With Her Kiss (Swords of Passion) by Cerise Deland

thanks to him, I am alive. More vital than I have been in years.
    Alone, she felt free to grin at the rays of sunlight streaming through the solar windows. Spring and summer she had always enjoyed. Now, the chill of that dungeon still a memory in her bones, she wiggled at the pressure of the two plugs in her ass. Wanting to be fucked good and hard, she bit her lower lip. Soon. Soon she would find him, have him.
    She stood, spread her naked toes and curled them into the thick Turkish carpet as she welcomed the sun’s warmth on her face and throat.
    She turned, her gaze drawn to the tub where hopefully again today, Geoffrey would take her naked and mindless to soak away the cold despair that had almost killed her.
    Aye, Geoffrey St Claire was a man of his word. If he declared he would conquer her with kisses and caresses, so would he devote himself. Without regard for king or morals, he had conquered her body and would try to rule her heart. She was too old, too wise to be seduced by passion. Yet she had to admit that at the moment she was too weak to escape her own desire for him. Still, sometime soon, she must elude his lure—and run. To save him, at the very least, from John’s wrath.
    But where would she go? To whom? Her host here, the owner of Chepstow Castle, William Marshall and his family, would have been her first best choice. While some of their retinue remained and the castle serfs, the family were abroad in Ireland. Though they of all barons in England had the power to singlehandedly thwart the King, William Marshall was nearly as out of favour with John as she. To whom else could she appeal to escape Geoffrey?
    Her cousins in Ireland? Waterford seemed a world away. But her cousins were related to the Marshalls. If the Earl declined to give her succour, would her family follow his suit?
    A loud knock came at the outer door. She scrambled back to bed just in time to cover herself before one woman appeared with a pitcher, two cups, bread, apples and a bowl of oat porridge. Behind her, two male serfs carried in large buckets of steaming water to empty into the tub.
    Her eyes met the woman’s. The maid nervously assessed her, then cast resentful glances over her. Kat wondered why and made a note to ask Geoffrey. Was this woman interested in Geoffrey? She would not be the first female who had had an eye for the handsome knight. A titled and rich one now, Kat noted.
    The three departed as quickly as they had come, leaving Kat to scramble up and relish the aromas of food wafting towards her. She stood there, the smell of oats and apples resurrecting from her childhood an old feeling of security. And whenever it had occurred or why she remembered it now, the scene made her smile with the recollection of Geoffrey St Claire in his glorious youth.
    As a foster in her father’s household, the auburn-haired youth of the poor St Claire family had been brawny and bold, even then. Burnished with his bright hair and stunning dark green eyes, he was always laughing, the knight with a good word for everyone. She had chuckled at his humour. He had laughed at her own romantic tales, pale imitations of French chasson she read in her mother’s solar. One May Day, he had caught her in the village dance around the pole and kissed her behind a farrier’s hut. In the next few months, she had sought him out as he had practised his swordsmanship in the castle yard. She admired his skills, so he had taught her how to wield a dagger. After practising alone for many weeks, she grew eager to show him how well she had learnt his lessons. She had led him to the stables to demonstrate her aim—and he had kissed her, his tongue diving deep and sparking her curiosity for sensual exploits.
    Days later, he had found her in the kitchens, taken her to the buttery and showed her his cock, which she had petted and praised. That night, during a mummer’s entertainment in the hall, she and he had escaped to the stables where they had lain down in the