Chapter 21 #2
So she did. He closed the door behind them.
But the satchel of jars didn’t even make it onto a shelf.
He managed to lower it gently to the floor as she rained kisses all over his face.
Then he completely forgot about it as she scrabbled breathlessly at his clothes, slipping her hands under his leine and into his trews.
Never had he come to life so quickly. Never had he dived so deeply into the pool of desire. All sense left him except one urge—to couple with her.
She would have let him. He knew that.
He had to be the strong one. But it was so hard to be strong when he was…so hard.
Knowing that swiving wasn’t in their immediate future forced him to be creative.
He found an interesting use for one jar of Kildunan’s honey. It turned out the laird was right. It did taste like ambrosia of the angels. Especially when licked off the breast of the woman he loved.
In the days and weeks after, they continued to play their love games. He visited at least once a sennight, and they reveled in each other’s company.
They trysted everywhere. In the stable. In the buttery. Behind a holly bush. Against a fir tree. Under the moon. In the fog.
They celebrated their newfound romantic diversion. Experimenting with feathers. Fur. Mirrors. Scented oils. And handfuls of snow.
Still, more than anything, he wanted to be able to take Carenza’s hand in marriage. To forge their futures together. To offer her his whole self—body and soul.
But despite all his best efforts, he continued to be stymied in his hunt for the church treasures. Unless he could locate them, there was no provable crime. He’d begun to wonder if the abbot had stolen the artifacts himself and only hired Hew as a foil to cover his tracks.
Then one midwinter day, when the snow had driven everyone indoors, and they were desperate to find a place to be alone, Carenza dug an old iron key out of a small wooden box.
She bade him follow her—at a safe distance—to the buttery.
But they weren’t going to the buttery. The key fit the lock of a storage room located beside the buttery.
“’Tis where my mother’s things are stored,” she whispered. “My father locked them away when she died. And no one e’er goes in.”
He frowned. Maybe there was a reason no one went in. “Isn’t it…sacred?”
“Maybe to my father. But my mother lives in heaven, not on earth. They’re just things.”
He nodded. His ancestors took their things with them and lived in Valhalla, which sounded like a lot more fun than heaven.
She slipped the key into the lock. It opened easily enough. Then she pushed open the door. He winced, half expecting a loud screech to issue forth. But the hinges seemed to be well oiled. He wondered if maybe the room was visited more often than she thought.
This was the first time Carenza had seen the inside of the storage room.
It contained everything that had belonged to her mother, crammed into a room half the size of a bedchamber.
To her surprise, there was very little dust. The furnishings appeared as fresh as the day the door had been sealed.
A pair of oak chests were draped with ornate tapestries and piled high with gowns of silk and velvet.
A floor sconce with half-burned candles leaned against the wall.
A wooden tub was filled to the brim with linens.
A woolen arisaid partially covered a carved wood table which was topped by books and vials, combs and scissors, straw dolls and several pieces of her mother’s jewelry.
Then she gasped as her eye caught on something of hers. Her childhood bed. Apparently, even that had triggered painful memories for her father. The day after her mother died, her father had ordered a new bed made for Carenza. The one she still slept in today.
She wondered…
She neared the bed and studied the coverlet. It was embroidered with wee animals. Hedgepigs. Hounds. Mice. Kittens. Sparrows. Piglets. She’d forgotten all about it.
“This bed was mine,” she breathed.
Picking up the bottom corner of the coverlet to examine the stitching, he chuckled. “Of course ’twas.”
But for Carenza, the presence of the bed represented more than just fond memories. She reached down and carefully peeled the coverlet back from the top. The linens were clean. And there were no fleas.
For weeks now, she’d prayed for patience. She’d waited for the monastery crime to be solved. For Hew’s residence at Kildunan to be over.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love their inventive rendezvous. Like sparrows spreading seeds, they’d consecrated every corner of Dunlop with their love.
But the investigation could take years. It might never be solved. And Carenza was afraid if they waited too long, Hew would begin to think of her as his concubine rather than his bride.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. He adored her. But in the end, because he had to do as the king willed, he might be forced to marry another out of duty, believing he could keep Carenza as his secret mistress.
That would not do. She might not belong to an important border clan. But she was the daughter of Dunlop. She had a reputation to consider.
She decided perhaps she needed to hasten things along between them. And finding this bed among her mother’s things…
This must be a sign from her mother. A message. Her blessing on their union. Carenza was sure of it. And now she knew exactly what she must do.
This was unexplored territory for her. And despite the closeness and affection between them, she felt anxious. Her heart beat more rapidly than it should. And her breath was shallow and shaky.
What if he refused her? What if she did something wrong? What if he was disappointed? What if she wasn’t enough?
In the end, she decided it was a risk she had to take. She couldn’t go on living in this purgatory of indecision, not knowing whether her future was secured.
In spite of her nervously pounding heart, she chose to keep things light and playful as always.
“This will be so much more comfortable than the holly bushes.” She plopped down on the pallet.
“Or the buttery shelves,” he said, sitting gingerly beside her, less trusting of the bed frame.
“Or the stable wall.”
“Or the trunk of a tree.”
“Or the doocot.”
“The doocot?” He frowned. “We’ve ne’er trysted in the doocot.”
“Nay?” she asked. “Och, that must have been my other lover.”
“Wicked lass.”
His gaze narrowed in warning. Then he began punishing her with tickles. He found all of her sensitive places. Under her arms. Along her ribs. Beneath her ears. Behind her knees.
“Do you surrender?” he demanded.
She giggled and gasped and shook her head.
He resumed until she could endure no more.
“Nay! I yield!” she finally cried out. Then she fell back onto the bed in a dramatic surrender, with one arm across her forehead.
He ceased his attack and gazed down at her with amusement. “Are you hurt, my lady?”
“I fear ye have wounded me sorely, sir.”
“Then I must make amends.” His eyes took on a sultry glaze. “Show me where you’re injured. I shall kiss away your hurts.”
His words sent a thrill of excitement through her. She turned her head and pointed to the side of her neck.
“There?” he asked.
She nodded.
He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the place where her pulse raced.
She shivered as her ears hummed in response. Then she turned and bared the other side of her neck.
He kissed that side as well, sending an erotic vibration through her head.
“Here,” she said, indicating her underarm.
With feigned regret, he furrowed his brow. “I fear I must remove your garments for that.”
With feigned regret, she sighed. “If ye must.”
He slipped the leine down her shoulders and off of her arms, lowering the neckline until it hung low on her breasts. Then he nuzzled each nook of her arm to plant a kiss there, though it came dangerously close to tickling.
He paused to look askance at her. “Where else?”
Blushing, she brushed across her ribs with her fingers.
He dragged the leine down slowly. As he grazed her nipples, she felt them tighten with yearning. He bunched the linen at her waist and dipped his head to lavish kisses along her ribs. His soft hair brushed her breasts with tantalizing tenderness.
“Where else?” he asked.
She rolled onto her side and pointed to the back of her knees.
He raised the hem of her leine, revealing her calves.
“Here?” he murmured against her skin.
She moaned in answer.
He placed rows of kisses behind each knee, then rolled her onto her back again.
“Anywhere else?” he whispered.
She bit her lip.
Holding her gaze, he slipped his hand down between her legs to caress her through her skirts. “Here perhaps?”
She nodded.
He got a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m fairly certain I didn’t tickle you here.”
She squeezed her eyes as he pressed gently against her.
“I’m fairly certain ye did,” she breathed.
“Are you absolutely sure?” he asked, rubbing across her.
“Aye,” she said tightly.
“Very well then.”
He rooted under the hem of her leine and tossed the fabric back to expose her.
She felt his breath like a warm summer wind blowing across her sensitive flesh.
He opened the petals of her womanhood and lavished his generous apology upon the bud of her desire.
Lost in a haze of love and longing, she rolled her head across the pallet and bunched the bedlinens in her fists. When she could endure no more of his intense attentions, she arched up off the bed. Then her body erupted in spasms of joy.
Lying on the soft bed, satiated, she felt a lovely sort of apathy.
They were safe here. Nobody would intrude.
She was free to be herself, pure and brave and naked.
That sense of shamelessness inspired her to remove all her clothing.
She wanted him to see her as she was. Wanted to be an Eve to his Adam. Wanted to feel his flesh against hers.
At first he only watched her. When she was completely undressed, she spread her limbs before him like a heathen sacrifice. Like she was his for the taking.