

Christ. He groaned at the contact. Nestling the throbbing column in the sweet juncture between her legs, he cupped her bottom, holding himself firmly against her as she started to grind against him with frantic little lifts and circles of her hips.

Her breath was coming faster now, a mix of soft cries and moans. He could feel her body quickening underneath him. The cries turned more insistent, the grip of her fingers into his shoulders more demanding. He could feel the sweet tension claim her. Feel as she began to dissolve.

Oh God, she was going to come just from rubbing against him. He gritted his teeth against his own urge to do the same and let her ride it out. Let her discover how to find her pleasure and take it.

He held himself very still, trying not to think about how good it felt. Or how responsive she was. Or how damned lucky he was to find a woman with such unbridled passion. Christ, it felt as if they were swiving, even though they still had their clothes on.

A moment later her body seized. He broke the kiss to watch her face as she broke apart.

Her eyes flew to his in wonder. “James!”

Something jammed in his chest. A hard, hot stab of pure emotion. She was so beautiful. “It’s all right, love,” he said huskily. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. They were so connected he could feel the spasms and shuddering of her release reverberating through her—and around him, pulling and gripping. So tight. So warm. So good.

God, he needed to be inside her.

Stunned by the power of the sensations that wracked her body, Joanna was barely aware of James’s jerky movements as he tore off his
cotun
and worked the ties of his braies.

The sharp spasms had just begun to ebb when she felt a cool blast of air wash over her legs as he tossed up her skirts. Looping his arms under her legs, he lifted her hips to where he was positioned on his knees between her legs.

The blunt tip of his manhood nudged against her for a moment, and with one purposeful thrust he sheathed himself inside her.

His head fell back with a deep cry that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

She gasped—more with shock than with pain, although his size still elicited a twinge of the latter. It was the thoroughness of his possession, the fierce primitiveness of his claim, and the incredible fullness of him inside her.

He held himself still for a minute, as if giving his body a chance to get used to the sensations, before drawing himself in and out—slowly.

She’d wondered at their position until then, but suddenly it became clear. Unlike the first time when he’d been on top of her, with him on his knees and her hips tilted to him, he had a perfect vantage of what they were doing. He could watch himself moving in and out of her.

And so could she. Her eyes widened as her body stretched to take him in, and inch-by-inch he disappeared inside her.

She knew she should be shocked. Should be ashamed. Should turn her gaze. But instead, she flushed with arousal at the erotic display. At the intimacy and the carnality. Heat spread through her limbs.

Their eyes met, and a flush rose up her cheeks.

His face was a tight mask of pleasure, all hard lines and dark shadows. His jaw was clenched, his mouth was thinned, and his eyes were slitted with passion. He looked fierce and dangerous, and so attractive it sent a fresh wave of heat right to the place they were joined.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said as if he could read her thoughts. “Your passion arouses me. I like to feel your eyes on me.”

As though on command, her eyes fell to his manhood, poised at the precipice of another stroke. “You do?” she asked.

He groaned in response, sinking in and out again. His voice was tight, as if every movement was torture. “God, you have no idea. Watch me, Jo. Watch me love you.”

She did. She wondered at the size of him. At his thickness. At the bulging vein that ran down the long length. At the ability of her body to fit him inside. She watched as the slow, wicked strokes quickened, as his hips beat faster, as the heat and dampness of her arousal coated him in a thin sheen, easing his path.

She gasped as the beat intensified. Her heart started to pound, and the restless sensation started to build in her again.

The exquisite friction.

The sinful fullness.

The perfect rhythm.

Heat spread over her limbs as every hard slam of his body into hers brought her closer to that quicksilver peak.

She could feel the fury of his passion unleashing, feel the storm that he’d held at bay the first time begin to break free. It was wild and primitive and raw.

Never had she imagined she could do this to him, and the knowledge both humbled and empowered her. She could bring him to his knees just as easily as he brought her to hers. He might be the son of a lord, and she might be the daughter of a marshal, but here, like this, they were as one.

Beneath the linen of his shirt she could see his powerful muscles flex and tighten as the rhythm of their joining set a frantic pace. His face darkened, his eyes hooded, his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck and shoulders flared.

“Christ, you feel good,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

His hands slid from her thighs to grip her bottom, allowing him to sink deeper and deeper. Harder and harder until she knew there was nowhere for him to go. She gasped, as he’d reached the deepest part of her. They were joined completely… irrevocably… perfectly.

His eyes pinned her. “You’re mine, Jo. Mine forever.”

“Yes! Yes!” she cried out, the frantic rhythm of his thrusts taking her to the highest peak. But then he took her higher. With a rough growl, he plunged in full hilt and held her to him and started to circle his hips in a hard grind.

Her body came apart. Sensation exploded inside her.

“Oh God, I’m going to come,” he bit out tightly. His fingers dug into her buttocks as he stiffened and gave a deep guttural cry that sent them both catapulting toward the stars together. The spasms of her release crashed over her, as the hot rush of his seed poured inside of her.

It was incredible. Feeling his body shudder and quake with hers. Knowing that he was sharing the same sensation, the same passion, that they were experiencing this miracle together.

Forever,
he’d said. Tears of happiness sprang to her eyes.

When it was over, they collapsed in a boneless heap of exhausted bodies and tangled limbs.

Neither of them seemed to move for a long time. But eventually their rising chests and heavy breathing slowed. It took a few minutes longer for the haze that had turned her brain to mush to start to clear enough to allow for rational thought.

James swore.

The oath was one that she’d never heard him use before, and the crudeness shocked her. Was something wrong?

Her eyes flew to his.

A little of her trepidation slipped away when he smiled boyishly. “Sorry. I was just thinking that Raider and Dragon are going to be furious.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t important.” He slid his hand around to cup her cheek, stroking her bottom lip with his finger. His tender gaze fell on hers. “I have to go. I shouldn’t have stayed this long. The men are waiting for me.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply but slowly untangled himself and stood. There was something about watching him retie his braies and reach for his
cotun
that made it feel… wrong.

But recalling his promise to build her a palace someday, the prickle of disquiet faded. “I need to speak with you about something important.”

All of the attentiveness and tenderness he’d shown her a few minutes ago was gone. He was in warrior mode, his attention already diverted to whatever it was he had to do. “I’m afraid it will have to wait, Jo. I’m already late.”

“It will only take a few minutes.”

He frowned, perhaps catching something in her voice. “What is it about?”

He held out his hand for her and she stood, her skirt falling back into place, hiding all evidence, as if he hadn’t just spent himself between her thighs a few minutes ago.

She put her hands over her stomach instinctively. “Our future,” she said.

His brows furrowed in question; he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Our marriage,” she clarified. Embarrassed to be raising the subject herself, she tried to jest. “We will need to post the banns sooner than you may have intended.”

The blood slid from his face. “What marriage?”

In the shocked horror of his expression, Joanna saw the truth. The hideous, terrible, brutal truth. “Forever” and “build her a palace” didn’t mean make her his wife.

The knowledge rippled through her in a hot, painful wave. Thom had been right, and she’d been wrong—terribly wrong.

Coming on the heels of the single most erotic, most pleasurable, most incredible sexual experience of James’s life, Jo’s words were a cold shock. Hell, they were like a plunge into the icy waters of the Hebridean sea in midwinter—bare-arsed naked. His blood, his breath, everything inside him froze.

She looked up at him, her big blue eyes questioning and anxious. “I thought… I assumed… we would marry,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

He looked at the woman he’d known since they were both children—who’d grown up with him, who knew what the English had done to his father and what they’d taken from him, who had to know how important his career was to him—as if she were a stranger. He was going to be the greatest knight in Scotland, raising the name of Douglas to dizzying heights. The horror and humiliation of his father’s death—being left to die like a dog—would never be forgiven, but he intended to make sure it was forgotten. No one would ever malign their honor and nobility again.

“I thought you understood,” he said in disbelief. How could she not understand? She
had
to understand. He couldn’t marry her. It was impossible. Marriage between them was so out of the realm of possibility, he’d never even considered it. Well, maybe once when he was a lad and didn’t know any better, but his father had set him straight. James had a duty—a responsibility—to marry for the good of his family. His choice of bride had become even more important after his father’s death and Edward had stolen James’s patrimony. His sword would only take him so far.

The woman he took to wife would be almost as important as the name he was making for himself in war. It would be a woman who would bring him wealth and titles. A woman who would further his ambition and increase the power of the Douglas lordship.

A woman like Margery Bruce.

James had every reason to believe—every reason to hope—that the king intended to propose a match between his youngest sister (the king had seven) and James. He’d hinted around it more than once. At three and ten, Margery was old enough to wed. The bedding would wait for a few years, but the marriage would be the culmination of all that James had fought for over the past five years. The blood connection to Bruce would not only strengthen the bond between the families, but also prove just how high James had risen in the king’s regard.

Randolph wouldn’t be the only kinsman vying for Bruce’s favor.

James’s rivalry with Sir Thomas Randolph, Bruce’s nephew who’d been rising in the king’s estimation since James had captured him from the English and brought him back into the Scottish fold, had intensified of late. They were always trying to best each other on the battlefield or whatever mission the king gave them. The king encouraged it because it helped him in his efforts to retake his kingdom. Aye, Randolph was a thorn in James’s backside. He should have left the blighter with the English.

James couldn’t marry Joanna. He was the Lord of Douglas—dispossessed or nay—and she was his vassal’s daughter, for Christ’s sake! Marriage was a political alliance. A tool. One of the best means he had of advancing his family. It had nothing to do with his personal feelings. Hell, that’s why men had lemans. A wife was a duty; Joanna would be his happiness and his heart. How could she not understand that?

He raked his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to do, what to say. He gazed down at her face, and his chest burned, as if each breath of air he drew into his lungs was heavy with acrid smoke. He didn’t want to hurt her. Christ, hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do. He loved her.

He cupped her cheek in his hand. Her skin felt like ice. Usually, she would nuzzle into his touch, but she stood perfectly frozen, staring up at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he’d just betrayed her in the worst possible way and destroyed her faith in him.