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CHAPTER FIVE

The pain of his accusation sliced through her heart like the sharpest dagger. It took all her control to hold back her cry as she felt the dark seeds of suspicion that grew within his mind.

Yet, she also knew his need to understand, to explain this sudden welcoming where there had never been such a thing in another place.

Chantel took a deep breath. Her father had warned her that Devlin would be filled with suspicion, and less trusting than any person she had ever known. His accusation still hit her with the force of a blow though. She hated the distrust she saw in his eyes, but even more she hated the edge of disillusionment she could feel coming from him.

“I am no whore, Sir Devlin,” she told him, standing firmly before him. “I am a virgin, and no man’s pawn. I am here because it is my wish. What you do with that is between you and your own honor.”

Chantel could feel his struggle, see the demons leaping within his eyes as he fought to understand what she was offering him.

Poor knight, she thought to herself, how quickly he had been thrown into unfamiliar waters. He could sense within these castle walls all the dreams he had ever held, but still he was unwilling to accept even the idea of it. Chantel had known for years that she was destined to be this man’s woman. There was fear, but only the fear of innocence when faced with the time of knowledge.

“No man would gladly sacrifice his daughter to the dark warriors of the gods. No virtuous woman would gladly accept such a fate. So what sorceress’ spell are you practicing here?” Devlin turned and stared at the bed, turned back invitingly, the wooden tub still steaming with water in the corner, the table laden with breads and cheese, and a jug of wine.

“I practice no magic on you, Sir Knight,” she told him softly as she moved to the small table and poured him a healthy measure of wine. Turning back to him, she sipped slowly from the goblet herself before extending it to him. “I am here to practice the gentle art of cleansing your body, and perhaps your heart, if you would allow it. I’ve shared your dreams, warrior. Surely now you will be willing to share the reality of it with me.”

Chantel fought the trembling of her own body. She hoped he would ease her into the coming night, and not grasp what she offered as a starving man would a banquet spread before him.

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He was needy, this she could tell by the tenseness of his body, the bulge beneath his breeches, but she also sensed his control, and she prayed it would serve her for just a while longer.

Devlin’s eyes narrowed further as she spoke of those shared dreams, and then he raised the goblet to his lips and drank long from the spot her lips had touched. Yet not once did he take his gaze from her, as though he expected her to plunge a knife into his heart should he not watch her closely.

Dear knight, she thought to herself, we have not the time to overcome your distrust in a way more seemingly. How she would have enjoyed a gentle courtship herself. Lazy days beneath the teasing warmth of the sun, gentle smiles, perhaps a few dances as they flirted softly. There was no time for this now though, and she knew there never would be.

Chantel watched the color that mounted his cheeks slowly, the hot glitter that began to rage in his dark eyes. This lonely warrior, she felt, sensed this as well. Destiny and fate had spoken, and Mother Earth had whispered to her the secrets of the future. The present was all they would have for a very long time to come. Devlin didn’t move to touch her though. He didn’t have to. Instead, he glanced quickly at the tub and then smacked the empty goblet down on the table before he began to undress.

Chantel fought to steady herself, to still the trembling that began in the deepest recess of her body as the clothes were slowly shed.

He was a work of art. Hard, lean muscle, dark skin and the brief glimpse she allowed herself of his manhood sent her heart thudding so fiercely she nearly felt faint. His cock rose thick and hard, the wide head flared and raging. Had she not been assured by Mother Earth that he would cause her no harm, she would have surely run from the room in fear.

“A virgin, huh?” Chantel nearly missed his remark as he lowered himself into the steamy water.

“God, this feels good.” He moaned as though the feel of clean warm water had been unknown to him.

“Yes,” she whispered as she moved beside him with the bar of soap and a washcloth. “ A virgin.”

Heavy lidded, his black eyes assessed her as she took a small pitcher of warm water from the floor and held it behind his head.

Chantel knew he distrusted the teasing grin she could feel shaping her lips, but there was such distrust in his eyes, that it was tease him, or cry.

“May I wash your hair for you, Sir Devlin?” she whispered, wondering at the husky pitch that had suddenly entered her voice.

Devlin blinked slowly, his breath harsh in the sudden stillness of the bedroom. Finally after long moments, he merely nodded shortly and made to sit up in the water. Lora Leigh

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“Nay, lie back as you were, there is a small basin behind to catch the water from your hair,” she instructed him as she moved the large bowl into place. “It is your time to rest, to relax. Simply enjoy the warmth of the water.”

The warmth of the water, and someone to care for you for a change, Chantel thought silently to herself. He reminded her of a wounded hound she had once cared for. Eager for her touch and the gentleness she would give him, but well aware that often betrayal was just around the corner.

In time the hound had learned she meant him no harm, and Chantel was certain that the day would come when Devlin too would realize that fact as well. Chantel moved to wet his thick black hair, amazed at the softness of the strands that fell to his shoulders. She moved the thick mass carefully until it flowed over the back of the tub and used the water in the pitcher to dampen the midnight strands. Next, she took a carefully chosen jar of soap, mixed with sandalwood, to lather into his hair. She was desperate to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her fingertips, and yet so was she hesitant. The coming night would be her first, and though the dreams of this man had tempted her, she was still hesitant to tempt his passion. Devlin watched her carefully as she washed his hair as gently as any mother ever would. Her fingers moved slowly along his scalp, massaging away the dust and sweat of his journey with the rich lather of the soap.

Chantel was aware of the narrowed look that never left his face as she did this. The warrior was fighting to understand the logic of her actions, and why her father was allowing it.

He would not easily accept the truth, Chantel thought. Devlin was a warrior, unused to any gentleness, any amount of trust. He would have to learn that it was easily within reach.

Chantel’s fingers combed slowly through the tangled mass of black hair, gently working the snags free, then firmly rubbing his scalp clear of any lingering dirt and sweat. All the while, her fingertips gloried in the touch, her heart thudding painfully against her breast as she cared for him.

“You have a gentle touch, Lady Chantel,” he whispered as she rinsed the lather out of his hair slowly, careful to keep the suds from his eyes as he watched her.

“Thank you, Sir Devlin.” Her voice was just as soft, and much less controlled as she fought the heaviness in her chest that forced her breath to feel labored. Next, she dipped the square of linen into the water and lathered it with the soap.

“Close your eyes,” she told him softly. “Else the lather will burn them.”

Distrust flared in his gaze once again. Then slowly, his body tensing in preparation of betrayal, he closed his eyes.

Chantel worked the cloth over his face several times, washing the grime from his skin. His eyes were deep set, his brows arching over them strongly. His nose was straight and aristocratic, his cheekbones high and flushed. Chantel worked the soft Lora Leigh

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cloth over each feature, rinsing then repeating, careful to remove the grime of his travels from each pore of his skin.

She found great pleasure in touching him, in feeling his strength and warmth. Her fingers replaced the cloth with the last washing, flowing over his sun-darkened skin and relishing the feel of flesh before she began to carefully rinse the soap, paying close attention to the long lashed eyelids. Had she ever seen such lashes on a man? She could have sworn she never had.

Finally, she rinsed his face one last time, and then dried it quickly so he could open his eyes once again.

“You’re washing me as you would a child,” he scoffed, his black gaze pinning her in accusation. Yet, the gentle chiding held a vein of pleasure within it. It confused him, Chantel thought, the pleasure he was receiving from her touch.

“Then enjoy it,” she chided him with a soft smile. “When was the last time you were taken such gentle care of?”

He frowned at her fiercely, but she merely ignored the look and quickly lathered the cloth once again and began to wash the strong contours of his neck and shoulders. The muscles there were bunched and corded with tension. Chantel moved closer, working the lather of the soap between her bare hands before she began to work the muscles of those shoulders.

She wasn’t certain, but she thought she caught the strangled edge of a whimper of pleasure. She hid her smile as she continued to massage his shoulders, her hands sliding, pressing, and relishing the feel of his skin.

“It’s not proper that you are doing this,” he informed her. “A serving wench would be better.”

“Would you prefer a servant’s touch to mine?” She smiled as she touched his shoulder with her bare fingers and felt the muscles jerk in response. He was silent for long moments as he watched her, his gaze shielded, narrowed as he probed the air around her for any hint of deception. Chantel allowed him in, just enough for him to glimpse the feelings raging inside her heart, the needs raging inside her body.

He seemed to flinch as he retreated quickly from the heated glimpse he was given. His breathing became harsher, his expression nearly savage in its intensity.

“Lady, you do not want to continue this game,” he informed her darkly. “I am a man, long due a woman’s warmth, not a callow youth so eager to please I will forget my own pleasure in the face of your untried state.”

Chantel felt her mouth dry at that warning, and then water at the thought of this man’s touch. After all the years of dreaming, of searching for him, he was finally here. This warning would not stray her from her course.

“Are you saying you will hurt me intentionally?” Chantel looked into his eyes as she voiced her question.

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“I will not need to.” He swallowed tightly as he met her gaze, his expression now tormented, awash with needs that she could tell he struggled to control. “I will be unable to do anything else. I ask you now to leave, and to tease me no more with your silken hands.”

“And what of your needs?” she asked him, her eyes flickering to the broad head of the shaft lying just below the water’s surface.

Chantel felt her face heat, her body melt at the sight that met her eyes. Her gaze flickered away quickly. What would it be like to touch him there? To hold him in her hands, and see pleasure in his face at her touch? In her dreams, she had taken him into her mouth countless times as he pleaded for her to suckle that burgeoning flesh. She well remembered the feel of hot satin, hard steel. His strangled groans would wrap around her, his hoarse declarations of the pleasure she brought to him would cause her body to flame with her own needs.

Tormented by those memories, Chantel moved the washcloth to his chest, her motions growing slower as her gaze went once again to the sight of his hardness. She longed to taste that flesh again, to feel the power and the heat that filled it.

“My needs may well be more than you can meet, Lady,” he warned her, moving until he was sitting up more fully in the water. “Wash my back, then give me the damned cloth so I may finish washing before your gentle touch results in my own embarrassment.”

Devlin’s husky order had her frowning as she watched him, regretting the move that no longer allowed her to see the proof of his need for her.

“Embarrassment?” Chantel wasn’t certain what he meant as she began to wash his back firmly. “How could I be the cause of your embarrassment?”

She felt the harsh breath that exploded from him at her question. Thankfully she had just finished his back when he reclined forcefully, his hand moving to capture her hand as it went once again to his chest.

“Here me well, woman.” His voice was guttural, his black eyes staring at her heatedly. “Keep this up, and you will find yourself getting an education you were not counting on. Do you understand me?”

Chantel smiled once again, aware that she was goading him, but unable to help herself.

“I told you, Sir Knight, I am a virgin,” she whispered. “How would I know what to count on and what not to?”

His face flushed darkly, the hand gripping her wrist contracting as he fought some internal war. Chantel had no idea if he lost or won the battle within himself, for his next action cleared her mind of all thoughts but him.

Devlin jerked her hand beneath the water, and before she could think he had wrapped it as far as it would go around the hardened flesh thrusting boldly from between his thighs.

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A groan was ripped from his throat as her fingers touched him. His head fell back along the rim of the tub, his eyes glittering from beneath partially closed lids as the hand that held hers trapped, moved her fingers against him. Chantel whimpered, her breath stopping in her throat at the heat and hardness she held in her grasp. Her fingers would not meet around his hard cock, but that did not seem to hamper his enjoyment of her touch.

“God, your touch is like silk.” The words seemed to be ripped from his throat as he moved her hand once again. He drew it slowly to the base of his shaft, then in a slow sweep once again to the broad head.

Chantel felt fevered, as though some dreaded illness had taken hold of her, suspending her breath, her thoughts, everything but the feel and the sight of this big man’s pleasure.

Her fingers flexed beneath his grip, massaging the muscle it gripped, and she watched as perspiration dotted his forehead, his face tightening with an expression akin to pain.

His hips lifted towards her, causing the flesh trapped beneath their grip to rise marginally above the surface of the water.

“Enough.” The words were torn from his chest as he removed her hand, and pushed her none too gently away from the tub.

“No,” Chantel cried out in protest as she fell back, fighting for breath, her hand still extended towards him before sanity returned and she clutched it quickly within the folds of her now dampened gown.

“Undress.” The order was given in a voice so dark, so filled with heat she flinched.

“Do it now, woman, or I won’t bother when I’ve finished washing this damned grime from the rest of my body.”

Chantel shook her head, watching as the cloth quickly lathered long legs, strong thighs and the near to bursting length of his erection before it was thrown aside. He rinsed quickly, and then rose from the water, unmindful of the wet floor as he stepped from the tub.

“I warned you.” He advanced on her, his face dark, his eyes glittering with a suppressed fury as he reached for her.

Chantel cried out as he pulled her to him, his head lowering, his lips taking hers in a kiss that gave little concession to her untried state.

“I warned you,” he repeated against her lips a second before his tongue pierced her mouth and his hand ripped the gown from her body.

His body was hot, and so hard. He pulled her against him, lifting her into his embrace as his lips plundered hers and his shaft nestled itself against her woman’s mound.

Chantel gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin as she felt the heat and longing that ripped spasmodically through her body. She was untried, but not Lora Leigh

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unaware, or unknowing. Her father had made certain the women of the castle warned her of what was to come when he learned of the mission she had set for herself. Her lips moved beneath his, opening, her tongue touching his hesitantly as he plundered the depths of her mouth.

“What have you done to me?” he growled as his head lifted and his lips buried themselves at her throat. “You have cast a sorceress’ spell that I shall never recover from.”

He moved quickly then to the bed, falling upon it as his hands braced his big body above her.

Chantel breathed in roughly, feeling her breasts, sensitive and swollen as they brushed against the hard wall of his chest. Her nipples were hard, aching and hot. She needed this touch, the warmth of his mouth surrounding them as he had done in her dreams.

“First you torment me when I would sleep,” he growled, staring down at her, fire and need reflected in his eyes. “Now, you would torment me when my only want is to protect you from the hunger that rises inside me. You, my Lady, are a danger unto yourself.”

Chantel fought her grin as she heard the helpless fascination in his voice. She lifted her hand to his face, her fingers tracing his full lips. She watched as his eyelids lowered at her caress, the way his strong teeth caught at a finger and nipped it warningly.

“I have shared my passion and my heart with you in those dreams,” she whispered.

“I have known your needs, and your touch, and the paradise that awaits me when you truly possess me for the first time. I give to you all that I am, Devlin. I ask only the same in return.”

He shook his head, his damp hair brushing his shoulders, her fingers.

“I want to devour you,” he groaned roughly. “My passions were not meant for a virgin.”

“I am your virgin.” She smiled gently. “All your passions were meant for me.”

His eyes narrowed further, the black pinpoints of hunger nearly hidden by his thick lashes. For a moment she wondered if he wavered in accepting her passion, or if he considered refusing it. How could she live if he refused her?

She felt his hand then, calloused and faintly rough against the soft skin of her thigh. Her breath caught in her throat, her neck arching at the pleasure.

“I will not be an easy lover, my lady,” he warned her. “My desires are not for one who would wish to be cherished rather than well loved.”

“I prefer well loved,” she gasped, twisting against him as the tips of his fingers glanced over the dampness of her most private area.

She knew the flesh there was slick and hot, prepared for his touch. She felt his fingers slide through the narrow slit, testing her, circling the small bud of intense feeling that was farther above the entrance to her channel. Lora Leigh

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“You’re ready for me,” he growled roughly, his head lowering as his cheek caressed one heaving breast. “Why are you so ready for me?”

Tormented need and confusion filled his voice, tore at her heart. She would have answered, tried to answer, but the feel of his finger, broad and hot, penetrating her core was more than she could fight against. Her hips lifted into the caress, a broken cry issuing from her lips.

She could only tremble within his grasp as his lips moved from one breast to the other, covering each nipple in turn, suckling at her with strong, erotic pulls of his mouth as his tongue rasped over each swollen peak.

Chantel shuddered, the pleasure more intense, hotter, deeper than any dream they had shared. His lips moved over her breasts, then down, his hands holding her still now as she writhed beneath his caresses. They were fire and lightning, searing her with a passion she was hard pressed to survive. How could such pleasure be possible? How could she burn so bright and hot, and still survive?

“Devlin,” she cried out hoarsely as his lips worked over her stomach, her abdomen, moving she knew, to taste the essence of her need from between her thighs. Her hands caught in his hair. What they had done in the privacy of dreams, was much more frightening in reality.

“No.” He reached up, moving her hands so they lay on the blankets beneath her.

“You offered yourself to me, Lady. Now I will have my fill.” He stared at her, stretched between her legs, too close to the thick female juices that she knew now coated her flesh. “Your taste within my dreams has tormented me. I will now know if it is indeed nectar fit only for gods. A taste that only I will know.”

His voice was hard, his hands determined as he pushed her thighs farther apart. His gaze stayed locked with hers, daring her to look away as he slid farther down the bed until his head was poised over the flesh he would have.

“Watch me,” he whispered. “Just as you did within our dreams, Chantel, watch me devour you.”

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