The Warrior Poet by Kathryn Le Veque

    CHAPTER
FOUR                                                      

 
    Hands that were
braced against Christian's chest not a moment before were suddenly around his
neck, twisting their way into his honey-blond mane. As his mouth utterly
devoured the exquisite line of her jaw, he became cognizant of her gasps, her
soft groans of pleasure and delight, and they only served to feed his furor.
    For a man that was
the perpetual idealism of calm and control, he was unaware when he tumbled over
the brink of lust-induced insanity. All he knew was that he had waited for this
moment since the very first he beheld the vision in the lake, and the physical
pleasure he was receiving as a result of his lack of composure was the greatest
ecstasy he had ever experienced.
    Suddenly, there was
no hatred, no St. Johns, no de Gares. There was only Christian and Gaithlin, a
man and a woman, and he intended to handle the situation accordingly. He'd
never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
    Still holding her
tightly against his armored chest, he viciously tore away his right gauntlet,
then his left. Naked hands the size of a serving trencher entangled themselves
in damp blond hair, holding her captive to his desire as his heated lips moved
down her neck and across her collarbone. Delicately, smoothly, his slid her
gown from her shoulders.
    Gaithlin existed in
mindless limbo as Christian's searing mouth plundered her delicate skin,
conveniently neglecting the fact that her most detested enemy appeared intent
on ravishing her. Merciful Heavens, if this was what it meant to be plundered
and ravaged, she would have been willing to submit to him long ago. If this was
his punishment, she would live for the moment when her actions warranted his
idea of a suitable reward.
    She'd heard tale of
the excitement of a man's touch from the serving wenches at Winding Cross, the
ribald stories the young women were free in repeating, and she had harbored a
great curiosity of the mating aspects between a man and a woman. Knowing that
it was a mysterious, intimate, intensely private encounter, but little beyond
that.
    Now, to actually
sample the reality of her curious ponderings, she realized that the servants
and soldiers had hardly paid proper homage to such action. To be kissed,
caressed, touched, fondled...
    Fondled?
    She was suddenly
aware of his hand on her breast, massaging her firm globe with the utmost
tenderness. Blinking away the disorientation his lustful endeavor had induced,
she gazed at the top of his honey-blond head as his mouth moved over the swell
of her ripe breasts. As one hand teased her nipple through the wet wool, the
other was intent on removing her from her garment.
    Her gown was
sliding down her arms with swift, gentle action and she was suddenly aware that
his most euphoric attentions were quickly becoming far more threatening. It was
obvious that he wanted more than she was willing to give and their previous
conversation came back to her in all of its blinding force, slamming her with
the interpretation of the underlying meaning.
    What you see in my
eyes has nothing to do with murder.
    Now, she knew what
she saw in his eyes. Merciful Heavens, she had been so foolish to challenge
him, informing him that he had managed to strip her of all dignity and respect
and that the only matter of personal import left to take was her very life.
There had been another intimate possession, one she had neglected to remember
through her anger and apprehension. A possession she valued over most all else.
    She had been wrong. Terribly wrong. The innocence meant for her husband's
pleasure was in great danger of being forever lost and she knew, now, that it
had been his intent all along.
    It had never been
his purpose to kill her.   He intended to
do far worse damage than mere death. And she was letting him.
    The gown was
suddenly peeled away from her damp breasts, revealing the rain-cold beauties