This Is All I Ask

He almost smiled. Indeed, he would have but Gillian kissed him again, a soft, hesitant kiss that he almost missed feeling. He waited until she’d straightened before he stirred purposefully.

  “Did I sleep?” he asked with a yawn.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And drooled all over your gown, likely.”

  Gillian’s shy laugh was nothing short of enchanting. Christopher lifted his hand and trailed his knuckles gently along her cheek. Her skin was either warmed from the sun or from a blush. His vanity preferred to think it was the latter.

  “So,” he began conversationally, “did you leave the servants trembling again today?”

  “Likely with naught but laughter,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sure that isn’t so. You know, I’ve meant to tell you this for almost a fortnight, but it keeps slipping my mind. I’m quite pleased with the way you’ve taken things in hand. Brave and courageous of you, truly,” he added. “Even Colin fears to cross you as of late.”

  “Think you?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “I do.” He rolled up and rose to his feet, then turned and held down his hand for her. “I cannot remember a woman ever forcing me to retire to my garden. You have the questionable honor of being the first. And,” he added, frowning darkly for her benefit, “you know I am not easily led.”

  “I’ve noticed that, my lord.”

  “Even your tongue has sharpened. William would have been pleased.”

  Her fingers twitched in his hand. “And you, my lord? Are you?”

  Was he pleased? Was he overjoyed that she’d taken her courage in hand and kissed him? Was he thrilled that she trusted him enough to keep her hand in his? Had he not woken each morn for the past fortnight and given thanks for the tender-hearted lass sprawled over him with such innocent abandon?

  “Aye,” he said, smiling down at her. “I’m pleased enough with you. Of course,” he added, putting his arm around her shoulders, “you could be bolder still. And much saucier. I’ve a thick enough hide to endure a sharper tongue from you.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  He started back to the hall with her. “Mind? Nay, lady. I would enjoy it.” And what he didn’t say was that the bolder she became, the more fully he would know that she trusted him. And she couldn’t trust him enough, to his mind.

  Without saying a word, she stopped him. Christopher felt her hand on his chest and bent his head toward her, trying to listen to her movements. He was completely unprepared to feel her lips pressing timidly against his cheek.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He heard the tears in her voice and had the feeling he’d just given her a gift of approval she’d likely had from no one but her brother. So he wrapped his arms around her before she could pull away and buried his face in her sweet, sun-warmed hair.

  “Nay,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  “For what, my lord?”

  Christopher hardly knew where to begin. He gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “For enduring a foul-tempered old dragon who had enough sense to wed you and found himself a treasure in the bargain.”

  “Treasure? My lord, surely you jest. My dowry—”

  Christopher chuckled and lifted his head. “I spoke of you, not your dowry.”

  She was silent for so long that he feared he’d said the wrong thing. He lifted his hand and searched her features gently. Her cheeks were wet.

  “Me?” she whispered.

  Saints, now he was going to weep. “Aye, you,” he said roughly, pulling her back against him and tucking her head beneath his chin where she wouldn’t see the moisture in his own eyes. “Daft child,” he whispered, trying to sound gruff. “Come inside and let me smell your clean hall. Sentiment makes me uncomfortable.”

  • • •

  HE KEPT HER WITHIN ARM’S REACH FOR THE REST OF THE evening, finding that having her close was pleasant indeed. He had the feeling he might actually dare to kiss her later and she wouldn’t bolt the other way.

  His reticence made him shake his head in disbelief. Never in his life had he doubted his skill betwixt the sheets, or wondered how his advances would be received. And now he was treading softly so as not to frighten a girl-child of a score and one who likely had no knowledge at all of the act of loving. It was astonishing.

  Gillian begged to be excused immediately after the meal and Christopher let her go, surprised that she seemed to want to retire to their bedchamber. Did she intend to go mull some wine? Or something else entirely? The possibilities were intriguing—so intriguing that he found himself following almost on her heels.

  Only it wasn’t to find her waiting in his bed, it was to find her doubled up on the floor near the hearth.

  “Gillian, by the saints, what ails you?” he exclaimed.

  “Naught,” she gasped. “I beg you to leave me be.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. What did you eat today?”

  “It isn’t that,” she moaned.

  “Saints, girl, you are in pain!”

  Her next moan sounded more like embarrassment than agony. “My lord, ’tis my time. Please, let us speak no more of it.”

  “Oh,” Christopher said in a small voice. “Well, then, I see. Um, do you require . . . aid?”

  She was slow in answering. “Could you put me to bed?”

  Christopher lifted an eyebrow at that. This was a new request. Gillian was forever stalling, puttering about the chamber to prolong the time she was forced to crawl beneath the sheets with her naked husband. Perhaps this monthly curse was a boon in disguise.

  “Of course,” he said gently. He lifted her then found his bearings. He carried her confidently to the bed and held her easily with one arm while he flung down the covers with his other. He laid her down and took off her shoes. Ignoring her quick gasp, he managed to rid her of her dressing gown also. Leaving her shift, he pulled the blankets back up over her and carefully felt for her face. He put his hand against her brow and found it cool to the touch.

  “Might I fetch you wine?” he asked.

  “Nay, my lord. Thank you.”

  He found her hand and brought it to his lips. “Sleep well, my lady.” He closed the bedcurtains and started for the door.

  “Christopher?”

  He paused. “Aye?”

  There was silence for a moment. “You’re not sleeping here?”

  A more dimwitted soul might have thought she sounded disappointed. Christopher fingered the bolt on the door.

  “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  “Oh, nay,” she said quickly. “I mean . . . I . . .”

  Christopher smiled. “I’ll return, Gill. Your toes won’t go unwarmed this night.”

  He wished he could see her face, to know if she were smiling or frowning.

  “Well,” she began, “don’t be long, aye?”

  Christopher cleared his throat to keep from choking. “I won’t.”

  He slipped out the door and then leaned back against it. On one hand he was powerfully disappointed that her body chose now as the proper time to put her through the monthly torture. On the other hand, he wasn’t unhappy at all. A se’nnight? Aye, much could happen in that time.

  nineteen

  GILLIAN ROLLED OVER AND LOOKED AT THE EMPTY PLACE next to her. It was the third night since Christopher had put her to bed so sweetly that she had woken to find him gone. Just where had he taken himself off to—his tower chamber? She remembered the night she’d gone there and seen Wolf standing guard before the door. What mischief was Christopher combining?

  Gillian swung her legs to the floor and stood up, drawing a dressing gown around her. She had to make use of the garderobe, that was certain. The one she intended to use was conveniently close to the tower stairs. It wouldn’t hurt to look, would it?

  She saw to her needs, then paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the tower chamber. Wolf loped down the steps and nudged her hand. He at least seemed glad to see her. She petted his head, then cl
imbed quietly up the steps. She paused on the landing to catch her breath. She pushed open the door the slightest bit and saw the shadows dancing against the wall.

  The ring of steel against stone startled her and she jumped before she could stop herself. Christopher’s hearty curses covered her gasp of surprise. She peeked inside again and saw her husband reach down and pick up his sword. He stood still for a moment, as if he regained his balance, then took up a fighting stance.

  Gillian could only gape at him, amazed, as he worked. Why, she’d never seen a warrior his equal! There was certainly none in her father’s guard with swordplay so fine. Christopher parried against an unseen foe with strength and agility. The candlelight caressed his bare, glistening back, highlighting the crisp muscles in his arms and shoulders as he strove to fend off an invisible attack with his great broadsword. He fought only in hose and boots, and such poor covering hid nothing of his powerful legs. It was no wonder Jason’s father had sent his son to squire with this man. Even if Jason did naught but watch Christopher, he would learn more than most lads would learn with masters who could see them.

  Christopher’s attack became more vicious and Gillian watched in fascination as he seemed to cut down a foe shorter than he but perhaps as broad. And it occurred to her, with a startling flash of recognition, that he was fighting her father. He plunged his sword into his enemy’s heart, then let his arm drop down by his side. Gillian smiled, feeling as if the victory had been a bit hers too.

  “I think he’s dead,” she said approvingly.

  Christopher whirled around with a gasp. “Gillian!”

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “You frightened me witless, woman! Did no one ever teach you never to sneak up on an armed man that way?”

  “I kept behind the door.”

  Christopher grunted, unappeased. “Announce your presence next time.”

  Gillian smiled and walked past him to make herself comfortable on the stone seat in the alcove. “Come, Wolf,” she called. “Keep my feet warm while we watch our lord cut down my father once again.”

  Christopher pursed his lips. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve done it often enough myself. I recognized the breadth of the target.”

  Christopher laughed and dragged his arm across his sweaty brow. “Indeed. Another night you’ll bring your sword and I’ll watch your technique. I mean,” he stammered, “you’ll tell me about it.”

  “There would be nothing to see,” she said gently. “I’m a poor swordsman.”

  “I’ll be the judge. Now, what is it you’re doing out of bed? I left you moaning in pain.”

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she said, abashed. “You should have woken me.”

  Christopher shook his head. “I needed to train anyway.” He resheathed his sword and picked up his tunic to mop his face and chest. “Back to bed with you, girl.”

  “Do you know,” she said as he approached, “what it is people believe you do in your tower chamber late at night?”

  “I shudder to think.”

  “Devilish deeds, my lord,” she said solemnly.

  Christopher squatted down before her and smiled dryly. “Deeds you never gave credence to, of course.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Next you’ll tell me that I change my shape too. What is it I become, a wolf? Ripping the throats from those foolish souls who dare set foot on my lands?”

  “Christopher!” she said, with an uncomfortable laugh. “How did you know?”

  He grinned. “Who do you think started such rumors?”

  “You are a wicked man.” She reached out and touched the top of his head. “Aye, I think I do feel a horn or two growing here. Perhaps there is some truth to the gruesome tales.”

  “The only gruesome tale that will soon be told is of the scolding you’ll earn from me if you don’t return posthaste to our bedchamber and go to sleep.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “Won’t you come?”

  He hesitated, then smiled. “Very well, if you like.”

  Gillian kept her hand in his as she followed him down the stairs and back to his bedchamber. She lit a candle on her bedside table, then crawled under the sheets. She lay silently and listened to her husband wash, drink and then strip. He slid under the blankets next to her and reached out to touch her shoulder.

  “How do you feel?” he asked quietly.

  “Better, thank you.”

  He trailed his fingers down her arm gently. Gillian shivered in spite of herself.

  “Hurt?”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  He slipped his hand up under her hair and began to massage the back of her neck gently. She groaned, then blushed hotly. Christopher chuckled.

  “So you like that, do you?”

  “’Tis tolerable.”

  He grunted. “Saucy wench. Come closer so it isn’t so much work, and I might please you tolerably for a moment or two more. If you vow to repay the favor,” he added.

  “Oh, but I wouldn’t know how,” she stammered as he pulled her closer.

  “I’ll teach you. Here, roll onto your belly so I might show you how to do this properly.”

  Gillian was quite certain she was going to die from the feeling of pleasure of Christopher’s firm hand working over the muscles in her back gave her. He didn’t say aught about her scars, but he touched her more gently when he encountered them. That shamed her greatly.

  “Stop,” Christopher whispered in her ear. “Don’t pull away from me, Gill. You’ve no reason to hide them from me.”

  “They’re powerfully ugly.”

  “I have my share of them, too. Give me your hand. Here, feel this long, ghastly mark over my ribs? Here on my shoulder? This one over my heart? Those are only the marks from my braver foes. On my back you’ll feel the marks from the cowards, cowards like your father.” He kept her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing it firmly. “Only a coward beats a woman or a child, Gill. You did nothing to earn these marks, but I’m proud of your bravery in enduring them.”

  “I wasn’t brave.”

  “You survived. That took courage.”

  “Nay . . .”

  Christopher put his head next to hers on the pillow. He was so close, their noses touched.

  “You were brave,” he whispered. “And you never need fear him again, Gill.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. “Never again. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Gillian wasn’t sure if she were more surprised by his words or by his kiss. And she honestly couldn’t decide which of the two had left her with the urge to weep, for both touched her heart.

  Christopher began to trail his fingers through her hair gently.

  “You were brave in the garden today,” he said, as if he discussed nothing important. “Bold, even.”

  “And when was that?” she asked.

  “When you kissed me.”

  She looked at him narrowly. “You weren’t asleep,” she accused.

  “I was until you kissed me. And damn me, but it was a fine way to wake up.”

  Gillian couldn’t help the bubble of soft, hysterical laughter that came out. She was lying in bed with the Dragon of Blackmour, discussing the fact that she’d kissed him as calmly as if she’d been discussing the merits of steel for blades with her brother!

  “That amuses you?” he growled.

  “Nay,” she said quickly, fighting her smile. “Not that.”

  “What then?” he demanded.

  “This,” she said, waving her hand to encompass where they were lying.

  “Lying abed with me amuses you?”

  “Discussing kissing with the Scourge of England while lying in his bed amuses me. There isn’t a soul alive who would believe me if I confessed the like.”

  “The Scourge of England, eh? And what other complimentary names do you have for me?”

  “Oh, there are so many, my lord. I don’t know if I could stir myself to remember them all.”
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  “You disrespectful chit, didn’t you know I despoil five or six maidens about your size each morn before I break my fast? How dare you mock me so thoroughly. If I demand a list of titles, then you’ll give it to me and quickly.”

  Gillian smiled at the gruff expression on the beautiful man lying next to her. Who would have thought she would be so close to a man and not fear him? She reached up and traced Christopher’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, the long eyelashes that fanned over his cheeks. By the saints, he was handsome. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek, as she had so often done to William. Only she entertained no brotherly feelings whatsoever for Christopher.

  “Somehow, my lord,” she said softly, “those names—despoiler, bane and scourge—just do not fit you. If England could see you as I see you now, they wouldn’t believe the tales.”

  “And just what is it you see, Gillian of Blackmour?” he asked, opening his eyes.

  “A fine man who has been very kind to me,” she murmured, feeling color stain her cheeks. “And a very comely man, too,” she added.

  “And you are beautiful.”

  Her face fell. “Nay—”

  He put his finger against her lips. “You are.” He traced her features with his finger. “I feel no flaw here. Nor here,” he added, lifting his hand and smoothing it over her hair. “You were fetching when last I saw you, Gillian.”

  “You said I was coltish.”

  He grinned. “I’ve a penchant for coltish women.”

  “I have grown uglier, if possible.”

  “Hush,” he said sharply, but his features were gentle. “No one will speak of my wife thusly, my wife included. Colin tells me that if you were any more beautiful, it would be a poor thing for rumor would spread and I would be ever busy fighting off interested lads and then I would have no time to laze about in your bed discussing . . . what were we discussing, Gillian?”

  She knew he was teasing about her fairness, but somehow it didn’t hurt her so much. At least he was teasing her. That meant he must care for her, even if it were only a bit.

  “Gillian?”

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “What were we discussing?”

  “I vow I’ve forgotten.”

  “Ah, but I haven’t. We were discussing your boldness in the garden this afternoon and how much I liked having you kiss me. If I pretended to sleep, would you kiss me again?”