Page 48 of Rogue Knight
Their breaths quickened, her heart raced and a pool of warm liquid settled in her woman’s center.
Breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Be my lady, Emma. Let me have you and I promise I will never have another.”
She was not shocked at his request, but delighted in his words. Their gazes met and for a time neither spoke. Still, there was much in their eyes. For three years she had been without a man and had wanted none, but she wanted him.
Without a word, she took his rough hand in hers and led him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her chamber, thinking all the while it was meant to be. Once inside, she closed the door and turned to him. “Your companions wait, so we do not have much time.”
“Let them wait,” he said, drawing her close to kiss her neck, her face, then her lips. “I want you, Emma.”
If they’d had more time, mayhap they would have proceeded more slowly but she did not think so. The passion between them was too intense and had been building for too long. Instead, they tore at each other’s clothing, frantic to be free of it, but all they managed before they fell to the bed was to remove his hauberk and her woolen gown. Her headcloth had quickly fallen to the floor on its own.
“Emma, Emma,” he murmured as his hands reached for her linen shift, lifting it to her hips and running his palm down her quivering thigh.
Then he kissed her deeply, moving his hand to her breast. It felt blessedly right.
The heavy weight of his sex pressed against her. She tugged at his braies. He helped her slide them down leaving their bodies below the waist touching, hot and ready, flamed by the heat coursing between them.
“Geoffroi, hurry.”
He rose up, positioned his sex at her welcoming folds and plunged in more deeply than she could have imagined. “My love,” he murmured as he stilled.
She raised her hips to take all of him, welcoming his hot flesh into her tight sheath. It had been years since she had known a man, still she could not remember ever experiencing such fullness, such wonder. There was no ghost to greet her, no image of anyone but Geoffroi, his blue gaze intense when she opened her eyes to see him staring at her.
“Is it well with you, my love?” he asked, concern in the depths of his eyes.
“Yea, but ’twill be better when you begin to move.”
“I shall move,” he said, thrusting into her. “Oh yes, Emma, I shall move.”
Then began a most wondrous coupling, a loving she would never forget. Their bodies fit perfectly to each other, his sex gliding slowly in and out of her welcoming flesh.
She raised her hips to move with him, as together they strove to reach the peak of their passion. When their release came, it was a joining that seemed so right, so destined, she felt no guilt. He had wanted her to give herself to him and she had.
There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 10
Dunfermline, Scotland
A myriad of flickering candles and blazing torches lighted the great hall where Maerleswein joined the men and women feasting on roasted boar. To him it was a regathering of sorts, for they had all been there the year before, seeking refuge willingly offered by the Scottish monarch.
At the head table sat Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, nearly forty and still a vigorous man with a warrior’s body and a full head of long, brown hair to go with his mustache and well-kept beard. Watching the king was his betrothed, the lovely Margaret of Wessex, who was nearly half his age. Maerleswein had met her the year before, when she and her brother fled north. Anyone who saw Margaret and Edgar Ætheling together would observe the resemblance. The two shared their fair appearance, their blue-gray eyes and the same delicate features; Edgar’s only a masculine version of his sister’s.
The king had told Maerleswein that when Edgar, his mother and two sisters had landed in Scotland, Malcolm was there to greet them. Maerleswein could well imagine the scene, the king’s eyes devouring young Margaret, as they did this night. ’Twas not surprising when, soon after they met, the king offered to make Margaret his wife. Malcolm had fallen quickly, not just because of her royal Saxon lineage, the same lineage that the Norman Bastard would find disturbing when matched with a Scot, but because Margaret was so much more.
Her gentle spirit permeated the hall. He had heard it said in Dunfermline that she was persuaded to accept the king’s offer in order to accomplish a holy purpose, to direct Malcolm from his erring ways and increase God’s praise in the land. Mayhap it was so, for, from his own observations, the Scottish people loved her, as did their king.
She did not say much, a word here, a nod there, allowing her betrothed to do the talking. While Malcolm spoke both Gaelic and Saxon, Margaret spoke only Saxon. Yet she did not need to speak for those attending to observe the sweetness of her nature.
With her long flaxen plaits and her pleasant expression, Margaret reminded Maerleswein of his wife, Julianna, at that age. A wave of sadness swept over him. He had lost her so early and, even today, missed her far more than he would ever admit. With a sigh, he shook off the longing for the past. He had his daughter to care for and she was the image of her mother. He had named her for Emma of Normandy, Queen Consort of England, Denmark and Norway. The name seemed fitting since both were strong of character and had overcome loss, though after the Bastard plundered England, mayhap the Norman’s connection to the name was best forgotten.
He gazed about the hall, decorated with shields and tapestries belonging to the Scottish royal family and proudly noted that the men sharing the meal with the king were nearly all Northumbrians, many related. None was even thirty, yet much would be expected of them if they were to take back the North. The Danes and their ships would not be enough without leaders like Waltheof, the Earl of Huntingdon, who looked like a Dane with his great height and pale hair. And no wonder, for he was cousin to King Swein of Denmark.
As he thought of it, Waltheof was also cousin to Cospatric, the young Earl of Bamburgh. Now there was a man who would make a fine husband for Emma. Handsome by most women’s standards, and more importantly to Maerleswein, Cospatric was wealthy and titled, still powerful with his lands north of Durham.
Emma was too independent, too content with her made up family. She needed children of her own. She’d had enough time to mourn Halden’s death. Maerleswein had no intention of allowing his only daughter to remain a widow forever. It was time for her to wed again. He was not pleased with this friendship with a French knight who had helped her with Ottar. The look in her eyes when she spoke of the knight’s kindness displayed more than gratitude.
Emma had been alone with women, children and servants for too long. She needed a man, oneher fatherapproved of.
