“She was the same.”
Crooky hobbled up then. “The mistress wasn’t a betrayer wi’ her cousin, master.”
“I suppose she wasn’t, yet it strikes an odd chord.”
“Aye, it does,” said Gorkel in his low, terrifying rumble. “The boy refuses to sleep until he sees that the mistress is all right.”
Dienwald looked surprised at that. “He what? Oh, the devil! Nothi
ng is aright here, nothing! I let the two of them out of my sight for the space of a week, and everything goes topsy turvy. Bring Edmund and let him see the wench, I don’t care.”
Gorkel and Crooky exchanged looks, and Northbert merely shrugged.
Edmund knelt next to Philippa, and said softly as he stared down at her face, “She was very angry when she saw the manacle around my ankle. Her face turned all red and her hands shook. She’ll be all right, truly?”
“Aye, she’s too hardy to let this bring her down,” Dienwald said. “You must sleep now, Edmund. At dawn we’ll ride.”
“You’re not worried that the whoreson will come upon us tonight?”
His father grinned. “He’d never find us in this dark. There’s not even a single star to guide him.”
It was the middle of the night when Philippa awoke again. Her arm hurt, but not too badly. She was surrounded by darkness, which she’d become accustomed to in the small chamber at Crandall, but this was different. Sweet air touched her face and filled her nostrils, and she could hear the rustle of tree leaves in the gentle night breezes, and the deep breathing of a man. She opened her eyes and saw Dienwald stretched out next to her, his hand holding her wrist. He was snoring lightly.
She smiled and said, “Edmund and I escaped. Are you not pleased?”
His hand on her wrist tightened. Dienwald was dreaming of an explicitly passionate scene in which Philippa was naked, lying pliant in his arms, her hand was stroking down his belly, closing around his swelled rod and she was kissing him, her tongue thrust deep in his mouth and she was moaning as she kissed him and her fingers were caressing him and . . .
“Are you not pleased?”
He opened his eyes, startled, disoriented, and saw her beside him, not naked as he’d believed, but lying on her back, a blanket pulled to her waist. She was speaking of pleasure, but a pleasure different from the one of his dream. Philippa was really there with him, and he hurt with need for her, hurt with the urgency of it, and the reality melded into his dream and he didn’t question it or the dark night or her beside him on the floor of a copse of maple trees.
“Philippa . . .” he said, his voice low as he rolled over until he half-covered her with his body.
“I’m so glad to see you, Dienwald,” she said, and raised her hand to stroke his hair, to touch his jaw, his mouth. His tongue stroked over her finger, and she shivered. “Dienwald,” she said again, and parted her lips, staring up at him as if he were the only man on earth, and she was so close to him, but a breath away from his mouth, and he couldn’t bear it and leaned down and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply because it was what she wanted and what he’d done in his dream, yet now the dream was real and his tongue was stroking her mouth. He didn’t think, didn’t consider his actions. He wanted her, wanted her more than he ever had.
He’d been terrified that Walter would kill her, and at the same time he’d hated her because she had perhaps betrayed him. He couldn’t have borne that, but now she was here and it was all that mattered, and she was his at last.
The night was still and she was here, beneath him, and she wanted him. Her dream was his, and they were together. He stroked her face with urgent fingers, easing himself over her. He felt her part her legs, and he lay between them, hard against her woman’s flesh, and she was making soft noises deep in her throat and her arm was around his neck, pulling him down, bringing him closer and closer.
She’d been hurt. God, she’d been hurt. Dienwald, his senses restored for an instant, drew back, saying, “Philippa, your arm, I can’t hurt you. If your arm . . .”
She simply smiled up at him and said, “I will hurt more if you leave me. Don’t leave me now. Please, Dienwald, debauch me. I’ve wanted you to for so long.”
He laughed, he couldn’t help himself. Then his laugh turned to pain as she said, “I didn’t want to die, because if I did I would never have you, never know what it was like to have you come inside me.”
He groaned now, her words burning deep, and he was drawn back into the intense feelings that were conquering all of him. But he realized even in his delirious state that she was a maid and he didn’t want to hurt her more than was necessary. He saw his sex tearing through her maidenhead, and he moaned with the excitement of it, the triumph in claiming her, of possessing her, finally. He eased himself up until he grasped the hem of her gown, and he pulled it up and felt her naked flesh beneath his hand. Until he reached her upper thighs. She wore a shift, and it stymied him for a moment, for in his dream she’d been freely naked and open for him. He worked in growing impatience until she was naked to the waist, then came over her again, wanting only to feel her body against his, but he couldn’t, for he was still dressed. He cursed, softly and foully, and came up onto his knees.
She was watching him, her eyes large and vivid as he clumsily jerked off his tunic, his cross garters, his hose, and then he was finally naked and she found him beautiful.
He was covering her again, his male flesh against her, and she was kissing him wildly, her tongue probing until she found his. He held her head between his hands and kissed her face, his words fast and frantic between kisses, telling her of his need for her, how he loved the feel of her, how he was happy she was still a maid and he would be easy with her, and how he wanted to come into her and meld into her flesh and stay there even as he spilled his seed in her.
She watched his face as he looked down at her, and she felt his fingers parting her flesh, then his sex pressing against her.
He threw back his head, his eyes closed. “Don’t move,” he said, and his voice trembled, for he was coming very slowly into her, and despite his instruction, she was lifting her hips for him, wanting to feel all of him, now, this very moment. He came deeper and she whimpered as he stretched her and it hurt, but it was what she wanted because he was what she wanted. She could feel him so exquisitely, the hard smoothness of his member easing so gently, just a bit of himself at a time, pressing into her.
In the next instant he felt her maidenhead stretched against his sex. “Philippa,” he said, his eyes on her face, “look at me!” He had wanted to be gentle at this moment, but he found he could not. He thrust deep. She cried out at the wrenching tear inside her. He fell over her, his mouth covering hers, and he soothed her with his tongue, even as he held himself still and deep inside her, saying again and again, “No more pain, my sweet Philippa, no more. Hold me and feel me and let me lie deep inside you. ’Tis where I belong.”
Then slowly he began to move, his breath soft and warm against her mouth. “Nay, love, accept me now and hold me tight inside you. Aye, that’s it, lift your hips for me and bring me deeper . . . ah, Philippa . . . no, don’t move, I can’t bear it, and—”