His warm mouth wandered up her ankles to first her right knee and then her left. Slowly he turned her so that he might kiss her hips where they swelled out from her waist, her firm buttocks, the base of her spine. Turning her again, his mouth found its way up the fronts of her thighs, the rear having already been saluted.
Velvet could feel her legs buckling, and when his lips found the cleft in her Venus mont and his tongue ran along that cleft slowly, she almost shrieked aloud, but then his mouth was suddenly at her navel. Now he was drawing her gently to her knees so that he could kiss her full, young breasts, her shoulders, her throat, her mouth, and her eyes. Velvet had to admit to herself that she had never been kissed quite as thoroughly as Henri of Navarre was kissing her, and it was not an altogether unpleasant thing.
He stood, drawing her to her feet again, and pressed her against his length. For the first time Velvet became aware of the king as merely a man. He was already rigid with his desire, but she did not dare to look down at him. She was quite close to fainting now, and her breathing was very shallow. He saw it, and, scooping her up, he laid her down upon the huge bed and, joining her, drew her into his arms.
“You are still afraid,” he said, “and it distresses me to see it,chèrie.” His big hand caressed her hair. “Such beautiful tresses,” he murmured, the hand stroking her as if she were a beast to be gentled. Suddenly he buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. “You smell of gillyflowers,” he said. “It is the perfect scent for you—fresh and sharp, and even a trifle innocent. I shall never smell gillyflowers again without thinking of you,chèrie.”Then rolling her onto her back in a single, deft movement, he found her lips once more.
For some reason she could never explain to herself, her lips parted quite willingly for him, and his tongue slipped in to find hers; to tease and play with it within the sweet grotto of her mouth; to stoke the banked fires of passion that lay hidden deep within her, waiting to be encouraged forth by this master of the erotic arts. Velvet felt the first stirrings of desire taking over her body, and with shock she realized suddenly that the king had been absolutely correct when he had told her that two compatible people could give each other pleasure despite their lack of emotion for one another. There was a word for such a thing. It was called lust, and though one part of her nature still denounced it, she perceived that lust could sometimes be an attractive thing.
Unable to help herself, she found she was kissing him back, her lips eager for his. He encouraged her further, his mouth lingering here, moving there, touching lightly at the corners of her mouth. The pressure of his lips on hers increased until she felt he was bruising her delicate skin.
“You are like the sweetest flower imaginable,” he murmured against her mouth, “and like a gigantic bumblebee I could drink your honey all night, but there are other fountains from which I would drink!” His big head moved to her breasts, and, fastening his lips over one tender nipple, he began to suck on her.
The effect on her was so devastating that Velvet cried out softly. It was as if lightning had streaked from the top of her body to the very bottom. The tug of his lips upon her breast was suddenly the most sensual act, for her nipples were extremely sensitive with her pregnancy, and while his mouth worked upon one breast, his hand gently kneaded the other before switching sides to increase her delight.
Velvet felt herself beginning to lose control of her own emotions, particularly when the king moved his head even lower to explore tenderly that most secret shrine of her womanhood. Like a hummingbird seeking out sugary nectar, his tongue moved swiftly, touching her here, then there, then flicking maddeningly back and forth against the very jewel of her sex until she shattered into a thousand shards of honeyed pleasure—once, twice, three times in quick succession.
When she finally came to herself, he whispered, “You see,chèrie, I can indeed give you pleasure. Perhaps you will not admit it to me, but your beautiful face told me all. Ah, the face of a woman’s passion! There is nothing more beautiful in this world!”
“I … I cannot deny your words, monseigneur,” she said softly, “but loving without love is not for me quite the same.”
“Sometimes it is better,” he rejoined, “for only the senses are involved, unclouded by the emotion of love.”
“I do not believe that you really think that,” Velvet protested. “You cannot, and still be such …” She stopped, blushing.
“Such a what?” he demanded. “Tell me,chèrie.”
“Such a magnificent lover,” she finished. “I would lie if I said you were not. You have known love, monseigneur, whether you will admit it to me or not.”
“You are so wise in some ways,” he said, “yet so innocent in others,chèrie.Now, however, I wish to consummate our agreement.” He caught her to him once again, kissing her lips, which were already swollen with his many kisses.
Her body was readily responsive to him. To her surprise the king drew Velvet toward him on her side, sliding one of her long legs beneath him, and the other over his own leg. With a swift and smooth motion he quickly penetrated her, thrusting deeply inside her. She gasped, but his mouth was already on hers again as his arms held her around her shoulders and about her buttocks. He moved with long, even strokes inside her, his rhythm well ordered and easy. His brown-gold eyes held her emerald ones in thrall, and as she felt herself sliding over the edge of passion’s precipice she saw the swift light of triumph glowing, or was it merely reflected in those powerful eyes? Velvet cried out a piercing cry of sweet surrender that she clearly heard joined by his own voice.
Afterwards, he told her, “You,chèrie, are born to love. You must never, never be ashamed of the magnificent talent thatle bon Dieuhas given you. I only regret that you are happy with your husband.”
Twice more that night he made passionate love to her, and Velvet finally slept, totally exhausted by their wild bout with Eros. When she awoke, the storm had passed, the candies lay melted in their silver holders, the fire was but glowing embers, and the sun was streaming through her windows. Upon her pillows was a single red rose—surely the last one of the season—and a folded parchment that she opened with trembling fingers to read:
Your hospitality, madame la comtesse,has been without equal. I shall not forget the debt that I owe you. Farewell, chèrie! Navarre.
For a moment Velvet felt a sense of sadness, of deep and great loss. The king had behaved outrageously, taking advantage of her predicament, of her helplessness, and yet she felt no malice toward him. She had kept her part of their bargain, and she somehow knew that he would keep his part, too. So now, she thought, there are two secrets that I must keep from you, my darling husband. Perhaps, though, one day I shall be able to tell you about my daughter. Someday when you are completely in my love and surrounded by the children that I shall give to you, God willing. But I shall never tell you of this adventure with Henri of Navarre, Alex. Somehow I do not think you would understand that I had to barter my soul and my body so that we might be together again. There are some things, I have learned, that a woman never tells the man she loves, particularly if she really loves him. Love, I am learning, is the ability to bear pain silently in order to protect the one you love. Dear God, please end this separation between us quickly! Velvet silently prayed.
Velvet’s prayer had been echoed in Alex’s heart a thousand times daily since he had learned of her kidnapping. Unable to gain anything of real value from Ranald Torc, he had returned to Broc Ailien where he sought out Jean Lawrie at her cottage. Her husband, Angus Lawrie, had been one of the six men with Velvet on the day of her kidnapping. Like his companions, he had been ruthlessly cut down by Ranald Torc’s outlaws. The others had been young, unmarried, and untried men left behind due to their lack of experience because the mission toHuntleyhad held more danger than guarding the countess when she rode out. He had first visited the families of the other five paying them an indemnity for their loss, thankful there were no widowed mothers or single-son families amongst them. His visit to Jean Lawrie, however, was much harder, for he had known her since childhood when they had played together like brother and sister. Angus Lawrie had been her one and only love, and he had been, Alex thought with regret, a good man.
For several long moments he held his old friend in a close embrace and then said, “There is nae time now, Jeannie, but I promise ye that Ranald Torc will pay for Angus’s death, and he will pay dearly. He owes us both a large debt.”
She nodded, her eyes swollen from hours of weeping and worrying about her three children, now fatherless. “What of her ladyship, Alex?”
“She seems to hae disappeared off the face of the earth, Jeannie. I’m off to England tomorrow to her parents’ home. Perhaps she fled there wi’ Pansy. Dugald is as frantic as I am, and even Morag has expressed worry.”
“Aye,” said Jean, “ ’tis very possible that she fled to her mother’s house. ’Tis the natural thought of a young woman carrying her first bairn. Ye’ll find her at her mother’s right enough!”
“I hope so, Jeannie,” said Alex feverently, “but now I want to speak wi’ ye about yer future and that of yer bairns. This cottage is yers now, whatever ye decide. I’d like ye to come up to the castle and be nurse to Sibby and to the bairn Velvet will bear in the spring. Yer children can be brought up wi’ mine, even given an education if they show an aptitude for it. Can ye care for Sibby knowing that her mother is Ranald Torc’s wife?”
“Och!” said Jean Lawrie. “The little lass is nae responsible for who her mother is. Will her ladyship allow the bairn in the castle, however?”
“Aye,” he said. “Ranald Torc told me that she had already fought wi’ Alanna about it, saying she would raise Sibby as her own, and that she’d set the dogs on Alanna if she ever showed her face atDun Brocagain. She has a bonny spirit, my lass!”
“Go south to England, Alex, and bring yer wife home,” said Jean Lawrie, patting his arm comfortingly.
