Emerald Silk Page 18

  She gathered her composure and dusted the cake crumbs from his hair. “You liked the cake, then?”

  He gave her an endearing smile that melted her heart. “Aye, and all the thought behind it.” He lowered his voice. “And will you complete your love spell by coming to my chamber?”

  She hesitated.

  He walked behind her and nibbled her ear. “How else will you know if it worked?” His breath, hot and moist, sent tingles down her neck. His hands traveled slowly down the curves of her body and her knees buckled.

  His arms supported her, and she leaned into his chest, relying on his strength, savoring the rich chills of desire that rushed up her spine.

  She wrapped her arms around him, safe in his arms, snug in his stone fortress. She twisted in his arms, pressing her body next to his, and laced her tongue around his earlobe.

  He took a sharp, quick breath, his reaction stirring desire from deep within her.

  She wove her fingers in his hair. “Dismiss your valet and leave thy door ajar. I shall be there in less than an inch of the candle.”

  * * * * *

  She slipped her silk dancing gown on and tied the belt under her breasts. Lifting the end of her braids she untied them, releasing the full weight of her hair. A quick shake to set it free, then a firm twist to secure it high on her head with a large comb, and she was ready.

  Almost.

  To be presentable for her trip down the hall, she covered the seductively cut gown with a more modest one.

  Hesitating, she returned to her clothes chest and retrieved, carefully in her palm lest she release their melody, her ankle bells.

  With a last check on Kadriya, she walked to the door, closing it soundlessly behind her.

  ’Twas late, but it had taken time to be sure Kadriya was asleep, time to be certain Britta and the other maids slept, time to gather her courage. A rhythm of excitement pounded in her ears, and she knew her life would change when she completed the very path she took now, her bare feet finding their way down the midnight hall to Tabor’s chamber.

  The hallways were clear, but visions swirled in her mind’s eye of her mother, alerting her to look out for herself because she could no longer be there to help her. “I will be your warning bell, Faerie,” her mother had said. “I will speak to you in moments of decision. Be careful.” Her mother’s voice echoed urgently as Sharai made her way down the hall.

  Lady Emilyne hovered in Tabor’s life, a woman accustomed to having her way, a woman of wealth and power. She wanted Tabor, and Sharai doubted that Emilyne would let a penniless Gypsy girl stand in her way.

  She saw Lady Anne, whose existence was threatened by a challenge from another noble. Lady Anne stood to lose all she held dear. Sharai could not blame her for her hostility toward her. Finally, she saw the Hungerfords, the old Lord, clever, member of Parliament, courting the Good Duke Gloucester, plotting to overtake Tabor’s lands.

  Why could it not be simple? In her heart it was. That was why she walked past all these ghosts and touched the handle of Tabor’s chamber door. Love made it all so simple. She’d found so little of it in her life, and to find it now, in such abundance was heady and intoxicating. She would lose herself in it, savor and relish it this night. She would recover tomorrow and pay the price but, this night, she would love the man who loved her.

  She held her breath and turned the handle. The door was heavy but well balanced, and it swung open noiselessly. She entered quickly and closed the door, lifting the heavy bolt and dropping it in place.

  Candlelight warmed the chamber, along with a hearty fire. He was sitting in a chair by the bed, and his eyes reached out to her, called to her, claimed her. Her heart banged against her chest.

  His cream silk tunic, laced loosely, revealed the muscles in his chest and made his big hands look almost as brown as her own skin. His dark hair fell past his collar in the back, and he had swept it away from the distinct angles of his face. His gaze pierced the distance between them.

  Her breath caught in her chest.

  He raised his arm, extended his hand.

  Hungry for his touch, she drew close to him, fell into his arms, his kiss.

  His tongue moved slow and easy, his touch gentle. He was a marvelous lover and would not rush. A thrill of anticipation warmed her.

  Then pride stayed her, and she pulled away. She might be inexperienced compared to him but she had a keen sense of her feminine power, of what he remembered so vividly from St. Giles’ Fair.

  She repositioned several candles to create an imaginary stage with lights. She turned to face him, saw the burning desire in his eyes, and faltered. He would think her childish, awkward. She avoided his eyes and slipped her outer gown off, revealing her dancing gown. Closing her eyes she summoned the memory of the sky, the white clouds, constantly shifting in their patterns. She slipped into the forest, with the swaying branches, their welcoming movements, and the wind, unpredictable and stormy, gentle and caressing. She became a faerie, bending, floating. She stopped to attach her anklets, deliberately bending before him to reveal the tops of her breasts as she did so, then danced to release the music of the bells. Their light melody filled the chamber.

  She moved her hips to the beat of the song in her heart and raised her arms, splaying her fingers to touch the magic in the air. She twirled, extending her right leg so it could peek out from the layers of silk that fell to her ankles. Step, step, turn and sway, and the hunger and fascination in his eyes made her stomach tingle.

  Tabor resisted blinking for fear of missing the images. His beautiful Sharai, moving in the rhythm of a woman in love, she danced before him, a silken fantasy from his dreams. Her gown wisped about her thighs, her movements revealing fluid muscles, the gentle curve of her calves.

  Desire tightened his loins, an exquisite need that had been simmering and rising since his first glimpse of her.

  When he thought he could absorb no more sensations, she turned her back to him and released her hair, shaking it to create a shimmering black waterfall of curls. He wanted to close his eyes in ecstasy, but that would mean losing sight of this—this image of femininity that had haunted his dreams since that night at St. Giles.

  His control vanished. Stepping round the candles, he reached for her, lifted her hair in his hands. Cool and silky, the tendrils curled around his fingers. He buried his face in it, then swept it aside, kissing the nape of her neck.

  She had finally come to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She resumed her swaying dance and he stroked her breasts, lightly at first then more firmly. He molded his hands over the gentle swell of her hips, and fitted her against him.

  Her bottom pushed against his groin, increasing his desire.

  She raised her arms and turned, jingling the small coins sewn in her comb. Her face shone in the firelight, and her eyes glowed with desire.

  He kissed her, and her body melted against his. Her tongue moved greedily over his lips, seeking his tongue, finding it.

  His breath caught, and he deepened the kiss.

  He lifted her into his arms, wondered at how such a small body could incite such expansive feelings. He carried her to his bed, as he had imagined doing many times in his dreams, and laid her there. Her hair made an ebony spray on his pillow that reminded him of the midnight surf at Cornwall.

  Once on the bed, she glanced uneasily about.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What?”

  He gave her a playful smile. “Will your dagger be making a sudden appearance?”

  “Don’t make fun at my expense.”

  “Sorry. Are you nervous?”

  Worry lines furrowed her brow. “Yes.”

  Desire pulsed insistently in his body, the pressure making him ache, but by his patron saint, Monica, he would not rush or frighten her. Just a while longer. “What say we simply lie down together, nothing more, and I’ll hold you?”

  He stretched his body out on the bed next to her, turned her away f
rom him and wrapped his left arm lazily over her shoulder.

  Her breathing evened out in the silence, and Tabor tried to do the same with his own, focusing his thoughts away from the curves of her body, concentrating on the candlelight dancing outside his bed curtain.

  “That’s it, then?”

  He could no longer resist, and stroked her hair. “Whatever you wish, my love.”

  The candle flickered, the shadow of its flame licking the fringe at the top of the curtain.

  “I would have you kiss me.”

  “That is your wish?”

  “Aye.” He heard the smile in her voice.

  He stroked the gentle curve of her cheek. “Would you be wishing for a brotherly kiss, or a lover’s kiss?”

  She turned to him, all traces of fear vanished from her face. “I love you, Tabor, so it would be the latter.”

  The velvet darkness of her eyes caressed him, and warmth filled his chest. He had hoped, and become more certain when he learned of the frog cake, but her words sounded like music to him, bringing joy as delicate as her tinkling ankle bells, so strong he fought the urge to jump and blare like the red harts in autumn.

  He pushed stray hairs from her face. He had never seen her look so vulnerable, or so trusting, and his heart swelled with the rest of him. “I love you.” He kissed her, his tongue tracing the soft fullness of her lips. “I love your spirit. I love when you sing, and the look in your eyes when you regard me. I love you. And it has naught to do with the cake.”

  She laughed, then her smile vanished, and she touched his lips with her fingers. “I would have you love me now, Tabor.” Her voice held a tinge of wonder.

  He squeezed her hand. “Nothing has changed, my love. I will never force you.” He kissed her leisurely, his hands skimming her body in a gesture of caress that held no hint of force or hurry.

  She relaxed and returned his kiss, and heat spiraled back in her body.

  Placing his hands on either side of her shoulders, he raised above her and lowered his head to her breasts, nibbling and teasing through the thin silk.

  Pleasure hummed through her body, and she arched toward him.

  He untied her belt and slowly removed her gown, covering her quickly with the comforter, all but her breasts. He took her nipple in his mouth and suckled, and his fingers moved lower, touching, stroking.

  A shiver ran through her and she moved toward him, driven by her own passion. Her fingers curled around his arms, feeling their reassuring strength.

  He smelled of plum wine and a pleasant musky scent, and she inhaled deeply, taking him into her senses.

  He rolled onto his back and slipped out of his shirt and hose and slid under the covers. His large hands cupped her bottom, pulling her to him, and she felt the length of his naked body on hers.

  Her heart beat loudly in her ears. The sensation of skin on skin, the feel of his desire, pulsing on her belly.

  She tensed.

  His brows wrinkled in concern, and he moved his hands to her shoulders, stilling them, question in his eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she said. It was right and wonderful with him. She caressed his back, feeling the strong muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. She rose to kiss him.

  His hands resumed their movements, stroking her body, and the knowing touch of his hands on her, stimulating those new places, brought fresh heat to the surface.

  She pushed her breasts against the hardness of his chest. Dizzy with desire, she wrapped a leg around him, inviting him.

  He groaned, a surrendering moan that told her he would do her bidding. A pressure built between her legs, pushing into her, the sensation of hot, smooth, velvet skin entering her own. An exquisite fullness overwhelmed her.

  He held her close, and his strength and his love surrounded her, giving joy and a sense of belonging.

  They were one.

  She was overcome with the simplicity of it.

  He kissed her and withdrew, then reentered.

  Delicious sensations streaked inside of her, and he moved again.

  She moved with him, following his lead. His eyes were dark with passion, and as naked as his body, open and hungry and intimate. She welcomed the look and the man behind it.

  He changed the rhythm, touching her again, stroking those places that made her hunger for him.

  She gasped, clinging tightly, driven by needs he stirred in her.

  They tossed, joined together, and she felt the weight of his body on hers, his moist skin, the male hardness of him, and the soft linen comforter below.

  A new urgency built inside, one she recognized. Sweet saints, it was happening again, this marvelous feeling.

  She answered his movements, urging him on. He stroked deep and fast, deep and hard.

  She called his name and a groan of ecstasy escaped his lips. The magic quiverings caught her again and she surrendered to them, letting them build. She cried out and he was there, answering her, in her and around her, and the heat of his release pulsed inside her.

  She held him close, feeling the unbridled beating of his heart next to hers. She had not thought it would be like this. No dream could have captured her in such trembling intensity. She had feared being used, pricked like a needle quickly in and out of the fabric of her body, not touching her soul, or, worse, insulting it with a lack of care.

  He rolled over, twirling the strands of her hair and kissing them. Tabor had not taken, but had loved her with his body and with hers. She could make him tremble with desire; she could make him weak with need, and fill him with satisfaction, with joy.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “The potion,” she said. “It works.” She kissed him, sharing the magic. “Love me again.”

  * * * * *

  Sharai moved the bed linen aside and reached across Tabor’s large chest, scooping a fresh handful of berries. Dawn lightened the sky. They had spent another evening together. Sleep was nigh impossible because they kept touching each other, and touching led to more heat and passion, passion she relished in the arms of the man she loved.

  She popped the fruit in her mouth, enjoying the tart sweetness as they burst in her mouth. By the saints, she was being so brazen. These last three nights had been a heavenly pursuit of delights, and Sharai couldn’t get enough. She had delighted in each new discovery of the secrets of pleasuring, and with each new mastery, Tabor’s smile had grown wider. She chewed another handful of berries, moaning with relish.

  Tabor caressed her cheek. “You must cease with those sounds or I shall be forced to ravage you again, and I’m not sure I’m up to the feat. I near fell asleep during practice yester morn. The men chuckle and make comments about my heavy eyes.”

  She laughed and dropped some of the small black treats into his open mouth. “Let them tease all they wish. Just so I have you.”

  He kissed her, his lips warm and gentle, and pulled her closer. “You do, indeed, my love. Why else would I be lying here with you, eating raw fruit?”

  “You don’t understand because you are Gorgio, not a Gypsy. Gorgios avoid raw fruit, but thank heaven you tried it. ’Tis a vast insult to refuse a Gypsy’s food. Now I know there’s hope for you.”

  “Raw fruit causes fevers. Indigestion.”

  “How so?”

  “Black bile. Melancholy.”

  Sharai laughed and stroked his lower stomach, soft as a whisper, enjoying his obvious reaction. “Bosh. And do you feel melancholy now, my lord?”

  He laughed and kissed her soundly. “Only because it’s dawn, and not dusk.”

  She rested her head on his chest, enjoying the quiet and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

  In the growing light she spied a small book on the table. She’d seen books in the monk’s booth at St. Giles, and Father Robert had taught her English. Since arriving at Coin Forest, Father Bernard had allowed her to linger at the church and read the Bible. There were still so many words to learn. “May I see your book?”

  Watching her i
ntently, he handed it to her.

  So he didn’t believe she could read. Elated that she could pleasantly surprise him, she accepted the book.

  It was small. Covered in sturdy dark brown leather and bound with metal clasps, it was stitched tightly and uniformly. She touched the strong twine that bound the spine. “A man’s hand must have sewn this. I would never have the strength to achieve such tension.”

  “Father Bernard arranged for the binding in London.” His face grew serious. “Since I was a child, I’ve possessed more emotion than is prudent. My father tried his best to moderate my tendencies. My temper oft overrides my judgment, and I pay dearly for it. But in books,” he said, tapping the cover, “in books I find a passion like my own. I’ve learned there are other men who feel with such intensity and have found happiness with it. Since then I’ve had hope. Books are my weakness.”

  She laughed. “Your strength, mean you.” She turned the pages. “Giovanni Boccaccio. Francesco Petrarch.” She stumbled on the pronunciation. “Where are they from?”

  “Italy.”

  “King Arthur, Roman de Troie, Rime Sparse. I’ve never heard of these stories.”

  A conspiratorial smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Not from the monks, I am sure. They’re stories of romance. Of love.”

  Her heart fluttered in response. “There are secrets of love in this book? By men? Men write of love?”

  He raised a brow. “Think you that only women know of love?”

  “Why, no. I’m sure you do. It’s just that—”

  He pointed to a passage. “Read this.”

  She looked from his warm brown eyes to the book and swallowed. What would she do if she met an unknown word?

  “Go on. If a word is unfamiliar, I’ll help you.”

  She cleared her throat. “‘If it is not love, what then is it that I feel? If it is good, whence comes this bitter mortal effect? If it is evil, why is each torment so sweet?’” She lowered the book and met his eyes. “It’s true. All is sweet with you.”