He did not wait for a response, pressed her into the wall, his mouth descending to hers.
When his mouth closed on hers, Maris felt the same tide of pleasure wash over her as the day in the woods. Her lips opened beneath his and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, sleek and strong, exploring and tasting her. She was as hungry to sample him and responded with fervor, tasting the faint mint of his mouth, sliding her own lips over his soft, slick ones.
Dirick dragged his lips away, kissing the corner of her mouth, nibbling at her lips and chin. She sighed, her arms creeping around his neck as she leaned into him. She felt a rush plunging through her body, and the responding shudder that came through him, the heat burning into her from where they pressed together. Hurried fingers worked the clasp at her throat as he covered her mouth again as if to stifle any cry of protest she might make. The fur lined cloak fell into a heap at their feet and his hands smoothed down the sides of her body in its trail, resting on the curve of her hips.
Maris was barely aware of the divestment of her cloak, but the pressure from his warm hands as they brushed the sides of her breasts caused her to draw in a sharp breath. Her nipples surged hard and she felt a heaviness descend upon her lower abdomen, a pleasant, insistent twinge. She dug her fingers into his hair, surprised at its silkiness. He pulled her hips flush with his and she was startled to feel a hard length pushing against her as the rough wall scraped her from behind. The pleasure grew and a tiny groan erupted from the back of her throat. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck to his warm mouth and sleek tongue. Dirick’s hands smoothed over the curves that had been hidden in the bulky cloak, and he held the swelling of her breasts and the roundness of her hips.
Suddenly, he realized where he was, what he was doing, and he jerked away, nearly sending her spinning to the floor. “’Sblood!” he groaned, staring at his trembling hands. His breath rasped harshly, as if he’d just felled a man in battle, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he realized how very near he’d come to taking her right there.
Maris had pulled back as if she too had just become aware of herself and her comport, and she stooped quickly to retrieve her cloak.
Dirick found his voice, hoarse as it was, and attempted an apology, “My lady, I cannot—”
“Enough, my lord,” she cut in flatly. “Have we not been through this act before?”
Pushing a hand through his tousled hair, he stood, attempting to regain some semblance of order within. He could not understand why he made a living fool out of himself in front of this woman. “Aye we have—but that doesn’t change the fact that my conduct was inexcusable. Mayhaps ’tis best that I do be on my way.”
She looked up at him, an indefinable emotion flickering in her gold and green eyes. “Aye. ’Tis best that you do.”
He brushed past her, accidentally catching her hair on a nail in the wall, and paused to free the curl. His fingers slid down the shiny brown length and he brought it to press a light kiss to his mouth.
Then he turned away, annoyed at his sentimentality, and bridled the neglected Nick. She watched in silence. Feeling her gaze on him made his fingers clumsy beyond belief, causing him to hurry and thus tangle it up even more. At last, he led the destrier from the stable, aware that she followed behind, watching in an unusual silence.
Outside, where their breaths showed white puffs under the starlit morn, he swung up on Nick and looked down at Maris. She’d covered her hair once again, drawing the veil closely about her neck. Dirick reined in and gave her a nod of farewell.
“Go with God, Dirick,” she whispered.
“Fare thyself well, my lady. I am certain Victor d’Arcy will be a fine husband to you,” he forced the words from between bitter lips, making them sound sincere. “Your father wishes only the best for you, know you this, my lady.”
“Aye.”
“May the Lord keep you,” he said, turning Nick to ride away. “
And then he was off, giving Nick his head to unleash his stored power, feeling the green gold gaze that followed him into the darkness.
The village, again smaller, was filled with peasants that veered from Nick’s path and peeked out from behind closed doors as Dirick rode through. Most of the roofs seemed to be in decent condition, but the silence of the village ate right through to his bones.
The journey had not been long. He’d spent the full day riding hard, spending Nick’s pent up energy. Now that he approached the portcullis and the sun was sinking, Dirick was well ready for his pallet. Cold wind was bitter upon his face, and the food that Maris sent with him was long gone.
She had been much on his mind the day through. Too much.
Dirick reined in abruptly at the huge iron gates looming above him.
“Who goes there?” called a voice from above.
“Dirick de Arlande, begging for succor,” he called back, tilting his head to see.
There was a long moment, then the voice returned, “From whence come you, Sir de Arlande?”
“I am originally come from Paris and most recently, Dover,” he replied. “I have traveled for days, looking for work. I am quite skilled in arms.”
Again, there was a long pause. Then, “You are French?”
“Aye. I hail from near Brest,” Dirick replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Most often, unless there were unusual circumstances, questions such as these were saved for after a lone knight was allowed entrance.
At long last, the portcullis began to creak and shake violently as the gate was raised. Dirick urged Nick forward, uncertain that the ailing gate was in good enough repair to ensure his safe passage. Once inside the bailey, he was greeted by a stocky, pock marked man that held himself in high importance.
“You are well come to Breakston, Sir de Arlande,” he said. A man hovered in the background until he was urged forward, “Take this man’s mount, Severn.”
Dirick relinquished Nick with some hesitation, yet the man seemed to know what he was doing and led the destrier away with little effort. “Many thanks for allowing me entrance,” he told the first man.
“I am Sir Robert, castellan of Breakston. My lord, Bon de Savrille, awaits your presence within.” That was it. No smile, no friendly greeting—just a barely disguised order that Dirick draw himself within.
He grimaced inwardly and followed Robert across the small, cluttered bailey, feeling even more certain that Henry was right. At the very least, de Savrille had allowed his fief to fall into disrepair—which meant lower revenues and taxes for the king.
Dirick noted that the keep was in need of some repair, but it was by no means falling down about him. There weren’t many serfs, nor were there many men at arms about. It was a much quieter, sullen place than his home and that of Langumont.
Sir Robert led the way across the smoky hall strewn with rushes so old and rotted that they ground away under their mailed feet. Several dogs greeted them, sniffing at their heels until Sir Robert lifted a foot to kick them away. Then they slunk off to a spot under one of the tables. Smoke hovered much too low in the air, along with the stench of old grease and rotting food. Breathing carefully through his nose, Dirick hoped that he would not be a guest of Breakston overlong.
Bon de Savrille, Dirick assumed, was the stocky, bearded man sitting in a heavy chair near the fire. The blaze, at the least, was in marvelous condition. De Savrille’s dark eyes bored into him as he approached, slitted with mistrust. Immediately, Dirick allowed his features to relax and slip into a vacant expression.
“My Lord de Savrille,” he greeted upon reaching the warmth of the fire. He made a fine bow, and upon the upsweep, was gracious enough to add, “Many thanks to you for a spot to sleep for the night.”
“Aye,” Bon returned, sipping from a goblet.
Dirick inclined his head to the other man at the fire, a shorter, well freckled one with a shock of red hair. His paunch was nearly the size of Lord de Savrille’s, and his eyes not nearly as sharp. But there was a hint of suspicion within his countenance as well. “My lord,” he greeted the other man, uncertain of his title.
“Meet Edwin Baegot,” Bon explained carelessly.
“Well met, sieur,” Dirick replied, then settled himself easily on a roughly hewn stool near Bon de
