Fire Song

  He moved his thigh against her, feeling the growing moistness, and reveling in it. “You feel so what?”

  She smiled, ducking her head and pressing it against his chest. “I do not think I can stop moving against you,” she whispered.

  Her fingers fell away from her manhood, and he drew in a deep breath in disappointment. He thought vaguely that men were utterly physical, with no modesty over their bodies—born, it seemed, with the need to have a woman stroke them and caress them. Whilst women . . . The thought left him when Kassia moaned softly again, now kneading her fingers in his belly.

  He gently lifted her onto her back. Her eyes flew to his face, but he only kissed her lightly on her mouth, teasing her with his tongue, but not forcing himself upon her. His hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple, and still she stared up at him, unmoving. He smiled down at her, knowing well what she needed. His fingers found her, and he sucked in his breath at the warmth and wetness of her. His stroking was rhythmic, his fingers pressing deeply, then lightly teasing her, making her wail in mounting frustration.

  “Graelam,” she cried, clutching his shoulders frantically.

  “Aye?” he asked softly, watching her face.

  “I . . . I cannot bear it,” she gasped. Her hips lurched upward against his fingers, and he moved more quickly and surely against her.

  He had pleasured women many times in this fashion, but never had he felt so . . . involved, as if all he felt depended upon her feelings. He felt the tenseness in her legs, and slowly thrust his tongue into her mouth. She gasped with the pleasure of it.

  “Kassia,” he murmured, and the sound of her name on his lips sent her spinning into a realm of sensation that she had never imagined existed. She writhed against him, sharp cries bursting from her throat.

  He watched every expression on her face, from the utter surprise in her eyes to the dazed, vague sheen when the deep pleasure tore through her, making her unaware of him, unaware of everything except the pounding, radiating sensations coming from beneath his fingers. At the height of her release, she cried out his name, and he moaned softly with the pleasure of it.

  For a moment, she seemed senseless. He kissed her gently, feeding on her soft mouth, enjoying her small, jagged gasps of breath. To his immense delight, he felt her quiver anew when he cupped his hand over her, gently pressing his palm against her. She seemed hardly aware that she was moaning softly again, arching her back upward, moving jerkily against him. He brought her to pleasure again, and this time she clutched him to her, sobbing into his shoulder.

  She was filled with passion, he thought, so utterly responsive to him. He wondered if he could bring her to pleasure yet again, but decided against it this time. She was unused to the feelings that were rampaging through her body. Soon, he thought, gathering her against him and stroking her back, he would test the depths of her passion.

  He realized that he had not thought of his own need even once. You are becoming a half-wit, he told himself, yet he was smiling when he gently kissed her ear and pressed her against the length of his body. He did not fall asleep again, but Kassia did, a deep, sated sleep.

  . . . whilst women, his thinking of many moments before continued, women were more complex. At least Kassia was. He realized that she had to trust him completely before her body could open to him. But what man cared about a woman’s trust? What man cared if a woman enjoyed coupling? He did, unfortunately, and he knew well that he could not retreat from her now.

  24

  Graelam smiled at the sound of Kassia’s bright laugh. No longer was she the pale, silent little ghost of the week before. She was full of energy, full of laughter, and full of desire for him. He had never before wanted to be with a woman, other than to couple with her, but everything seemed different now. He enjoyed her teasing, enjoyed watching her care for Wolffeton and all its people, enjoyed the softened look in her eyes whenever she met his gaze. Invariably when that happened, she blushed, and he would smile wickedly and whisper intimate words to her, causing her to blush even more furiously.

  He learned that she could not respond to him in bed if something was on her mind, a problem with a servant perhaps, or a new project taking shape in her thoughts. Thus it was that he was beginning to learn how she thought, how she felt about her thoughts, and how she came to decisions about problems within the keep. He smiled ruefully, recalling the first time he had wanted nothing more than to fling her onto the bed and love her until she was panting for him. She had not refused him, but he saw a frown on her forehead as he was kissing her most expertly. At first he was insulted and infuriated with her, and had snapped, “What is wrong with you, Kassia? Where is your mind?”

  She cocked her head at him, a soft smile on her lips. “It is Bernard,” she said ruefully. “I don’t know what to do about him, and I must do something!”

  “Bernard,” he repeated blankly, finally picturing the quiet, shaggy-looking boy who had come to the castle to tend the dogs after ten years with his father’s sheep.

  She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, then burst into a wide smile. “Why did I not ask you immediately? You will know what to do!”

  Thus it was that they discussed the problem of Bernard and his odd and painful reaction to dog lice until they found a solution that pleased them both. Her response to him afterward was something he could not have imagined.

  He gave her free access to all the material in his trunk, telling her to do with it as she wished. But of course she did not. She always asked him, and he knew it would take a long time for her to forget his initial reaction when she had taken material to make him a tunic.

  He realized also that he liked his wife. It was a terrifying, nonsensical thought, and one he did not wish to consider. A wife sees to her husband’s comfort, both in his keep and his body, most men of his acquaintance believed and parroted religiously. He turned again, hearing her laughter, and realized that it was coming from the practice field. Whatever would Kassia be doing among his men? He strode to the wide field and drew to an abrupt halt. There she sat, wearing a white wool cloth over her hair and a faded green wool gown, his men gathered around her. If he had not recognized her laugh, he would have thought her a serving wench.

  “Nay, Bran,” he heard her say, the laughter still in her voice, “the remaining pie is for my lord. You have already had your share!”

  He saw that she was holding a tray and his men were either eating or wiping their mouths.

  Her lord. Any thought of chastising her for interrupting his men disappeared from his mind. When she saw him she skipped toward him, startled pleasure at seeing him in her eyes.

  “I had thought you buried with Blount,” she said gaily. “Here, my lord. It is an apple tart, freshly baked.”

  He accepted the pastry from her, realizing belatedly that his expression was probably just as besotted as the rest of his men’s.

  He wiped his mouth and smiled down at her. “It was delicious, my lady. But I do not believe that these stupid louts are deserving of your consideration.”

  He heard loud guffaws from behind him. Kassia was laughing with the rest of them. Without really wishing to, he lightly touched his fingers to her smooth cheek. “Go now, little one,” he said softly. “Else I might be tempted to toss you over my shoulder and show you how delicious you are.”

  She flushed, disclaimed, smiled wickedly at him, and sped from the practice field. Sometime later, Rolfe said to him, “You are a lucky man, my lord. Aye, very lucky.”

  “Aye,” Graelam said blandly, wiping the sweat from his brow and gazing toward the fortified eastern wall. “Wolffeton is a castle to be proud of. The jakes no longer stink, and Bernard does much better in the stables with the horses.” He stretched, eyeing his master-at-arms from the corner of his eye. Rolfe could not recognize a jest if it kicked him in his lean butt.

  Rolfe cleared his throat. “Aye,” he said slowly, “that is true, my lord, but I was speaking of your lady wife.” He drew himself up,
frowning at the slight smile on his master’s lips. “She brings joy to us, my lord. It pleases me—all the men—to see her smile again.”

  She didn’t betray you! He immediately quashed the thought. He had decided many days before that he had been as much to blame as she for her leaving him. And, he had thought over and over, she had returned to him. But why will she not tell me the truth?

  He shook his head, realizing vaguely that it brought him a measure of pain to think about it. He said aloud, “There is enough pain in life without adding to it.”

  Rolfe pulled on his ear. “She is a dear child,” he said at last.

  “Nay, my old friend. She is not a child,” Graelam said.

  Late that night as he caressed her soft belly, feeling her rippling response to him, he said quietly, “You are no longer a child, Kassia.”

  Her answer was a moaning cry that made his loins tighten. He wanted to bury himself within her. He pushed her to the edge of her climax, then thrust into her. Her release was immediate and rending. She cried out helplessly into his mouth, her back arched up against him, so beyond herself in that long moment that she could think of nothing, only feel. He was held spellbound in her pleasure before his own need consumed him. He moved slightly, afraid that his weight was too much for her.

  He felt her slender arms clutching around his back. “Nay,” she whispered, “do not leave me.”

  He slipped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, bringing her on top of him. She laughed, surprised, for he was still deep inside her. “You are now to be ridden, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and bringing her lips down, “in a moment, Kassia. In a moment.”

  “I feel so . . .” She paused, her eyes caressing his face, as her lips curved into a smile. “Not so full as I did!”

  He lightly slapped her hips. “Mouthy wench.” He stroked his hands over her back. Gently he eased her off him and laid her on her back. He leaned over her, balanced on his elbow.

  Kassia felt embarrassed at his scrutiny, and brought her hand up to cover herself.

  “What is this?” he asked, surprised. He pushed her hand away. “You are filling out nicely, Kassia.”

  His callused fingers roved lightly over her breast. “Very nicely,” he murmured, and leaned down to caress her with his mouth.

  “Do you really think so?”

  He raised his head.

  She flushed. “I mean . . . I was so skinny!”

  He looked down the length of her, his eyes pausing a moment on the soft triangle of curls between her thighs, still damp from their passion. “You are,” he said, his voice rough and deep, “as I want you to be.”

  “As are you, my lord,” she said softly.

  Dammit, he did not want to leave her! He eyed the messenger from Crandall, knowing he had no choice but to return and stem the rebellion there. I’ll take her with me, he thought, only to reject his decision almost immediately. He wanted her kept safe, above all. Damn Raymond de Cercy, nephew of the former castellan. He had not been overly impressed with the man, yet more fool he, he had made him governor of the small keep on the southern edge of Wolffeton. What had the fool done to bring the peasants to revolt so quickly?

  He dismissed the tired messenger and strode to their bedchamber. He found her there, seated by the window, sewing. He remembered suddenly the last time he had left her, and flinched at the memory. He had been back less than two days before he had hurt her.

  “I must leave,” he said without preamble.

  She jabbed her finger with the needle, and cried out softly.

  “I am clumsy,” she said, watching a drop of blood well up.

  He dropped to his knees beside her chair and took the finger in his hand. Gently he lifted the finger to his mouth and licked away the blood.

  “Where do you go, my lord?” she asked, her voice breathless.

  He lightly kissed the finger and rose. “To Crandall. De Cercy’s messenger tells of a revolt amongst the peasants.”

  She felt a spurt of fear for him. “Will there be danger?”

  “Perhaps, but not likely,” he said, shrugging his shoulders indifferently.

  Kassia was not fooled. She saw the gleam of anticipation in his dark eyes. “How long will you be away?”

  “A week, perhaps longer. If de Cercy is the fool I begin to believe him to be, I will have to find another man to be castellan of Crandall.”

  “May I come with you, Graelam?” She saw that he would tell her no, and immediately burst into tangled speech. “I can care for you, you will see! I don’t tire easily, and I will not bother you. I can cook your—”

  He leaned down and lifted her out of her chair. “Hush, Kassia,” he said, and drew her against his chest. “I will take no chance with your safety.” Her arms clutched at him, as if she wanted to become part of him, and he felt a wave of protectiveness so strong he trembled with it. He grasped her arms and gently pushed her away.

  He saw the bright glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Do not,” he said, trying to sound stern, but failing woefully.

  “I . . . I will miss you,” she managed, sniffing.

  He cupped her chin with his hand. “Will you really?” he asked.

  Kassia rubbed her cheek against his palm, and he felt the wet of her tears on his flesh.

  “I will not leave until the morrow,” he said, and pulled her against him.

  “You look like a lost lamb,” Etta scolded her. “This is no way to behave, my baby! What would your lord say if he saw you wandering about pale and silent?”

  “It has been four days!” Kassia wailed. “And I have heard nothing! Nothing! He promised to send me word.”

  “So,” Etta said, her rheumy eyes narrowing on her mistress’s face, “it has finally happened.”

  Kassia abruptly stopped her pacing and whirled around to face her old nurse. “What has happened?” she snapped.

  “You love your husband,” Etta said calmly.

  “Nay! That is, perhaps it is just that . . .”

  “You love your husband to distraction,” Etta said again.

  To Etta’s surprise, Kassia looked at her blankly, turned on her heel, and walked quickly from the chamber.

  She went to the stable and asked Bernard to saddle Bluebell for her. Sir Walter stood in the inner bailey when she emerged from the stable leading her mare.

  “Sir Walter,” she said stiffly.

  “You wish to ride, my lady?”

  “As you see.”

  “Lord Graelam bade me never to leave your side if you rode out of the keep.”

  She paused a moment, chewing on her lower lip. She wondered why Graelam had left Sir Walter at Wolffeton whilst he took Rolfe with him to Crandall. Was it because he did not wish the man to fight beside him? She wanted very much to be alone, but it appeared she had no choice but to suffer Sir Walter’s company. She nodded. “Very well,” she said.

  She pushed Bluebell into a gallop, leaving Sir Walter and his three men behind her. At the protected cove, she dismounted and stared out over the churning water. A summer storm was building to the north. It would strike tonight, she thought, while she would be alone in the great bed. She shivered.

  “If you are cold, my lady, perhaps we should return to Wolffeton.”

  She jumped, for she had not heard Sir Walter approach. She shook her head. “Nay, I wish to walk about for a while.”

  “If you wish,” he said, and offered her his arm.

  She ignored him and walked to the edge of the cliff.

  “Is it your lord you miss, my lady?”

  At his snide tone, she stiffened. Her hand itched to strike him, but she said only, “My feelings are none of your business, Sir Walter.”

  “Perhaps not, my lady, but I heard about your . . . misadventure. Perhaps you did not plan your escape well enough.”

  “I wish to return to Wolffeton,” Kassia said, and walked quickly away from him.

  Sir Walter wanted to shake her and
wring her proud neck. Little bitch, treating him as if he were vermin, of no worth at all! He watched one of the men help her into her saddle. Soon, my lady, he thought, smiling. Very soon now.

  Kassia felt a brief surge of excitement as she stood at her post in the crenellated embrasure in the eastern outer wall, watching the riders come nearer. She sighed deeply, recognizing Sir Walter riding at their head. He had left the day before, claiming that there had been an attack on a demesne farm. She had not believed him, and seeing him now, she wondered where he had gone and what he had done.

  One man was huddled over his saddle as if he were hurt, and three men were obviously dead, slung over their horses’ backs like bags of wheat. As they drew nearer, she could see that the hurt man was bound with heavy rope. Speeding down the narrow stairs, she made her way into the inner bailey. As Sir Walter shouted to the porter, she prepared to step forward, but something she could not explain stopped her. She waited in the shadows of the cooking shed and watched the men enter the inner bailey. The wide smile on Sir Walter’s face made Kassia shiver.

  He pulled the bound man off his horse. The man staggered, then stood straight. “Behold,” Sir Walter called out to the gathering men. “We have caught a prize!” He pulled the hood back from the man’s head. “Dienwald de Fortenberry, knave, murderer, and . . . taker of other men’s women!”

  Kassia felt herself go cold. It was Edmund! She remembered Sir Walter’s venomous words about de Fortenberry, remembered clearly Graelam telling him that de Fortenberry had made no forays onto Wolffeton land, and was thus of no interest to him. Taker of other men’s women. Somehow Sir Walter had discovered that Dienwald de Fortenberry was the man who had taken her. Her head spun. She saw Sir Walter draw back his fist and smash it into Dienwald’s ribs. That decided her. She ran forward.

  “Hold, Sir Walter!” she yelled.

  Sir Walter spun around, as did the other men.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing to her deeply, the sarcasm in his voice clear for all to hear.

  “Is it a knight’s code to strike a bound man, Sir Walter?”