As Alan’s mouth closed obediently over her other breast, he smiled. His Blanche was ready for him.
His hand traced the slight curve of her hips and, tentatively, he let his fingers drift across her pubic bone. She tugged his hair, pulled his head towards her mouth. Alan kissed her, fingers drifting lower. Gwenn squirmed like a siren against him, and he pressed himself against her, letting her feel how much he desired her. She groaned, and bit his bottom lip. Her nails were cutting into his flesh, as though she was afraid to let go of him in case he should vanish. She was moist inside, ready for him. Alan wondered why she was so shy about caressing him, surely no married woman could be as innocent of a man’s needs as Gwenn seemed to be? But the hot blood was beating in his brain, and the last rational thought that he had was that if there was any doubt about Gwenn’s sexual experience, there was no question about her response. He desired her, and she wanted him, and if all she wanted to do to him was to hold him, then that was enough.
He slid his breeches over his hips and eased her legs apart, moving the hardness of his thighs between her softer ones. Her eyes were shut. He wanted them open. He levered himself onto his elbows. ‘Gwenn.’ He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Gwenn.’ Brown, loving eyes opened and turned his limbs to water. ‘Now?’
‘Now,’ she agreed. ‘Only, please, hold me...’ And putting her hands to his hips, she pulled him towards her.
His body joined hers as though they had been made for one another, and he smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. She fitted him like a glove. He kissed her with rough passion, and when her hands slid up his back, they loosed a shudder of delight that shook his whole frame. Alan began to move inside her, and heard his voice, hoarse, call her name.
‘Love me, Alan.’ Dimly he made out her words. Each thrust brought him nearer the edge. ‘Love me...as hard...as you can. Oh, Alan... Alan. Hold me tight.’
This last was unnecessary, for he was already holding her more tightly than he had held any woman. He wanted to be closer, to merge with her. ‘Gwenn.’ He gasped his delight in her ear. She was kissing his neck in glorious abandon, licking him, biting his skin. Her hips arched to his, she twined her feet round his calves, and pushed and pushed and pushed towards his every thrust.
‘Alan. Oh, Alan.’
Her soft, delirious cries filled the tent, the most potent aphrodisiac on earth. He wanted it to last forever. What a transformation, he thought in wonder, from the shy creature he had held in his arms a moment ago. He felt his climax approaching. ‘No...no. Not yet.’ He almost screamed in frustration. ‘Tell me you hate it.’
He was astonished to hear a throaty giggle. ‘I hate it.’
Startled, and put off his stride, he lifted his head and looked into brown eyes that were as soft and welcoming as a man could wish. He was deep in passion’s thrall, but despite this, an answering smile tugged his lips. He moved inside her.
She let out a gratifying groan of purely shameless pleasure. ‘I hate it, Alan,’ she gasped, pushing at his hips when he stopped moving. Insides dissolving, Alan managed another thrust. ‘I hate it.’ He rewarded her with another. ‘I hate it.’ One more. ‘I hate it. I... Oh!’
He was witness to the wonder which flared in her eyes, and for one glorious moment she looked at him as though he were a god. Then, shuddering and pulsing all over, she closed her eyes and hid her face in his chest. Her delight was too much for him, and a couple of thrusts later, it was over for him too.
***
Berthe, the middle-aged alewife at the Sun Inn, stood by her cooking fire with her arms akimbo and regarded the blond foreigner who had drunk her out of mead.
The last of her customers to leave, he was a large lad – a Norseman most likely – and currently he looked harmless enough with his helmet at his feet and his corn-coloured head slumped over her trestle. The discarded remnants of a meal sat at his elbow. But Berthe had seen it all before, and she knew appearances could be deceptive. She reached for a broom, and thus armed, approached him. Prodding him roughly on the shoulder, she did not wait for him to stir, but asked, ‘You sleeping here, laddie, or will you be leaving?’
She didn’t see him move, not so much as a flutter of the heavy eyelids, but suddenly, one ham of a hand whipped out, caught hold of the broom handle, and before Berthe had time to drop it, she was hauled towards two red-rimmed blue eyes and an untidy beard.
The eyes blinked. ‘I don’t like your tone, mistress,’ the stranger said.
Berthe didn’t like his, but prudently decided not to tell him. ‘Sir?’ She was not alarmed, all she had to do was give a shriek, and her Alfred would charge in from the storeroom. It gave a woman confidence to have a husband like her Alfred. Simple, but strong, and completely devoted to her. What woman wanted more from a man?
The Viking released the broom and Berthe took couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘What did you want, woman?’ He scowled into his empty cup.
‘I’m locking up,’ she told him, bluntly. ‘And if you want to stop here, there’ll be the price of the bed to pay for. In advance.’ Berthe had learned the hard way. People with infinitely more charm than this fellow had slept in her beds and blithely skipped off before sunrise without settling their debts. She was wise to that trick and was not about to let this one try it on her. The Norseman’s bloodshot eyes were sharp and cunning, and cold as a wolf’s. So cold they made Berthe want to shiver. He smiled, and Berthe did not like his smile any more than his eyes. He slapped a coin on the table and her heart sank. She did not want this one to stop here. Like as not he’d slit their throats in the night and skip off with the takings.
‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, and relief flooded through her. ‘I want information. I’m looking for a young woman, name of Gwenn Her...Fletcher. She’s Breton; small, very dark, and travelling with an armed soldier. They were last seen riding north along this road. Have you seen them?’
Berthe remembered the couple who had eaten at the alehouse earlier and gone on. A nice-looking couple, obviously recently wed and very much in love. She recalled the man calling the girl Gwenn. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.
The stranger gave Berthe another spine-chilling smile. ‘Oh, aye. We go way back.’
The alewife didn’t like the foreigner, and neither did she believe him. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she said, firmly.
The dead eyes narrowed to slits. ‘They were riding this way.’
His gaze was boring holes in her, but Berthe was determined not to flinch. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she repeated, and scooping up his coin, tossed it back to him. ‘Here, take this and be on your way.’
‘They were seen this morning.’
‘They may well have been on this road, sir.’ Berthe made her voice as casual and convincing as she could, for though she had Alfred dozing in the back, this man had succeeding in frightening her. ‘But they could have turned off, or they might have ridden past without stopping. Whatever, I’ve not seen them.’
Pouching his coin, the Norseman stood up and his stool toppled to the floor with a crack. Berthe winced. He was a tower of a man, no question of that. He caught her wrist and leaned towards her. ‘If I find you’ve lied to me, woman, I’ll come back and flay you alive.’
‘I’m not lying,’ Berthe said, steadily.
Walking to the door, the stranger paused and threw her a final, terrible smile. ‘I hope for your sake you’re not.’