Chapter One #2
Esme had long taken joy from the fact that Crispin wanted her for who she was, not for her position or coin. Whereas other men fawned over her father’s title; Crispin urged her to keep their relationship quiet, even when Esme wanted to tell the world.
Soon, Crispin had said.
Tired of waiting, Esme had concocted her plan to announce their relationship in a more indirect fashion. And mayhap Crispin had rumbled her, was displeased with her, was planning to leave her.
She pushed herself away from the rough granite of the barn and marched to the stable, pausing only to place Gerrault’s lantern on the cobbles.
“Crispin?”
His chestnut stallion swung his head towards her, but there was no sign of Crispin.
She stepped closer, placing her hands on the half wooden door and leaning over to look right and left. The horse was busy at his hay rack. The stable was clean but apparently empty. Then she made out a gleam of blue amidst the shadows at the back of the stall.
“Crispin?” she called again, louder this time.
The knight had been dozing, curled up against a soft pile of straw. He started at Esme’s voice, a familiar slow smile breaking across his handsome face when he recognized her.
“Dearest girl. I sent up prayers that you would come to find me.”
Momentarily confused Esme could only frown. She must not allow herself to be distracted by his chiseled cheekbones or beautiful brown eyes. “Why were you not at the ball?”
Crispin nudged the stallion aside and came to stand at the other side of the door. He smelled of hay and his finely stitched blue tunic was creased. His large hands covered hers, making her realize how chilled she had become.
“Alas, dear one. Events have overtaken us.” He shrugged his muscular shoulders, his full lips curling into a regretful smile beneath his nut-brown locks of hair. “But I am pleased that at least we have this opportunity to say farewell.”
“Farewell? Why? Where are you going?” She took a breath, realizing how plaintive she sounded.
“I am summoned to a friend in need.” He lifted his hands and cupped them around her cheeks. His eyes widened with regret. “’Tis a summons I cannot ignore.”
“But you are sworn to my father.” Esme’s frown deepened. None of this made sense.
“Which is why I must slip away unseen at first light.” Crispin put his head to one side. “There is much I cannot tell you, Esme. You must trust me when I say that I have not come to this decision lightly.”
She grasped his hand, pressing it harder against her cheek and leaning into the heat of his palm. “I trust you,” she promised. “But when will I see you again?”
“I cannot say.”
“My father may not welcome you back to Wolvesley.” As the words left her lips, Esme realized their importance. “’Twould be better if you spoke to him first and explained the situation. He’s the King’s man. You can trust him with anything.”
Crispin stilled and his face grew unreadable. “I know ’tis hard for you to accept. But there are some things that go beyond your father’s jurisdiction.” A note of mockery had crept into his voice.
In the heat of the moment, she had forgotten to tread carefully. Crispin was a proud man, but his pride was easily wounded—as Esme had long since learned.
“Hard for me to accept that you are a skilled, trusted knight of much renown?” She took one of his hands and placed it over her heart.
“Nay, never.” She shook her head so vigorously her hair threatened to break free of its pins.
“Though ’tis nigh impossible for me to accept that you are set to leave Wolvesley with no plan to return.
” Her vision blurred with genuine tears, and she lowered her head so he would not catch them shining in the torchlight.
“My dear, sweet girl.” He wiped the corner of her eyes with his thumbs. “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, she met his gaze.
“My departure wounds me just as deeply as it wounds you.”
She sniffed in a most unladylike fashion. “Then do not go.”
To Esme, it was all very simple.
Crispin took a step away from her and dragged a hand through his tousled curls. “This is unanticipated.”
Esme let a beat pass. “How so?”
Crispin appeared to be wrestling with something. “Truly, Esme. I did not know you cared so deeply.”
“Of course I care,” she protested.
His fists clenched. “And yet you spurn me at every turn.”
Was that the gleam of his tears which she could now see?
“I do not spurn you,” she protested, but he had already turned away.
“’Tis mayhap for the best. I will say goodbye now, Esme. In time, I hope I am able to return to Wolvesley, but you will no doubt be married by then.”
“Nay.” She wrestled with the door, bolting it behind her and crossing the straw-strewn floor to stand behind him. Her hands flew around his broad shoulders; her face pressed against his back. “I shall marry none but you, Crispin. Do you not know that?”
His body fairly bristled with tension. “You would turn down all the titled and wealthy lords your father has lined up for you?” His voice was choked as he gestured angrily in the direction of the keep.
“I already have,” she replied steadily.
Crispin’s destrier clopped over to investigate this disruption, exhaling warm breath over her face and neck before losing interest and returning to his hay.
Crispin still resolutely faced the back wall of the barn.
Esme’s thoughts were tinged with panic. What could she do to show him how much she cared?
Her hands slipped from his shoulders, down towards his tapered waist. As if they had minds of their own, they glanced over his taut belly and up towards his muscular chest. She felt a new kind of tension enter his body; one which matched with the awareness building deep inside her.
And just like that, she knew what she must do.
She pressed herself against his back, relishing the sparse solidity of him before she rose onto her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the warm skin where his neck met his shoulders.
He turned around and linked his fingers with hers.
“What are you about, Esme?” His voice had become throaty.
“If you do not know how much you mean to me, then I have done you a great disservice.” She paused, breathless with a heady combination of daring and desire. “I must put that right.”
Crispin’s brown eyes met hers and she thought for a moment he might voice some dissent. Before he could utter a word, she rose up again and touched her lips to his.
The familiar tinderbox sparked deep inside her belly, and she felt herself smiling as he hauled her closer and ran his hands down the length of her spine. His hands went to her hair, snaking through the careful styling and scattering pins as he gently tugged it free.
“And how do you intend to show me how much I mean to you?” His voice was husky, the words interlaced with butterfly kisses which traced a tingling path from her jawline to the lace of her bodice.
Esme tipped back her head, closed her eyes and deliberately silenced her rational mind.
In the past, at times such as this, notions of propriety had prevented her from taking full pleasure in Crispin’s caress.
But now, as his palms skimmed her breasts and his breathing became heavier, she didn’t allow herself to fret about what was and was not appropriate behavior for the daughter of an earl.
She only thought of here and now. Of Crispin, and how she could not let him leave Wolvesley whilst thinking that she did not love him.
When he fumbled with the pearl buttons at the front of her gown, she did not stay his hand.
She did not flinch, not even when his impatience caused the silk to tear, and two buttons pinged off to become lost in the straw.
As he fumbled beneath her skirts, she leaned into his muscular shoulder and ensured the pace of her breathing matched with his.
When he lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes at the same moment his fingers found her curls, she smiled to show him how much she liked it.
It was halfway true. She didn’t not like it. In truth, she didn’t know what this was meant to feel like. Isabella spoke with distaste of duty, but Esme had heard tales of women going weak-kneed with desire when men touched their secret places.
She certainly hadn’t thought it would all be so physical.
Nor that it would take so long.
She pressed her lips together and endured the embarrassing probing, wondering what she might do to make it stop.
Was Crispin taking pleasure in doing this to her?
She sneaked a look at his flushed face and concluded that yes, he possibly was.
When he finally withdrew his hand, she wanted to sigh with relief.
Instead, Esme smiled, ready to kiss him again and hear his familiar declaration of love. But without letting a beat pass, Crispin swept her into his arms and carried her to the back of the stable where the clean straw was stored.
“I have wanted you for so long, Esme,” he said as he carefully laid her down.
The straw smelled sweet but sharp strands stuck into the thin fabric of her gown and made her squirm.
She opened her mouth to protest but Crispin took this as an invitation to kiss her once again.
This time, his kiss was hot and deep. His tongue swept into her mouth, exploring urgently.
Esme found herself sinking downwards into the straw, even more so when Crispin’s solid weight landed on top of her.
Before she could gather her wits, she realized that he had penetrated her with something far more substantial than his finger.
The white-hot rasping pain of it took her breath and she fumbled at his shoulders, but Crispin’s face was screwed up in concentration.
He thrusted several more times before letting out a deep, guttural moan and collapsing into the straw next to her.
Esme’s foremost feeling was relief that his weight was no longer pinning her down.
She flexed her hands and feet experimentally, pleased that they still reacted to her instructions.
It seemed as if she had been sawn in two, like a tree cleft by lightning.
She dared not try to stand up, for fear her legs would not hold her.
“My darling girl. My faerie queen.”
She turned her face to the side, to find Crispin briskly straightening his tunic and jumping to his feet. Esme smiled weakly, unable to think of a response.
“Here, let me help you up.”
She wanted to protest, but Crispin’s strong fingers had already grasped her wrist and hauled her upright. She leaned against him until she found her balance, trying to ignore the soreness at the top of her thighs as well as the warm trickle of… something… down her calves.
She glanced down to see the red bloom of blood on her rose-colored skirts.
“Oh.” She blanched awkwardly.
“It always happens the first time.” Crispin kissed the top of her head. “Do not worry, sweet Esme.”
Her thoughts scrambled but her eyes were drawn once more to the blood. “We must marry.”
“Of course.” Crispin’s reply was smooth. “As soon as I return from my mission.”
“Are you intent on leaving Wolvesley still?” She sagged against him, feeling tears of uncertainty pricking at her eyes.
Have I made a mistake?
“I must. I explained this to you already.” A note of impatience crept into his tone.
“I’m sorry.” Her tears were harder to staunch now. She had given herself to this man but still he planned to ride away from her.
“Nay, ’tis I who am sorry.” His voice gentled. “We will marry, Esme. I give you my word.”
She tried to smile. His word should be enough.
“But if the word of a knight does not satisfy you, I will give you my ring.”
At once, her heart soared. “Truly, Crispin?”
“Of course.” But instead of reaching into his pocket to withdraw a piece of jewelry, Crispin strode over to the fresh straw. He plucked several long strands and began twisting them together.
“A ring made of straw?” Esme blinked.
“’Tis the ring that is of consequence, not the substance it is formed from.”
She pressed her lips together as he slid the hastily fashioned ring over her finger. It was too large, and she clenched her fist lest it fall to the floor.
“This is my promise to you.” Crispin closer his hand over hers. “I will return, and we shall marry.”
It was the assurance she had longed for, but her heart still beat hollowly in her chest. She stepped into his embrace and pressed her cheek against the rasp of his stubble.
“Will you do something for me?” he whispered, his breath warm against her neck.
“Anything.”
“Leave Wolvesley yourself on the morrow. Wait for me at your sister’s home.”
“Ember Hall?” She tipped back her head and looked at him in confusion. “Why?”
“Because if you remain here, your father will marry you off before I have chance to come back for you.”
Salty tears blurred her vision once more. “I will not allow that to happen.”
“Please, Esme.” His voice was urgent. “Do this one thing.”
His worries were unnecessary, but she could see how they troubled him. “I will.” She nodded, to show her assent. “I will find a reason to visit my sister, Frida.”
“Then all shall be well.” His smile was radiant.
Esme was not convinced. This night had not turned out the way she had planned.
“Just be sure to come for me soon,” she said, forcing an answering smile through her tears.