The very intimate touch should be shocking to me. Instead, I only feel excitement and a rush of warmth between my legs. And then, before I can form a coherent thought, his hand is there.
Cupping me.
When Vanni’s groan reverberates through our kiss, I press against him, emboldened by the knowledge that I too am bringing him pleasure. It drives me to kiss him harder, faster.
And then his fingers enter me, slowly at first. His fingers match the rhythm of our kiss perfectly, Vanni every bit as much of an expert at this as he is at combat.
Every thrust is an answer to my years and years of questions. Why are so many afraid of me, my grandmother, my ancestors? Why does Father Beald threaten me so? Why does the very idea of healing hearts and exploring love scare so many?
This is why. We feel more keenly than others, and even for those not so in tune with the healing arts of love surely must understand this as the most incredible feeling in the world.
I whimper against his onslaught, my body clenching in response. Tighter and tighter as his palm rests against me. Presses while his fingers continue to tantalize.
Unable to withstand the intensity any longer, I give over to it. Separated from my body, if only for a moment, I cry out and pull away, even as I press into his hand. Vanni watches me, I realize.
That watching is my undoing.
Exploding into him, I struggle to breathe.
The corners of his mouth tug upward, his sweet smile at odds with what he’s so deftly done to me. When he lowers his hand and rearranges my dress, letting it fall to the ground, so many thoughts flit through my mind. Many of which I dare not utter aloud, for I have learned to trust my intuition, and I know no other man can do to me what Vanni has done just now.
“How do you feel?” he asks softly.
As if I can answer such a question simply.
He cups my face in his hands.
“I would give you that, and more, were I able, Aedre.”
Why are you not able?
The question lingers on my lips. I do not voice it aloud, however, as I already know the answer. I may have captured a very small piece of Vanni’s heart, but the whole of it belongs to the king.
His father’s mentor.
The man who raised him.
And who could possibly compete with a king?
Certainly not I.
Still pulsing from his ministrations, his hands now gentle where they were powerful and commanding just a moment ago, I struggle to get out the words.
But I do, nonetheless.
“And I would take it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five Vanni
“Grab your opponent’s arm and strike with your pommel or guard. Be sure to trap their forearm with your second arm, like this.”
Agnar is a more patient student than I expected.
As it has been for the past several days, a crowd has gathered to watch our practice. The fishermen have left the inn’s courtyard already, off to sea, but enough men remain to give us an audience. But I ignore them as I instruct the Voyager and my squire both.
“Slip the blade against their forearm.” Agnar does so to Christopher.
“Use your second hand,” a voice booms behind me, “to hold the blade while striking. Or slicing.”
Kipp.
A most unexpected guest for our training. Aedre had said he would send for me today, but I hadn’t expected him to appear here at the inn, especially not so early . . .
Galfrid’s son is full of surprises.
Agnar doesn’t hesitate to do just as Kipp suggested, which tells me all I need to know of Kipp in terms of how the others see him. Voyagers are not quick to follow orders.
“Can you trip or kick your opponent while holding the blade?”
I look at Kipp, who nods. “Aye. You can, and should, do whatever is necessary to win.”
“See if you can practice that maneuver with my squire,” I suggest.
Agnar grins at Christopher in a way that makes me wonder if leaving the lad with him is ill-advised. He will quickly learn the men of Murwood fight differently than Southerners.
“I’d not expected you here.”
Kipp, still leery of me, says nothing. Instead, he walks toward the door of the inn. He pauses before it, looking at me, but at my nod, we head inside.
At this hour, few patrons frequent the hall. By midday, it will be filled with fishermen and those who earn a living along the quay. My men and I are the only visitors, Sailor’s Inn more like a tavern most days than a lodging for travelers.
“Two ales?” the innkeeper calls to us. “Welcome home, Master Kipp.”
While Kipp greets the man, I lower myself into a chair at the table my men and I have sat at each day for meals. The day is warm, the inn’s shutters wide open, giving me a view of the docks.
What Murwood lacks in color—in d’Almerita bright reds and oranges are everywhere even during winter months—it makes up for in fresh sea air and a grit that I can admire. There are fewer luxuries here, but I’ve never had much need for anything.
Until now.
As Kipp talks to the innkeeper, who pours our drinks, I think of last eve. Of Aedre. Of her expression when she came apart in my hands. And of her words.
I would take it.
When I said I wished to give her more, I meant it. For the first time in my life, I find myself yearning for something other than a peaceful Meria.
“A meeting,” Kipp says, slamming a tankard in the middle of the table. “For Aedre.”
The message is clear: if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have accepted this meeting. There’s a stubborn edge to this man, and for the first time I let myself acknowledge this might not happen. He might not come.
You must try.
Though the only other people in the hall are the innkeeper, two servants, and two older men sitting clear across the room,
