Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Hold still or I’ll take you back into the great hall and finish stripping off that gown of yours.”

She held still, but thought that his priest would surely die of shock were he to do that. When Dienwald reached his bedchamber, he carried her inside and dropped her onto the bed, then strode across the room and locked the thick door.

When he turned, Philippa was already sitting on the side of the bed, clutching the frayed material together over her breasts.

She fretted with the jagged edges, not looking at him. “I must sew it. I have nothing else to wear.”

“You shouldn’t have thwarted me. You forced me to retaliate. It was a stupid thing to do, wench.”

“I was supposed to let you tread on me like rushes on the floor? I’m not a wen—”

“Shut your annoying mouth!”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

He kicked a low stool across the bedchamber. One of its three legs shuddered against the wall and broke off. He cursed. “Get into bed. No, wait. I must tie you up first. I’ll wager you’d even try to escape nearly naked, wouldn’t you?”

Philippa didn’t move. “I want to sew my gown.”

“On the morrow. Hold out your hands.” When she didn’t, he merely stripped off his clothes. He shrugged into his bedrobe, and when he turned back to her, he was holding a leather cross garter in his right hand.

“No, I won’t do it. It’s like demanding a chicken to willingly lay its neck on the chopping block. I’m not witless.”

“I’m not at all certain of that, but you’re right about one thing. Remove the torn gown first.”

“Please . . .” she said, and swallowed. “I’ve never done anything like that before. Please don’t make me do it.”

“I’ve already seen you,” he said slowly, the man of patience and reason. “I don’t suppose you’ve perchance grown a new part to interest me?”

She shook her head.

He stared down at her bent head. He wanted her very much, but he wasn’t about to give in to his appetite for her. It would do him in, mayhap irreparably. It would be stupid—and extremely pleasant. As much as Dienwald hated the notion of denying himself something because an outside authority would disapprove, he wasn’t completely witless. If he ravished her, her father would sooner or later hear of it and come to St. Erth and besiege him until there was nothing left but rubble. Also, Dienwald didn’t want to get a bastard on her. There were some things he simply couldn’t bring himself to do. He wouldn’t dishonor her and he wouldn’t end up ruined. What he felt was only lust. Lust, he understood. Lust, like a thirst, could be quenched from any available flagon. He said nothing more. He wanted no more than to simply lock her in, but that would allow her to believe she’d gained the upper hand.

He took her off-guard, knocking her backward on the bed. He was fast and he was determined. Within moments the torn gown was on the floor and Philippa was naked beneath him. He saw that she was terrified and, oddly, seemingly curious. He saw it in her eyes. She was curious because she was a maid and he was the first man to treat her in this way. He knew she could feel his increasing interest. Well, let her feel it. It didn’t matter. He rolled off, grabbed her wrists, and bound them together.

After he’d tethered the other cross garter to the bed, he stood beside her and looked down at her dispassionately. “You’re quite beautiful,” he said after a long study, and it was the truth. “You have large breasts, full and round, and your nipples are pale pink. Aye, I like that.” He looked down at the curling triangle at the base of her belly. He’d like to sift his fingers through that hair and hear her cry out for him . . . He forced his eyes downward to those magnificently long legs, sleek with muscle and white as pale snow and of a shape to make a man groan with pleasure. Even her arched feet were elegant and graceful. He leaned down and lightly flicked a finger over her nipple. She tried to jerk away but couldn’t move out of his reach. “Has a man ever looked at you this way before, wench?”

Philippa was beyond words. She’d watched him look at her, watched his eyes narrow. She could only shake her head, staring at him like a trapped animal, a trapped animal nearly incoherent from the strange sensations flooding its body.

“Have you ever had a man suckle your breast?”

She shook her head again, but he could see in her eyes not only the shock of his words but also the possible effect of the action.

He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. She tasted sweet and female and he felt her nipple tighten as he caressed her with his tongue, then suckled her more deeply. He felt his sex throbbing and pressing against his bedrobe. He had to stop this, or . . . “Do you like that?”

He expected a vehement denial—an obvious lie—mayhap a hysterical denial, but to his surprise, she said nothing. He felt a quiver go through her before he forced himself to rise. He tried desperately to keep his look dispassionate. “Has no man ever before touched his fingers to the soft woman’s flesh between your thighs?”

“Please,” she whispered, then closed her eyes, turning her head away from him.

He frowned. Please what? He didn’t ask, but merely grabbed a blanket and covered her. He’d tortured himself quite enough.

“I will go relieve myself now with a willing woman,” he said, and strode toward the door of the bedchamber.

“You make a woman sound like a chamber pot!”

“Nay, but she is a vessel for my seed.” To his surprise, his own words made him all the randier. He was aching, his groin heavy. He wanted Margot or Alice—it didn’t matter which—and he wanted her within the next three minutes.

“I hope your male parts rot off!”