Chapter 18 #3
It was that gentle entreaty that did it finally, delivering the blow that cracked the last of the armor he had welded around his heart.
Something splintered wide open inside him, flooding him with warmth and tenderness and need, by heaven.
Need like he had never known before, more than physical, to love Alissende, to cherish and worship her with everything he possessed.
Murmuring her name, Damien capitulated to the emotions swelling through him, half-rolling atop her, slanting his mouth over hers, and letting all of what he was feeling spill into that kiss.
She pulled him closer, and he tasted her tears on her lips…heard her sweet cry of surrender as her thighs opened to cradle his hips and her body arched up, ready to accept him.
Damien’s heart pounded in his chest as he pushed himself up to balance on his forearms. He stared down at Alissende, so beautiful, so precious to him.
Her eyes were half-closed in passion as she met his gaze, loving him with her expression, and without waiting any longer, he buried himself deep within her.
It was incredible, the sensation hot, wet, and magnificent beyond all imagining.
He cupped her face in his palms, pressing kisses over her eyelids and cheeks before taking her mouth again, the delicious agony of thrusting into her slowly, again and again, sweeping through him in powerful, rising waves.
“My God, Alissende, you feel so wonderful, so perfect,” he said hoarsely, feeling the swell of orgasm building to a knot of sensation at the base of his spine, driving him to thrust harder and faster.
In response, she arched up into him, gasping, “Ah…I cannot bear how good it is, Damien—the feel of you inside me…”
With another moan, this one of pure ecstasy, Alissende climaxed again, her slick heat clenching rhythmically around him, and the feeling of her release set off his own.
Pulling back, Damien thrust once more, deeply and fully.
The force of his climax ripped through him, making him cry out and blinding his vision; he felt as if his hold on his senses slipped, and all that remained was that flawless connection between himself and this astounding woman…
the exquisite joining of his body, heart, and soul with Alissende, as it had been meant to be from the beginning.
Spent, he slumped over in exhaustion, trying to shift sideways enough not to crush her.
His breath came in heaving gasps, and with what seemed his last ounce of strength, he rolled most of the way off her, freeing her from the bulk of his weight, though his legs remained entangled with hers, with the blanket wound around them.
Aye, they were pinned together, like it or not, he realized as he slowly regained his normal awareness of the world around him. And it was marvelous.
He was facing Alissende, and after a few moments more he dared a peek from beneath his arm to look at her.
She lay on her back still, eyes closed, looking replete and even more beautiful, if that was possible, than she had while they’d been making love.
But as he gazed upon her, her mouth edged up into a mischievous smile, and he knew then that she was aware of his watching her.
“Vixen,” he murmured, smiling at her even more impish expression when those lashes fluttered up. He reached out and brushed back a silky tendril of hair from her brow, searching out her gaze and feeling a pleasant lurching sensation in his chest when he found it and she smiled more deeply at him.
“Beware, lady,” he said with mock gravity, “lest I be coaxed into taming your wayward nature with my own lascivious methods. It would only take a touch or two to begin bringing you into control again. Aye, a slight caress here, perhaps”—he brushed his fingers over the tip of one of her breasts—“or better yet, right here.” This time he stroked his hand down her belly to tickle the soft curls between her legs, prompting her to squeal and twist away, laughing.
“You see? I already have you leaping to my commands,” he teased, though the laughter ebbed from his voice as she caught his hand in her own, raising it to her lips to press a soft kiss to his fingers. A throb of emotion rocked through him then, choking off any further words as he met her gaze.
“I love you, Damien.”
Alissende spoke softly, the sincerity of those words clear in her expressive eyes as she lay next to him, so beautiful and trusting.
His heart swelled, the longing to tell her how he felt rising up until he knew he could suppress it no more.
That the world and fate seemed aligned against them did not mean he must keep silent about what was at work inside of him right now.
About what she had wrought in him with the sweetness of her love…
“Alissende, there is something I need to—”
“My lord! I beg pardon, Sir Damien, but I must speak with you!”
The voice rang out from the edge of the clearing. It was Thomas, and there was a kind of urgency in his tone that set Damien’s instincts on alert. He called for his squire to wait, even as he sat up and rolled swiftly off the blanket, murmuring to Alissende to dress quickly.
After donning the fresh breeches and shirt that he’d retrieved from the basket, Damien slipped on his boots, and after a glance back to ensure that Alissende had had time to pull her clothing back on in some semblance of order, he called out to Thomas to approach.
The lad did, but he was accompanied by Reginald, who appeared distraught or, at the very least, nervous.
“Reginald—what is the matter, man?”
“Many pardons, my lord.” Reginald looked ill at ease with his mission. “I came seeking you at the insistence of a visitor to court who demands to see you.”
“A visitor?” Damien echoed, frowning. “Who is it?”
“A large man, my lord—a knight, near as broad and as tall as you. He approached me in stealth back at the stables, saying he did not wish to attract undue notice.” Reginald made a sound of irritation.
“Though he asked me several questions about you, he would not give me his name, but instead handed me this, telling me to bring it to you immediately, and saying you would meet with him when you saw what it held.”
At that Reginald held out a small leather satchel, knotted at the top.
Damien felt a twinge of some latent memory upon looking at it but nothing definite enough to give him an answer to this mystery.
Taking the purse from his guardsman, he untied its top and eased it open, looking inside and seeing naught but what appeared to be a piece of white cloth, folded several times.
But as he pulled it out and unfolded it to look at the insignia displayed there, the faint jangling inside him rose to a clangor.
He looked back at Alissende, and the strain of this unexpected development showed in her expression as well.
Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fist and flicked his stare back to Reginald’s suddenly pasty face before barking an order for him to return to the castle grounds, find the visitor, and meet them back at the tent without delay.
As Reginald and Thomas left to do as they were bid, Damien opened his hand once more, staring at the rectangle of cloth that had sent a less-than-pleasant sensation lurching through him.
A breeze swept through the glade, then, stirring the leaves on the trees with a rustling sound, and lifting the edge of the fabric.
On it was a design he had seen many, many times before—a symbol that over the course of years had become as familiar to him as his own hands, in fact.
For resting in his grip was a rectangle of white linen, its surface embroidered with a distinctive, eight-tipped crosspattee. It was the emblem of a Brotherhood under siege, of an Order decimated by the power of the French Inquisition…
It was the crimson cross of a Templar Knight.