Pendragon Rises Page 13

  “I’m…” Old. Unworthy. “There must be someone else you want to kiss more,” she said awkwardly.

  Steffan considered it. “No, there isn’t.”

  Her heart would not stop hurting. She pressed her hand to her chest. “You’re playing with me. I’m Anwen, who everyone overlooks…”

  Steffan shook his head. “What sort of man would I be, if I did that to you? I’d be no better than Madog and Maurgh.”

  She wrung her hands together. “You deserve a younger woman…a sweet maiden.”

  “Sweet maidens are still-green fruit plucked too early,” Steffan said. “You are the ripest of apricots at the end of summer, when the flesh is still smooth, blushed pink by the sun and the juice bereft of any touch of tartness. You are ripe with potential, Anwen of Tintagel. Those who overlook you…they are the blind ones.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

  It was impossible to not take his hand, although her fear made her speak. “You should know…I’ve never…” Her voice strained to silence.

  “Kissed a man? I do know.” He touched her lips with his fingers. “That is my good fortune.” His voice was low and thick with an emotion she did not recognize.

  His lips pressed against hers once more.

  It was easier this time to let the pleasure spread through her. Still she trembled with fear and inexperience. He lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck, which made her strain on her toes and rock against him, her balance precarious. He pulled her against him with an iron-strong arm and held her there.

  The kiss deepened. His tongue brushed hers and she made a sound she had never heard herself make before, a deep moan which seemed to pull from her middle.

  Steffan’s mouth released hers. He did not lift his head. He was breathing hard.

  So was she.

  The air on her back, where his arms were not covering her, was cold compared to the heat between them. She shivered.

  Steffan let her go—all but her hand. “I know where it is warm,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

  Maid, she might be. Old and overlooked, too. Yet she had heard enough talk among the women to understand what he was asking her. Anwen realized her hand was shaking in his. Her whole body trembled.

  She reasoned it out, as she had reasoned all decisions in her life—the few she had ever had the power to make for herself. There would be no husband in her future. She accepted that now. She had known it for some years. There was no chance she would ever fall in love. No man would dream of falling in love with her, either.

  If the gossip of the women was true and the acts of men and women were as pleasurable as they said, then why should she not take a little of that pleasure for herself? She had learned she liked kissing—kissing Steffan, at least. She had learned the woes of travel and how to dance. Why not this, too?

  Anwen cleared her throat twice before she could speak. “I will go with you,” she told him.

  Steffan drew in a deep breath. He took her over to the cart and picked up his staff, then led her away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The stable he led her to was large and filled with horses and straw, which made it warmer than the room in which Igraine’s women had slept the previous night. The horses barely looked up from their slack-hipped nibbling as Steffan pulled Anwen through the stalls to the gear room at the end. A workbench against one wall was covered in bits of bridles and saddles being repaired. On the other side was a pile of hay, taller than a man at the back and sloping to the floor at a gentle angle.

  Steffan laid his cloak upon the hay, put his staff against the wall and drew her against him. As she trembled, he kissed her. “Do not fear me.”

  “I do not. Not now,” she whispered. She didn’t finish the rest of the thought. There was a comfort in knowing he could not see her. He did not see her plain looks and her undistinguished hair.

  Or she thought he did not.

  He eased her clothes from her in slow, gentle stages, which broke with her understanding that a man would find the fastest route to access a woman’s body—a flip of a skirt, a torn bodice… Steffan did neither and she marveled at the difference, even as she shivered in the warm, still air.

  “You’re still cold,” he breathed, his lips brushing her shoulder.

  “No.”

  “Ah, then I must soothe your concerns away.” He put her hands on his chest, over the leather of his jerkin “Your turn.”

  Her mind blanked. “You mean…?”

  He smiled. “Yes. You take them off me. How else are you to learn?”

  How, indeed. She fumbled to unbuckle the jerkin, with Steffan helping her, then tugged the shirt from his trousers. She was not tall enough to lift it over his head, so Steffan shrugged out of it and dropped it to one side.

  Anwen’s trembling increased. She reached out to touch his flesh, the rounded mounds and dips, where the muscles ended. “May I?” she asked.

  Steffan seemed to know what she meant. He reached for her hand and found it, then drew it to him and pressed her palm against his chest. He drew in a breath. “Your hand is hot against me.”

  Anwen smoothed her fingers over his skin, enjoying the warmth and softness. Then, driven by an impulse she didn’t understand but obeyed anyway, she pressed her lips against his flesh, right over his heart.

  He drew in a rough breath. She could feel his heart working, just below her lips. The sound of its fast beating made her own leap even higher. She reached for the fastenings of his trousers. She had never unfastened trousers before, although she had made many pairs and knew how they worked. Only, her fingers felt stiff and uncooperative. The flesh tingled because of the proximity to his body, to there.

  “Let me,” he said, his voice hoarse. He stripped the garment away and she saw for the first time the proud flesh.

  Steffan drew her to the cloak he had spread upon the straw and laid her down and kissed her. His lips moved to her chin, then her throat and farther.

  Anwen’s understanding of the pleasures of the flesh blossomed as Steffan’s mouth and hands explored her body. She reacted, her thoughts fragmenting, as every nerve and sinew grew taut and tingled, sensitized to every single touch, from the brush of his breath over her skin, to the touch of his hair and the sweep of his fingers. The heat of his body against hers was ferocious. His scent was a goad, making her nerves quiver.

  His hand cupped her breast, stealing her breath with delight. How sweet the touch was! Then his mouth replaced his hand and her thoughts scattered once more.

  “You are such a slight thing,” he breathed as he drew her beneath him.

  “Skinny, you mean.” She had heard all the words before, either whispered or jeered. Skinny, shapeless, boyish. And more.

  “Slender,” he corrected and kissed her. “All flesh and joy,” he added.

  His taking of her was just as slow and gentle. She felt little pain, even though she had been braced for it. The small discomfort evaporated as he moved against her. Pleasure swirled and seemed to rise through her, promising something she did not yet know.

  The first coupling unraveled the last of the mysteries in her mind except one. The pleasure she had glimpsed was not fully delivered.

  As Steffan laid beside her, breathing hard, she rested her hand against his chest, a thrill running through her that she could do it. “Show me more.”

  Steffen’s smile was heated. Even his eyes seemed to dance with warmth and knowledge. “What makes you think there is more?”

  She pressed against his shoulder. He let her push him onto his back and she lifted herself up so she laid on his chest. “I’ve heard much about this matter over the years. Nothing you have done demonstrates why a woman would want to do it a second time, when a great many women do want to do it, very often.”

  “Ah…” His smile broadened. His hands came around her waist. He flipped her onto her back once more. “Then let me demonstrate.”

  And he did.

  While her body recovered from the intense pe
ak of excitement he created in her, Steffan drew her cloak over them, trapping the warm air. His hand settled over her waist. His fingers stroked. “I was right. Your flesh is soft and sweet.”

  She could feel her body warm at the compliment. “Which no one else sees,” she whispered, trailing her own hands over him, tracing the size and power of his body.

  The leisurely stroking ignited more flames. This time, Anwen was an active participant, striving for the joyful end with him.

  WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED FAR away, they stayed in the stable. No one disturbed them there, for everyone in the village had been included in the feast.

  As the weak winter sun lowered and the light faded, Steffan leaned over her and seemed to study her, as his fingers stroked her hair back from her forehead. “You’re not golden brown anymore,” he murmured.

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re pure golden light, now.”

  Her heart gave a little lurch. “I think you really are blind when it comes to me.”

  “You think so?” He didn’t seem offended. “Is Morguase not strawberry red?”

  He had her there. “She is,” Anwen admitted. Strawberry red described Morguase perfectly. “What color is Igraine?” she asked.

  “The green of a deep, deep sea.”

  Anwen shivered. That, too, was Igraine.

  She touched his jaw. “Morgan isn’t lilac, though, is she?”

  Steffan froze for a heartbeat. “You knew I lied?”

  “You wouldn’t look at her directly. I mean…you don’t anyway, yet you seem to look at people when you talk to them, just as you’re staring into my eyes right now. Only, when Morgan asked, you shifted your eyes away and told her she was lilac.”

  Steffan grimaced. “You see far too much,” he breathed.

  “What color was she?” Anwen pressed.

  He hesitated. “Red,” he said, his voice low. “The color of blood when it is first spilled.”

  Anwen shivered.

  Steffan pulled her against him and kissed away the shivers.

  GORLOIS ANNOUNCED THE NEXT MORNING that the Cornwall contingent, including Gorlois’ standing army, had been given the King’s permission to leave Amesbury and they would leave immediately.

  They were not the only army decamping and returning home. Ban and Bors and their men were returning to Lesser Britain, too. Percival and Ector headed for their northern holds, among other petty kings and leaders taking their leave.

  The makeshift camp which had been just outside the walls of Amesbury for nearly a year was breaking up.

  Anwen was pressed into service, helping Igraine repack the trunks and chests with her gowns and accoutrements and returning them to the wagon. She was happy to have the work to do, for it kept her mind from wandering back to yesterday and speculating about what might happen now.

  One thing she had learned from the gossiping women was that a man must be allowed to make up his own mind about such matters.

  All too soon, Anwen was told to find a place in the cart which would carry the women. Igraine had cushions for her back and bottom, while everyone else folded their cloaks beneath them and wrapped them around tightly for warmth.

  Anwen shook her head. “I will walk, for now.”

  The other women all gasped. “You cannot walk all the way to Tintagel!” one said.

  “Why not?” Anwen asked dryly. “The cart moves more slowly than I.”

  Igraine nodded. “It is a fine idea, walking. I may join you in a while, Anwen.”

  The captain at the head of the line shouted and the carts and horses all moved forward with a slow, plodding step and creak of wheels. There were many more carts in the long column which rolled across the stone bridge than had brought them here, for Gorlois, his men and their gear had swelled the ranks. Four hundred armed foot soldiers walked beside and between the carts, trailing the war horses at the head of the column.

  Steffan would be on one of those carts.

  STEFFAN KNEW FROM EXPERIENCE TO find a spot at the front of the cart, where he could let his legs hang, or else risk cramps from sitting with them bent for too long.

  The mid-winter journey at least minimized the dust the horses at the front of the column kicked up. The air was fresh and cold against his face, although as the sun rose the air warmed a little and the sunlight baked away the worst of the chill.

  At first, there was much chatter among the occupants of the cart. They didn’t include Steffan. Eventually, though, the ceaseless steady motion rocked them into sleep or introspection, leaving Steffan alone with his thoughts.

  Those thoughts lingered upon the stable and the sweet moments he had enjoyed yesterday. Such unexpected pleasure, stolen from a day which might have ended far differently. It had been worth the risk.

  Igraine was not a lady who allowed her women complete freedom in such matters. Igraine was Christian, devoutly so, and the Christians frowned upon couplings outside a marriage. Igraine expected her women to abide by the standards she set for herself.

  Once they had returned to Tintagel, Steffan could not put Anwen at further risk of Igraine’s wrath by seeking additional moments. It would be unkind.

  Besides, there was another factor in play now.

  Steffan let his thoughts return to the astonishing moment at the campfire, last night. He had not let himself consider it since it had happened, for doing so brought a great swell of feelings to his chest, and made it ache. Now was the time to carefully explore the possibilities.

  After Anwen had dressed and returned to the room Igraine’s women were using before she was missed, Steffan reluctantly dressed and returned to the square where the evening meal was being prepared. The dancing had ceased with the end of the day and the descending of the colder night air. Now, fires dotted the square. From the aromas which wafted to him as Steffan weaved between the men huddled around the fires, he judged there were tripods and cooking pots hanging over many of the fires.

  With a few questions, he was directed to Cornwall’s contingent, where he was given a bowl of stew. He found a flask of wine and asked for and received some bread. Then, because he was free to do so, he searched for firewood of his own and set up a fire where he and Anwen had danced a handful of hours ago. A burning log borrowed from another fire soon had his crackling merrily. He sat downwind of the flames, letting their warmth bathe him, and ate in happy solitude, contemplating where he might find a comfortable bed for the night. Returning to the stable seemed to offer the best opportunity.

  The hand which landed on his shoulder to warn him of another’s presence was heavy. “You drink alone, Steffan? That isn’t like you.”

  It was Uther’s voice, thick with wine.

  “Join me, if you wish, my lord,” Steffan said.

  “For a moment, I will,” Uther said. “I need to clear my head.”

  Steffan heard him settle heavily beside him. He held out the flask of wine he had been sipping.

  “No, thank you,” Uther said. “It isn’t helping,” he added dryly.

  Steffan didn’t ask what he was referring to. He could guess well enough. He let the silence grow.

  Uther let out a heavy breath. “I thought, this morning, that you had not changed at all, but you have changed greatly.”

  “Have I?”

  “You are comfortable with silence. The old Steffan, the one I knew, could not stand silence. Nor inactivity, either. Yet here you are, indulging in both.”

  “I am thinking,” Steffan admitted. “That is not inactivity.”

  “Which proves my point,” Uther said. “You did not think beyond the next battle and the next bed, once.”

  “Neither did you,” Steffan added.

  Uther sighed heavily again. “True enough. Now I am beset with problems which require thought.”

  Steffan did not ask him what problems he had. He suspected the night would wane while Uther listed them. Any king’s list of problems would be long, and Uther was adjusting to the High King’s chair, too. “Then you must
stay and share my silence. Problems seem smaller when you can draw a peaceful breath.”

  Uther dropped another log on the fire, which hissed and crackled. “Is that what it takes?” he asked.

  “Solitude helps,” Steffan admitted. “I suspect solitary moments are rare for you.”

  Uther laughed. “So rare I cannot name the last.”

  “Well, then.” Steffan let the silence grow. The next time he sipped, and held out the flask, Uther took it.

  Uther fed two more logs to the fire before either of them spoke once more. He rearranged his cloak over his knees, which washed heated air from the fire over Steffan’s face. “I have thousands of problems, yet I can only think of one.”

  “Ah.” Steffan hesitated. “She is my lady, Uther. Loyalty requires I defend her position and honor.”

  “I am your High King.”

  “Not quite yet,” Steffan pointed out. “And even if you were crowned, I would still be sworn to Gorlois and his wife. I point that out only to caution you in what you say. If Gorlois was to question me about this conversation, I would be truthful.”

  Uther made an impatient sound. “We once shared everything and it has remained between us since…or has it not?”

  “I have spoken of those times with no one,” Steffan assured him.

  “Ah…those times!” Uther sighed. “They are moments far back in history now, it seems.” He paused. “I have missed you as I have not missed many companions who have come and gone over the years, Steffan. I rue the day the Saxons stole your sight from you, for they stole a friend, too.” His voice grew harsher. “It is one more insult they have added to the pile which makes me determined to rid this land of them. Here, take this before I finish it. I have had too much already. My tongue is loosened.”

  Steffan held out his hand and Uther thrust the flask back into it.

  “You know that nothing you say here will travel,” Steffan assured him. “No matter how loose your tongue.”

  “Except I cannot speak of the one thing I must,” Uther said, his voice tight.