Bartholomew felt the back of his neck heat, for he neither wished to confess his secret nor deceive her. “I declined the post Gaston offered to me,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because I would seek my own fortune. It is possible for one man to be too beholden to another.” He lifted the circlet from Anna’s hair, then removed her veil and wimple. It was simple to find the pins that bound her braid in place and when he had removed them, the plait fell to hang down her back.
“I suppose,” she ceded as he unbound her hair and pushed his fingers through its thickness. “But where do you expect to find your fortune?” She glanced over her shoulder. “In Scotland, among the kin of Fergus? Or maybe you seek an heiress?”
“Why are you so curious?” he demanded in a teasing tone, wanting to deflect her interest.
“Because they said you had chosen this road through Haynesdale. I cannot imagine why. There is not an heiress to be found within a week’s ride of here.”
Bartholomew shrugged, aware that she watched him closely. “It looked more fair than the alternative, no more than that.” He beckoned to her, his manner playful. “Now you are the one overdressed.”
She smiled and lifted her hands, giving him access to her belt and the laces on her kirtle. Once they were unfastened, he slid one hand beneath the crimson wool, holding her gaze as his hand slid up to cup her breast. She stared at him, then licked her lips.
He bent and kissed her lightly, then teased her nipple with her finger and thumb. She could step away if she so desired, for he had one hand on her breast and one on the back of her waist, but Anna held her ground. She gasped as he tugged the cloth over her head, bending to kiss her nipple through the cloth of her chemise. She arched her back and shivered, then he caught her close and flicked his tongue across the turgid peak.
“Your boots,” she whispered and he halted to look down at her with a grin.
“Truly? You were thinking of myboots?”
Anna laughed, her eyes sparkling in a most alluring way. He took their cloaks and made a nest on the floor of the cavern, noting that Cenric had taken position as sentry at the opening. He tugged off his own boots and unlaced his chausses, then removed his braies. He turned to Anna clad only in his chemise, and pointed. “Your shoes and stockings.”
To his delight, Anna sat on the pile of cloaks and leaned back on her elbows. She lifted one foot toward him. “I think you should aid me, sir.”
Bartholomew knelt before her and unlaced her shoe. He eased one hand under her chemise, trailing it up her leg. Her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply, but she did not pull away. He eased aside the chemise, baring her calf to view, and inclined his head to unfasten her garter with his teeth. She giggled and squirmed.
“Your breath tickles!” she protested.
He touched his tongue to the tender skin behind her knee and she wriggled anew. It took some time for him to see both garters untied and both stockings removed, and by then, Anna was flushed.
He stretched out alongside her, his hand upon her breast and kissed her with leisure. She rose to his touch and her nipple tightened beneath his fingers. He kissed her ear, her neck, the hollow of her throat, then closed his mouth over the sweet bud of her nipple. He kissed it and teased it, coaxing it to a tighter bead, then grazed the tender flesh with his teeth. When Anna was writhing beside him, he leisurely turned his attention to the other breast. He could feel the heat emanating from her and smell her arousal, but he wanted to be certain she was fully pleased.
His hand was beneath her chemise, moving from her knee up the smooth flesh of her thighs. She arched her back and opened her mouth, offering an invitation he could not refuse. He kissed her, even as his fingers slid into her slick heat. He swallowed her first gasp of surprise, then her quiver of delight. His fingers moved against her, conjuring more desire and he smiled into their kiss when she clutched his shoulders.
“Bartholomew!” she whispered and he grinned at her.
“You granted me a dare,” he reminded her.
“But surely this is sufficient.”
“Surely we have only begun.” He caressed her with the end of his thumb, loving how she gasped in pleasure, and knew what he had to do. “Before I make you moan,” he whispered. “I think we should explore the treacherous tickle that so surprised you.”
“I but concocted a tale,” she argued, clearly not understanding his intent.
“And I would show you the truth,” Bartholomew vowed. He winked at her, savored her confusion, then tugged back her chemise. He slid between her thighs and granted her a more intimate kiss.
The way she gasped in astonishment was most satisfying, but Bartholomew would strive for more success than that.
The lady, after all, had yet to moan.
*
Who would have guessed that a person could die of pleasure?
Anna certainly had never imagined as much, but Bartholomew’s kisses—his tongue, his teeth, his caresses—made her both burn and tingle. She was aroused and desperate for some satisfaction she could not name.
He tormented her without cease—nay, he did cease, each time she thought she drew nearer to some culmination. He teased her and she knew it, but she could scarce complain. It was incredible to have such a man conjure her pleasure with such diligence, putting himself in her service, so to speak. Anna thought it could not be right, but then, she could find naught amiss with what he did.
