For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale
She felt distraught. He would use her now, and it was over, and she was near weeping for the feeling he had given her that still demanded more.
He released the lacing on his breeches. She lifted up her arms to embrace him as he came over her. She didn't flinch, though he was so much larger than Ligurio; she lay herself open for him despite her thwarted yearning.
He rested on his hands, looking down into her face. "Lady," he said, with a quick grin, "in your studies, that last that I taught you—falls it within the thirteenth sin, indecent manner of embrace."
She made a faint wild laugh, a mindless answer, for he was lowering himself on her, this time using his body as he had used his hands and his tongue to urge that impossible pleasure. In surprise she felt it coming again as his hard member pressed at her, parting her a little with each push, until the head was inside her.
His arms trembled. He stared down at her, a blank distance in his look, a blindness. He drew air in his chest, his grin going to a baring of his teeth as he drove himself into her.
Though his size was a sore burn, she took him deep. No coupling she had ever known to be like this. His unchaste kiss, his unchaste touch, his breath a harsh sob at her ear; his weight on her and his penetration to the very depth of her. Over and over she rolled and shoved herself wantonly against him—and culmination came upon her like an ambush.
"God save!" she cried. Her back arched. Her body shuddered, beyond command. She died as he did, in full ecstasy, lost and cleaving to him in the flood.
* * *
She slept against Ruck's chest, on the floor, turned to nestle with one leg drawn up and her hips curving, her hand resting possessively on his waist. Propped on his elbow, he watched the firelight play orange and rose over her skin.
Softly he moved his hand over her, a gentle stroke. With each breath he could feel the tips of her breasts touch him. He could lower his lashes and look at them, marvel among many marvels. Without her gowns and jewels, she had a womanly shape, all roundness and long lines, not so coldly slender as her close-cut fashionable robes made her appear, but sweetly pillowed and cushioned, full ripe in life.
In his despair her comeliness made him think of how he would lose her. It must be impossible; he could not imagine any future in which he would have this moment again.
His finger trailed down into the shadow between them. He followed an odd flaw in the satin of her skin, an irregular line from her merkin curls up to her belly. He drew his fingertip downward, tracing another beside it, and another. They were strangely feminine, faint and light, soft at the edges like no scars he'd ever seen in a wide experience of battle wounds. He wondered at how she might have come by such ghostly marks, but the very idea of questioning the Princess Melanthe on such a topic as her flaws made him smile inside himself.
She would freeze him in his place. She would not understand him, that he only wished to know more of her, nor believe that because she wasn't perfect beneath her furs and silks and jewels, he loved her the more. Arrogance and unexpected blemish, and such courage to ride with him alone. Shameless and coy by turns, her marvelous blue-lilac eyes sulky with fear that he was repelled by her appearance.
As he traced the marks, she caught his hand, folding up her leg up with a quick move, as if to hide herself. Her eyes sprang open. "What are you about?" she asked sharply.
He locked his fingers into hers and leaned over, caressing her brow with light kisses. "Inspecting your great age and ugliness, wench."
She brought his hand up, making him rest it on his own thigh, trapping it firmly there over the black hose he still wore. "I've lost count of these times you've called me wench. You must be flayed alive to atone for them all. It's a great tragedy."
"Bassinger will make a woeful lay of lamentation, to remember me."
She stared at the base of his throat, unsmiling. He regretted speaking of Bassinger, bringing the world into their seclusion. To distract her, he loosed his hand from her hold. He cupped her breast, caressing his thumb over the dark rosy crown.
She drew in a swift breath. The shade of a frown hovered between her brows. She slanted a look up at him.
"You've lied to me, monk man. You're no abstinent from women."
He shook his head. "I've told you truth, my lady, before God."
"No." She rolled onto her back, gripping his wrist. "What of this manner of—kissing and touching? In God's name, where did you discover such things?"
He lifted his eyebrows. "This?" He made a slow circle with his thumb. "Lady, I've been married. A husband will touch his wife so."
She gave him a look as offended as any scandalized abbess. "Mine did not!"
Ruck tilted his head, resting his cheek on his fist. "Did he not? I can't say why, my lady, but that pleases me to hear."
"And—I didn't mean only—this—but your...unnatural kisses. I think me only lewd gallants and carpet knights know of such perversions!"
He ceased his caress and lowered his eyes. She seemed truly agitated by the transgression. To be sermoned by the Princess Melanthe, of all people, made him think he must truly have been immoral to the worst degree of vice.
"Forgive me, my lady." He set his mouth. "I thought—such a one as you, wise in love-amour—I thought me you'd know these things, and like them. I'll not offend you so again, I swear it."
She curled both her hands about his. "No, no, you mistake me. I did—I took pleasure, wee loo, how could I say I didn't? But—" She turned her face to him. "Where indeed have you learned them, if not from dissolute women and harlots?"
"I haven't had recourse to harlots." He withdrew his hand, staring down at the silken carpet between them. "I learned it from confession."
"Confession!"
"Aye, lady."
She sat up. "Priests I know who are full of impurity, but I didn't think they taught it in the church."
"They ask—" He plucked at the nap of the carpet and looked up at her sideways. "Do they not ask questions of you, my lady?"
"Of course. Have I been idle, or proud, and suchlike?"
"No more than that?"
She hugged her knees. "Envious? Angry? Grasping? Gluttonous?" she recited, and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Had I one would clatter and carp that I adorned myself too fine, until I wearied of it, and had him removed and another in his place."
"Oh," he muttered. He picked at the motley silk.
"They inquire of you else?"
He scowled. "Yes. Of my lust." He spread his fingers, rubbing them back and forth over the nap. "They ask, have I not engaged in lecherous touches and embraces—and when I say I have not, asks the confessor in another way, haven't I touched a woman on her breasts, or her body. And neither does he trust me no more than you, my lady, when I say him nay, and asks again, as if I'd said yes, then did I not touch her womb-gate and her merkin? And did I not kiss her there and on her teats, for to make her lewd? And did I not mount her unnaturally, as the beasts couple, or let her mount onto me? And did I not do it on a holy day?" He made a snort of misery. "And then do I think of little else, when I go out, but what I might do if I had me a wife and might use her."
"Well," she said softly, but he could hear mirth in her voice.
His jaw hardened. "So, if you believe me—I did not learn vice from harlots."
"Perhaps you could teach them!" she suggested.
He lay back with a deep sigh, stuffing a cushion under his neck and clasping his hands behind his head. She regarded him, and then reached up and touched his bent knee.
"It's because they take measure of your form and vigor, and can't conceive that a man like you would be continent. So did that priest reckon me for excess in adornment."
He hadn't been perfectly continent, but he was not going to tell her more of the grinding inquisitions he received on the matter, not when the worst crime she was required to acknowledge appeared to be excess adornment.
"Is true, then," she asked, "that those things be not sin in marriage?"
"
"You've studied much on this matter?"
He nodded.
She rocked back on her hips and laughed. "In truth, we'll send you to confession very often, monk man, for your further instruction!"
He let his gaze wander up to the window, to the chimney—to her, as she sat curled with the warm firelight on the curve of her back. He smiled slowly. "As God and my liege lady command me."
EIGHTEEN
The first thing Melanthe knew was the roar of a voice and the chime of rings sliding as the bedcurtains swept open and gray light poured over her. "Baseborn whore!"
A monstrous black outline flashed, and something came hurtling at her. Through the blankets a blow smashed into her neck and shoulder.
The black flashed again. She heard a shout, the thing came at her, and suddenly another weight bore down atop her, between her and the assault. A sound like an ax on wood cracked through her head. The weight on her jerked, and jerked again under another hit. Through a daze she realized that it was Ruck above her, his body pressing her down as someone beat him, raining blows on his naked back.
"High morn is it!" their attacker howled. "Rise, boy, or lose your hide! Your commoner is killed; base whore you took to wife, and I'll slay her bastards to clean the nest! She was unworthy of you! Adaw, the swords await." His weapon cracked down again. "Up! Will you mount a bloody corpse? Get up!"
The hits had lost a little of their energy. Ruck lifted himself. He raised his arm; she saw a grizzled man beside the bed—the descending wooden sword whacked into the palm of Ruck's hand. He held the weapon off and jerked it from their assailant's double grip as he rose, hurling it away. It struck the open door and woke a thunder of echoes in the spiraled stair beyond.
"Cease off!" Stride-legged and naked, his back reddened by beating, Ruck glared at the savage old man. "Take heed and stand back."
The man didn't even glance at Ruck. "Stinking bitch-clout, do you breathe still?" He came for Melanthe, gray and powerful, his beard an untamed mat. "Hey and ware, I'll soon strangle you!"
Ruck sprang to prevent him, ramming him back, holding him with an arm across his chest. "No, sir, it's folly! Heed to me!"
"Heed you!" The man fought, big and strong enough in spite of his years to force Ruck to arm's length, but none of his struggle could break him free. "Heed you, you pillock, while you degrade your mother, God forgive her! While you corrupt your father's line with common blood!" He spat toward Melanthe.
"Enough! Cease off this blundering!" Ruck caught him by the shoulders. With a grunt of effort he forced the old man to his knees. "Get down!"
The man made wild efforts to rise, but Ruck held him down. "I have no children," Ruck said fiercely. "You know this. I've said you many times. Now listen to me. Isabelle is dead years ago. My lady's grace is the Princess Melanthe, of Monteverde and Bowland. And my wife. I'd have you understand it clearly, and repeat my words, that I know I may release you."
The old man ceased his combat. Melanthe clutched the sheet and her hand over her bruised shoulder. He turned pale, lifting his face to her. "Bowland?" he said, his voice suddenly atremble. "The daughter of Sir Richard?"
Ruck let him go. The old man's body shook. As he bowed down his head to his knees and began to weep, Ruck looked quickly toward Melanthe. "My lady—are you hurt?"
Her arm throbbed, but the quilts had muffled the impact of the sword. She was more stunned than in pain. Wordlessly she shook her head. He turned, kneeling to embrace their groaning attacker, holding him tight, as if he were a child.
"Who is this?" Melanthe exclaimed.
"Sir Harold." He did not say more, but gently urged the other man up. "Come, you must depart now, sir."
Sir Harold pulled himself away. "Sir Richard? You've wed Sir Richard, boy?"
Ruck touched his shoulder and indicated Melanthe. "His daughter," he murmured. "The countess."
The grizzled knight twisted and pulled at his hair, possessed with frantic mumbling. He seemed to lose his strength, falling with his forehead to the floor, begging mercy, muttering in confusion of her father and Bowland and killing. Melanthe watched Ruck try to coax him away with no success.
"Come forward, Sir Harold," she said curtly. "Now speak plain words as a good trusty knight, or take yourself off."
The sharp command seemed to reach his scattered wits. He stopped his moving and mumbling, and crept to the bedside, his scarred hands knotted together. He raised his face to her. "My noble lady's grace," he said, "I have a demon!"
"Yes, that is clear to me, Sir Harold."
"My lady," he said hopelessly, "methinks I must slay myself, to kill it."
"No, you will not. Neither I nor Lord Ruadrik give you leave. It's against God, Sir Harold. And would deprive my lord of his rights to aid and counsel of you," She softened her voice. "When the demon tries to seize you, you must remember to ask God for counsel and solace, for He comes to the aid of those who wish to do good and act faithfully."
The old man gazed at her, dawning adoration in his face. "Blessed be you, my lady. Oh, my lady, you be the wisest and worthiest of the world's kind."
"This is not my wisdom, but my honored father's, God give his soul peace. I only mind you of your duty."
Sir Harold gave a little sigh. "Gentle lady, truly the Lord God blessed this house on the day your lady's grace wed my lord. It was the unworthy bitch-mare I designed to slay, to keep clean my lord's noble blood."
"God has saved you from that mortal sin," Melanthe said. "Take your near escape to heart."
He bowed his head. "My lady."
"Lord Ruadrik will adjudge your punishment for striking me, but if it be heavier than a day in the tumbrel, then I'll try to intercede for you."
"Thank you, my lady," he said humbly. "I beg my lady's favor."
"You have my favor. Leave me now." She held out her hand from beneath the sheet to be kissed. He reached for her so quickly that for a moment she regretted the move, but he took her fingers gently, only the rough pads of his palms touching her as he made a courteous gesture of bending over her hand.
"God preserve your lady's grace." He rose, falling back from the bedside with his shoulders squared and his head lifted. Ruck had stood all the time beside him, as if ready to drag him out at any moment. Sir Harold gave him a deep bow, pronounced himself at his lord's mercy whenever he should be pleased to devise a just punishment, and strode from the room.
Immediately Ruck closed the door and barred it. Without speaking, he took up his shirt, pulling it over his head, covering the fiery marks on his skin. For the first time Melanthe became aware of rain that pelted against the window glazing and the cold dimness of the room.
"In God's name!" She sank back into the pillows. "What next in this place?"
"You're not hurt, my lady?"
His cool tone warned her away from jesting. Her shoulder throbbed painfully, but she held the silken quilt up close, watching him. "I live."
"He is maddened, my lady," Ruck said. "He can't help himself when the fits are on him."
"Who is he?"
"My master in arms. In his prime he took a blow to his head that lay bare the brain, and since then has no command of his rage. But he's a great knight, my lady, and taught me the best that I know of fighting."
"The secret of your prowess. You fight like a madman because a madman instructed you."
He shrugged. "It may be." He bent over a chest and took breeches from it, dressing himself without service. "Sir Harold esteems gentle blood and pomp above all things. Isabelle he despised, though I never brought her here. Only to hear her name enrages him. He'd have had me take a princess to wife."
With a little twist of his mouth and a glance at Melanthe, he acknowledged what he'd said, as if he'd just heeded his own words.
"Then I shall crush him with my magnificence, so as to gladden him," she said.
He took clothes from the chest and shut the lid. "You delighted h
"It's a talent of mine, noble talking."
"Clearly," he agreed. "Enough to make a man's head spin."
"That is the purpose of noble talking. It's saved many a prince from certain death."
He rested one foot on the ornamented and embellished settle, lacing his hose. The gear was of gray silk, a fitted tunic embroidered in black and set with jet stones, trimmed in sable fur. She was pleased to see that amid his many-hued retainers, he alone went uncolored. It set him apart as no fantastical finery could, and did his comeliness no hurt at all, but underscored it.
"Will you rise, lady?" he asked when he was done. "Or sleep away all your lifetime?"
She slipped down and pulled the sheet over her head. From beyond the white warmth she heard him move. The door bar made a grating slide.
She sat up. "Wait."
He stood at the door, his hand upon it. Melanthe held the blankets up to her.
"I don't wish you to go," she said abruptly.
He made a slight bow and waited at the door, as if for an order.
"I don't wish you to go," she repeated.
"My lady, they expect me in hall. Long I've been absent, and many matters will await." He scowled down at the hasp. "Though it seems a strange place to you, I'm master of it."
She understood a lord's duty as well as she understood how to breathe. But some imp inside her—it didn't even seem to be herself—made her plump her body on the mattress like a spoiled child. She turned over with her back to him.
"When you rise, my lady," he said, "I'll be below."
She heard the creak of the door and rolled over, flinging a pillow at him. It hit his shoulder. As he turned, she hurled another that struck him full in the chest.
She dropped down into the bed and yanked the coverings over her, curling facedown, her hands gripped together under her chin. She heard the door close. The sound of the boards beneath the carpets traced his coming to the bed. Then she was miserable and angry, not even knowing what to say, beyond a bare demand for his company and his indecent embraces. Too low to sink, to ask for what she had always denied; and too terrible if she should be refused, chosen over, and he went to his minstrels that he loved.