Chapter 13
Marcus had wanted to slowly make Jess want him. Instead, he was the one who couldn’t seem to get his fill of her. No matter how many times their lips met and their bodies came in contact, it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
She had told him he could do whatever he liked. He knew they couldn’t live out most of the fantasies that whirled in his head until they were wed and in bed.
But he could give her a taste of what that would be like—and, mayhap, satisfy himself, as well.
He bent, sliding his hands along the sweet curve of her hips and down to her calves, to where her tunic fell. Today, she wore one of hunter green, a sharp contrast to her deep amethyst eyes. Marcus grabbed the edge and pulled it swiftly up, forcing her arms to rise as he pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. He could hear her breathing, already ragged, anticipating his next move.
Stepping so close that their bodies touched, he felt the spark between them. The first time it occurred, Marcus had been surprised. Now, he understood something magical connected them and he expected it each time they came in contact with one another. His hands glided up her hips, the hemp undertunic rough against his palms. When they wed, he would dress Jess in nothing but smooth silks and the finest of wools. She needed something gentle against her satin skin.
Unless it were his hands on her.
He wrapped an arm about her, securing her to him, as his free hand sought her breast. He kneaded it, wishing he could strip the undertunic from her but not daring to do so. Marcus sensed the tension coiled within her and thought she might flee at any moment.
Small steps, he told himself.
Continuing to play with her breast, he brushed a flat palm across her nipple several times, feeling it spring to life. Jess moaned softly and pressed against his hand. He used his thumb and forefinger to toy with the nipple, teasing it to a peak as she continued to make small sounds in the back of her throat. Pleased, he did the same with the other, knowing she enjoyed it.
Marcus had been inside the tent before and guessed her pallet lay slightly to the right. Backing her up, he eased both of them to their knees. Jess’ arms went around his waist as he kissed her deeply, continuing to massage her breasts. He lifted her and set her down, feeling around, discovering they had landed on her pallet. She stretched her legs out underneath him as he hovered over her.
He could take her. Here. Now. He was already harder than a plank of wood. That wasn’t his plan, though. He needed her to want him enough so that she would agree to wed him—without any talk of love. Marcus intended to show Jess just how passionate her nature was. Already, she kissed better than any woman he’d known, learning the lessons he taught her and expanding on them until she was now a master of the art of kissing.
His fingers skimmed her silken thighs. They trembled, as did the rest of her. Marcus kissed her again for several minutes, allowing his hands to roam until they reached the apex of her legs. He slid a single finger along the seam of her sex. Jess gasped.
“Already you drip with sweet juices, sweetheart,” he said huskily.
“Is that good?” she asked, a hitch in her voice as his finger ran along the length again.
“Very good,” he assured her. “It shows me how much you want this.”
Marcus parted her folds and eased a finger inside her. She groaned. He stroked. She moaned. He slid a second finger inside her. Jess tightened around them. He pressed the palm of his hand against her. Her hips rose and she squeezed his fingers harder.
He continued to stroke her, enjoying all the little sounds coming from her. It was as if she were an instrument he played and the music came from her mouth. He’d neglected it for a while, so he brought his lips back to hers, allowing his tongue to mimic the action of his fingers. Jess’ nails dug into his back as she returned his kiss with abandon. Her hips continued to rise and fall, driving him wild. He wanted to stop and replace his fingers with his cock, and fought the feeling with every bit of discipline he possessed.
Finally, he teased the nub that he knew would bring her over the top. His mouth moved to her throat, nipping and licking, as she whimpered and twisted beneath him.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Keep on. You’re almost there.”
“Where?” she demanded breathlessly, thrusting her hips toward him again.
“You’ll see,” he murmured.
Marcus sensed her at the precipice. He circled the nub a last time and pushed his fingers deep inside her.
The quivering began, consuming her. Little cries of pleasure erupted from her and she squeezed his fingers, her muscles contracting over and over as she bucked against him. He’d never seen a woman ride a wave a pleasure as long as Jess did. It satisfied him that he’d pleased her so much.
Finally, she stilled, her breathing ragged and uneven. He slipped his fingers from her and lifted them to his lips, licking her juice. Tasting her.
Marcus grinned. That’s what they would do the next time.
*
Jessimond set aside her sewing. She hadn’t accomplished much. Her mind had been filled with thoughts of Marcus de Harte and what he could do with his hands and mouth. He had touched her intimately three weeks ago, as she knew a lover did, and he’d done so again twice more since. Both times he had brought her to a point of madness, her body responding to each caress.
The first time he’d put his mouth on her had startled her, but Jessimond soon learned she hungered for it. She constantly seemed in a state of fever, a burning need for Marcus filling her waking moments. Some nights, as well, for she had awakened from dreams of him touching her, her skin hot, her body aching in need.
She took the robe and her needle and thread and left them on her pallet. Taking up her lute, she realized it was time to return to the stage area and sing with Bartholomew. Jessimond looked forward to the next performance by the mummers since Peter had a larger role than ever before. Gradually, his confidence had grown while on stage. Because of it, Ralph continued to cast him in roles with more lines.
Peter, like most of the mummers, couldn’t read. Jessimond wished she could help him learn his lines but she couldn’t reveal that she could read and write. Instead, she listened as they sat around the campfire at night, Ralph saying the lines over and over as Peter repeated them until he knew them by heart.
She arrived at the stage and saw Bartholomew was already singing. Making her way around the edge of the crowd, she waited until the song ended and then hoisted herself up to join up.
“I’m sorry I was delayed.”
The troubadour grinned. “Elias was fit to be tied. That’s all right. I managed nicely without you.”
Jessimond settled herself on the empty stool and looked out over the crowd. She saw Lord Margrave and Lady Serafina standing nearby. The couple had opened Wenshaw lands to the mummers for half a score and often attended the many plays. She’d overheard Lord Margrave mention to Moss how much they liked the addition of the joust and sword fighting this season.
Watching the joust made Jessimond nervous each time. Though it was obvious Marcus and Rand knew exactly what they were doing, her heart remained in her throat each time the two men made a pass at one another. While she was all in favor of Peter learning sword skills from Rand, she had forbid him from doing the same regarding the joust.
She and Bartholomew sang two more songs together and then he nodded at her. Jessimond knew that was the signal for her to sing something Lady Serafina had requested. The noblewoman had spoken with them the day they arrived, delighted that Bartholomew and Jessimond would sing both alone and together. Lady Serafina had given them a list of songs and requested that they sing one of them at each performance. Jessimond allowed Bartholomew to peruse the list, not giving away that she could read it better than he.
He whispered to her what song to play and Jessimond launched into it. It was a sweet ballad of two lovers torn apart by their fathers when they were young. They’d been forced to wed others but never forgot one another and finally found each other at court years later. Both had lost their spouses and so they were able to reunite in love and marriage.
As she finished the last strains, Jessimond noted the satisfied look on Lady Serafina’s face. Glancing to the side of the stage, she saw Elias was equally pleased with her performance.
Bartholomew launched into their final tune. Once it ended, Jessimond joined Marcus in the audience.
“Today is Peter’s big day,” he said.
“Aye. He told me he had trouble sleeping last night.”
“He’ll do well,” Marcus assured her. “He learns everything quickly. Rand teases me that Peter spars better than I do.”
Peter had taken to fighting in the exhibitions with Rand once a day. Jessimond knew how much her friend enjoyed his time swinging a sword and only hoped he would be able to settle back into a more sedate life when they went back to Kinwick.
The play began and Marcus slipped his hand around hers. Warmth spread through Jessimond. The simple gesture moved her more than she cared to admit. She might worry about Peter returning to Kinwick after this summer of excitement—but what about her?
What would her life be like without Marcus in it?
Ignoring the thought, she relished being near him and enjoyed the play. Marcus only released her hand when it ended and they clapped eagerly, especially when Peter made his bow.
He joined them as the crowd dispersed, his face flushed with excitement.
“How was I?”
“I’ve never been more proud, Peter. You were flawless,” Jessimond told him.
“Not exactly. I almost tripped once when Otto moved a way he shouldn’t have but I still delivered my line the right way.”
They laughed and Peter excused himself, wanting to help Agatha with the props.
“You’ve come to see Peter in all his glory,” Marcus said. “Do you have time to watch me?”
“Since it’s the swords, I will.”
“You don’t like the joust?”
Jessimond frowned. “Not really.”
He gave her a knowing smile. “I think you worry about me overmuch.”
She sniffed. “Well, someone has to. You can be all too daring.”
“Come along.”
She followed him to where Rand stood, swinging a sword in both hands. Seeing Marcus, he tossed one to him. Marcus caught it with ease and began using it to slice through the air, loosening up his muscles. The two had already performed for the crowd once today. She hadn’t attended that exhibition but was always eager to see Marcus in action. He’d teased her that he might pull her from the crowd one day when she least expected it and let them go at it together.
Jessimond hoped that he would.
Some of the people who’d attended the play came to watch the dueling. Others drifted over from the stalls. Several children gathered around the edge, their mothers urging them to sit. Jessimond looked wistfully at one little girl, toddling about on chubby legs. She had brown, wavy hair and a smile of an angel. A fierce longing for a child of her own suddenly overtook her. And not any child.
She wanted one sired by Marcus de Harte.
A small boy, no older than two years, roamed the area. Twice, his mother called him back to her but as she engaged in conversation with another woman, the boy wandered off again. Jessimond even called to him at one point, urging him to return. She glared at the mother, wishing the woman would pay better attention to her child.
Finally, the two knights began their display. Each of them twirled their swords about, showing skill and finesse, then they commenced. The sound of steel colliding rang through the air as Marcus and Rand fought one another. Though she knew it wasn’t truly real combat, it would be hard for an outsider to discern that, for the men concentrated solely on one another. They jabbed, swung, danced away, and even rolled in a somersault as they escaped from harm and then teased each other on again.
Suddenly, Jessimond saw the young boy with the distracted mother move toward the men. Rand had his back to the child and so he couldn’t see him coming. Marcus caught sight of the boy and dove, knocking him out of the way. The child hit the ground and then roared like a lion cub, screaming his displeasure.
Her eyes were drawn to Marcus, though. By thrusting himself in harm’s way to prevent Rand’s arcing sword from slicing the child in two, he had suffered injury instead. Marcus rolled away, landing on his back.
Immediately, Jessimond ran toward him amidst the screams from the crowd. She fell to her knees next to him. Already, the front of his tan tunic darkened with blood. Ripping the cloth away, she saw the slash that started just above his collarbone, slanting across his chest. It looked deep. Though not fatal, wounds like this brought fever—and infection.
She spied Otto and hollered to him. “Bring a wheelbarrow!” Looking to Rand, she added, “Get these people out of here!”
Otto took off running and Rand began ordering the crowd away. She knew some would be eager to depart, while others would have a macabre fascination and want to stay.
By now, Peter appeared at her elbow. “What can I do?”
“Gather clean linen and wine. Find a crock of honey. Put on a large pot of water to boil. Place a blanket underneath a tree at camp. ’Twill be easier to clean him and stitch the wound if I have strong light. Go!”
Peter took off and Jessimond turned back to Marcus.
“You are like a king leading his troops into battle. Go here. Do that.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And everyone obeys your command.”
Jessimond ignored him and lifted her tunic. She tore a large chunk of cloth from her undertunic and folded it quickly before pressing it firmly against the wound with both hands. Marcus gasped as she did so.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Of course, you will.”
“Because you will care for me,” he said tenderly.
She kept her hands against the cloth, leaning into him. “Don’t speak.”
Worry filled her. She had never dealt with such a severe wound before. Jessimond began sending urgent prayers to the Virgin, begging for Her intercession on Marcus’ behalf. Rand came and knelt on the other side of Marcus, putting his hands atop hers to keep the pressure steady.
“I’m back, Jess,” called Otto.
Jessimond looked around. “We need to transfer him to the wheelbarrow.”
Leaving her hands against the material, she rose to her feet as Rand, Otto, and Hamlyn lifted Marcus. He groaned, rending her heart in two.
They took Marcus to the wheelbarrow and set him in it. Rand stepped behind it.
“I’ll need to keep doing what I am,” she told the knight.
“Get in, Jess,” Rand commanded. “’Twill be easier than you trying to run along beside me. I’m strong and can manage the two of you.”
Rand was as good as his word. Jessimond straddled Marcus, who kept his eyes closed as they returned back to their camp. Everyone seemed to have heard about what happened and the way was cleared for them.
Marcus gave her a weak smile as they pulled into the circle where the tents stood. “I’ve imagined you atop me in this very way. Just under different circumstances.”
She bent and kissed his brow in reply.
Peter waved Rand toward the tree. Jessimond saw her case lay open and that a large blanket had been spread across the ground under the shade of a large oak. When the wheelbarrow stopped, she climbed from it. Marcus was lifted and placed onto the blanket.
Peter appeared at her elbow. “The water’s about to boil.” He lifted a bucket. “I brought plenty of wine.”
Jessimond lifted a small bit of wood from her case, about the length of a man’s finger. Her mother had Kinwick’s carpenter cut these and sand them down.
“This is for you to bite down upon,” she told Marcus.
His lips twitched. “So, you’re telling me this will hurt?”
“Aye.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. She had no time to show any weakness. Every moment counted.
“Let me have it.”
Jessimond slid it into place and he latched on to it. She pulled her baselard from her boot. His eyes widened a bit upon seeing it. He’d already asked her about wearing such fine boots. She’d explained that they belonged to the Countess of Kinwick’s daughter. It wasn’t a lie but Marcus had assumed the daughter merely passed them down to Jessimond. Now, he saw she pulled a blade from them. She would have to concoct another story of why a mere servant would carry one.
With that, Jessimond swiftly cut away what remained of his gypon and then lifted her blood-soaked undertunic from the wound. She tossed it away and took a deep breath.
“Bring me some of the boiled water in a large bowl,” she instructed Peter.
Taking a deep breath, Jessimond readied herself to save Marcus’ life.