“Ah, Alissende,” he gasped after several delicious minutes of that sweet torment, “be careful, lady, for I cannot hold back much longer…”
“It is all right, Damien,” she whispered. “Let go and do naught but feel.”
With wordless acceptance, he reached down, gripping her wrist as she continued to stroke him, easing him toward a powerful orgasm. Her name was on his lips, a whisper that built to a groan of pure ecstasy at the moment that he came in a shuddering release.
The sheet she held ready caught most of the pulsing flow, and after the final, pleasurable spasm had passed, Alissende kissed his brow. They did not speak as she helped him back into his braies and saw him comfortably settled in the bed for the night; his eyes were closed, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. A silly smile curved her lips at that idea that in her own way, she had madehimswoon—at least into slumber.
Getting up, she undressed and pulled her hair from its arrangement, combing it out, then weaving it into a long, thick plait down her back. At last she blew out the burned-down tapers and crept into bed next to him, being careful not to press against any of his tender places or injuries as she did.
And so it was that when he moved, she was startled. Even more so when he pulled her close to cradle her against the length of his body and ease her head onto his shoulder.
“Is this not uncomfortable for you, Damien?” she whispered, wondering that the soreness he must surely be feeling from his wounds did not bring him to sudden and painful awareness.
“Nay,” he murmured sleepily. “I am a swift healer, you know. And with your help—in more than one way this night,” he murmured, and she could hear his smile, though she could not see it in the dark, “I will be fit as ever in no time.”
But before she could make answer to that bold claim, he astonished her further by adding, “In truth, I am more comfortable than I have been since the last time I held you in our bed. Though perhaps I would like it even better if I was given leave to offer you the same kinds of caresses again, now, with which you have just gifted me?…”
Alissende bit back her own smile. “I do not think that would be wise in your condition, sir. Better that you rest and regain your strength.”
He sighed. “I suppose you are right. Though I will not concede without striking fear into your heart with the promise that when I am able, I will extract a double—nay, perhaps even triple—payment from you for the tender torments you played upon me this night.”
Pretending a shiver of terror that was really one of delicious anticipation, Alissende grinned, closing her eyes and nestling into his arms as she whispered dutifully, “I am trembling with the dread of it, my lord.”
“Good.”
He tucked her more closely against him, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and sighing again, this time with a sound of pure contentment. After a few more moments without further conversation, Alissende knew he had fallen asleep—so she decided to try to do the same, knowing that the challenges coming on the morrow would require all of her concentration if she was to navigate them successfully.
And she intended to be ready for them.
Chapter 16
The final day of the tournament at Odiham
One week later
The combat would be today.
Damien felt a surge of dark anticipation, knowing that at long last, this day he would face Hugh de Valles, the Earl of Harwick, for a one-on-one contest in the lists. Nodding to his squire to help him slip his mail coat over his head so that it would lie atop the protective, padded aketon he had already donned, Damien spent a few brief but satisfying moments considering all that had passed this week to bring him to this point.
One thing stood out most clearly above the rest: He had vastly underestimated Hugh de Valles’ cunning and his ability to influence the circumstances of this tournament; for instance, as of this day, Damien had yet to face Hugh himself. Damien suffered no illusions that their lack of personal combat had been due to Hugh’s cowardice or even by accident of timing. Nay, Hugh had made it clear, on the field as well as during each night’s feasting, that he considered himself far above Damien, not only in title and birth, which was undeniable, but in fighting skill as well.
Because of this, as the lead tenant, holding the field with more than a score of his comrades in the king’s name against all-comers to the tournament, Hugh had ensured that he would face Damien in single combat only if Damien proved to be the lead venant, or challenger, after the first six days. There had been no doubt in Damien’s mind that he would do whatever it took to claim that position.
All that remained now was to bludgeon Hugh into the defeat he deserved.
“My lord, your plates are ready to be fastened. Will you hold out your arms for them?”
His squire’s voice pulled Damien from his reverie, and he gave the lad a half smile. “Aye, Thomas. Thank you.”
Damien waited while Thomas completed the task of buckling the individual pieces of plate armor to his back and shoulders, along with the pieces Damien had decided to add, for this tournament at least, at his sides. They would shield his ribs better from another strike that might come in the midst of the combat on foot that followed the joust on horseback. Knowing Hugh, and knowing that he would have been apprised of the damage inflicted during the cowardly attack in the yard a sennight ago, it would be considered a prime spot to deliver a blow.
The earl’s chances at reinjuring the area were few, however, not only because of the armor plate but also because of the expert way Alissende had been wrapping his ribs each day in preparation for battle.
Alissende.
Damien had tried to keep himself from dwelling on her this morn, but he could not forestall the rush of sweet warmth that spilled through him at the thought of her. Since the evening of the ambush against him, they had not shared any intimacies, resolving that he needed to rest as much as possible to help him keep his edge and reserve his strength for the rigors of his combat each day. But it had not kept him from yearning for her anyway every night, and he had refused to forgo the pleasure of holding her until they fell asleep.
At his request, they had already said their farewells this morn so that he might ready himself in mind and body for the contest ahead; she’d left the tent for the spectator scaffolding that was designated for ladies of the combatants, presenting him with a parting gift—her token—before departing. The violet-blue ribbon, chosen, she’d said, because he had once noted that it was the same hue as her eyes, already dangled from the tip of his lance, where it would be seen by one and all as he thundered onto the field.
