Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Christopher’s hand went from gripping her head firmly to caressing her, as if he were forcibly trying to calm himself.
His gaze lingered on her and she could see the fire in his eyes banking.
She took to stroking his face tenderly, hoping he would calm down.
In his present condition, there was nothing he could do about what was said. At least, not at the moment.
Finally, he cracked a smile. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything, husband,” she replied.
His grin widened. “Would you shave this bloody beard? It itched something terrible today and nearly drove me mad.”
She nodded. “If you wish it, of course.”
He kissed her once, twice. “Go get my razor and soap.”
She bounded off the bed, being careful not to jostle him too much. He noticed as she went to the cabinet that she was still limping a bit. “How’s your leg?”
She shrugged, drawing out the necessary utensils. “Sore, but not overly. The wound wasn’t all that deep, but I fear I shall have an ugly scar on the top of my thigh.”
“Your thigh could never be ugly, Dustin,” he said. “You could not be ugly if you tried.”
She poured some water in a bowl and began to lather up the soap. “Do you know that I like you better with your beard?”
“You do?” he asked, frowning. “But you said I looked handsome either way.”
“You do.” She turned to him with the items in her hand. “I love you either way. But I like your beard best.”
He smirked and shook his head as she sat down and proceeded to shave off his dark blond beard.
She was careful and thorough and he wanted to know where, and on whom, she had practiced.
She laughed at him, ignoring his questions playfully, until his entire face and neck was as smooth as new skin.
When she was done, she wiped him off and handed him the polished hand mirror.
He eyed himself critically. “Hmmm,” he said critically. “I look like a fresh-faced squire.”
“You look wonderful,” she said. “How old are you, anyway?”
His eyes crinkled as he handed her back the mirror. “You do not know? No one has told you?”
“No,” she set the mirror down. “I never thought to ask, and you never told me. How old are you?”
“Thirty-five years,” he said.
Her eyebrows rose. “You are? You are old.”
He laughed. “You say that because you are only nineteen. Thirty-five isn’t so old.”
“I shall be twenty on the first of December,” she told him. “That seems old to me.”
“Your birthday is coming soon,” he said thoughtfully. “I am glad you told me. We will have a fine party for you.”
She shook her head, grinning shyly. “Nay, no party. I do not want a party.”
“And why not? Every young lady wants a party,” he insisted.
She shook her head firmly. “No party, Chris. I would simply like us to spend it together, at Lioncross.”
His smile faded. How could he promise her that when he wasn’t even sure where they would be tomorrow, much less a month from now? But that was what she desired and he would not deny her.
“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he said softly.
She put all of the items into the bowl and carried them back across the room. “When is the day of your birth, Chris?”
“April,” he said. “The seventh.”
“Good,” she said, setting the paraphernalia down. “I will always remember that.”
He shook his head. “Birthdays are of no consequence. They simply remind us of how old we are growing.”
She came back over to the bed and prepared to sit on it when she looked down and saw how dirty her surcoat was. She hadn’t noticed or cared until this moment.
“This is ruined,” she said softly.
He glanced at the surcoat, feeling his fatigue and pain catching up with him. “No matter,” he said softly. “We shall have more surcoats made, as I promised. But I do like the color on you.”
She reached around and undid the stays, and the surcoat fell to her feet in a billowy swish of silk. She kicked the surcoat into the corner and removed her slippers and stockings, gazing at the pile with disturbing memories. She wondered if she would ever be able to wear deep blue silk again.
Distressed once more, she turned away from the mound of clothing and opened her mouth to speak, but promptly clamped it shut again when she saw that Christopher had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Silently, she tip-toed over to the bed.
He did indeed look like a young lad with his clean face.
She smiled as she delicately touched his blond hair, running her hand down his smooth cheek.
She had fairly forgotten just how full and sensual his lips were, lips that made her feel more wonderful than anything on earth.
Her fingers traced the granite-squareness of his jaw, glad that the beard was off because it had covered the gorgeous deep dimples in his cheeks.
A shudder ran through her when she realized just how close he came to death. Tears threatened her again, but she fought them off, telling herself firmly there was no need to cry anymore. He was going to be fine.
Tenderly, she kissed his cheek and went to her wardrobe to retrieve another surcoat.
She donned a pretty pink surcoat with a braided brocade rope that hung around her hips and pulled her hair back to the nape of her neck and plaited it into one thick braid.
She had seen a woman in the grand dining hall with her hair plaited in such a way and decided it looked very pretty.
Sans hose, she put on her slippers and exited quietly into the antechamber.
Marcus was there, standing by the window as if in a daydream. He turned around when Dustin entered the room.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Sleeping.” Dustin glanced around the room. “Where is everyone?”
“The melee is about to start,” he said. “Everyone is down at the arena.”
“They are competing after what happened to Christopher?” she said angrily. “What of Sir Dennis? Is he able to compete?”
“Aye, he is.” Marcus wasn’t the least bit happy about it. “It would seem that David and the others have a score to settle with the man and they would not be deterred.”
Dustin looked long at him a moment. “Why didn’t you go, too?”
“Because someone needed to stay here with you,” he replied.
She sank wearily into a chair and curled her feet underneath her. “It is unfortunate that Christopher cannot kill the man himself,” she said. “If I were Chris’ size, I’d don his armor and pretend to be him.”
Marcus looked thoughtfully at her a moment and she picked up on his line of thinking, shaking her head. “You will not do it, Marcus. You cannot fight with your arm.”
“I was able to defend you yesterday,” he said. “I can handle a sword with my left hand fairly well.”
“But Christopher hurt his left shoulder,” Dustin pointed out. “Don’t you think that someone would notice, particularly Sir Dennis?”
“I doubt anyone was paying that much attention,” Marcus replied, glancing over at Christopher’s discarded armor and tunic. “Besides, Chris and I are about the same size.”
“He’s taller than you,” she said flatly.
“Not by much,” Marcus insisted. “He is six inches over six feet, and I am nearly five inches over six feet. What is an inch or so?”
“You weigh more than he does,” Dustin told him.
“Ten pounds or so,” Marcus said. “With a helmet on and all that armor, who will know the difference?”
“I will,” Dustin said softly. “I won’t allow you to, Marcus. If something were to happen to you, I would die of guilt. Now sit here and keep me company and let us hear no more talk of the melee.”
Reluctantly, he complied, yet thinking it was wonderful to have her all to himself for the afternoon. It was almost as if they were a normal, married couple sharing a quiet day together, and for a brief few moments he allowed himself the fantasy.
Later on that night after the sun had set, Dustin went into the bedchamber and lit the tallow candle by the bed.
Christopher was still soundly asleep, snoring softly.
She smiled and gently touched his hair, turning to remove her surcoat.
The surcoat, shift and slippers ended up on the chair and she dashed to the hearth to stoke the fire before sliding into bed, nude, beside her husband.
He was warm and she was freezing as she snuggled up against him.
Even in his sleep, his arm went about her and she pressed close against him and wallowed in his heat.
She wasn’t particularly tired and found herself running delicate fingers over his magnificent chest, feeling his soft skin and smelling his musk.
She forgot he was asleep as she played with his nipple, making it peak just as he hardened hers.
Curious, she stuck her tongue out timidly to taste it.
Christopher let out a groan and his eyes opened drowsily. “Any more of that and you will kill me,” he said huskily.
“I am sorry,” she reached up to stroke his forehead.
“So am I,” he replied. “Were I not so weak, I’d throw you on your back and make love to you until the dawn.”
A slow smile crept onto her lips. “Why must you always make love to me? Why cannot I make love to you?”
His eyes blinked slowly and then he smiled. “You can, if you wish,” he replied. “But I can do naught to help you.”
She was feeling brave and sat up on her knees, her beautiful body bathed golden in the candlelight. “Then do not. Just tell me what to do.”
He sighed, his eyes closing briefly. “Do what feels right, sweet love,” he said. “Do what tastes good, what makes you feel good. Do what I do to you.”