Christmas At The Castle. Amanda McCabe
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back on her heels, away from the too vulnerable position of kneeling between his thighs, and reached into her valise for a clean rag. She soaked it with lavender water.
“There are splinters caught in the wound,” she said. “I have to clean it before it can be bandaged.”
His fists curled even tighter into the edge of the bench, and she saw the knuckles were bruised. He had certainly left his opponents in worse shape than he was. But it could have been so much worse. If the log had caught him higher …
“You’re fortunate the wound is where it is,” she said. She set her jaw in a determined line and leaned forward to dab at the raw edges of it with her cloth. His thigh tensed, but he said nothing. “A bit higher and all the Court ladies would be in mourning.”
He laughed. “And would you have been disappointed, Celia?”
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “I would have sung a hosanna—womankind safe again.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He uncurled one hand from the bench and reached out. She felt his soft touch on a strand of hair that had fallen free in the tussle. He ran a caressing touch down its length.
Celia ground her jaw tighter, determined not to jerk away. Not to show how his touch made her so damnably weak. Made her remember things she should forget—like how she had once cared for him so very much.
“I’m sure you remember how many other delightful things there are to do,” he whispered. “With hands and tongues …”
Celia pressed the cloth hard to his wound and he straightened up with a hiss. His hand fell from her hair.
“I need to finish this,” she said quietly. “Unless you want it to fester until you lose the leg—among other things.”
He chuckled and leaned back as he placed his palms flat behind him. “Do your worst, then, Celia. But I know you do remember.”
He said nothing more as she finished cleaning and binding the wound. She tied off the ends of the bandage and sat back on her heels to look up at him.
A half-smile lingered on his lips as he watched her, his eyes dark, his skin gilded a molten gold in the firelight. His doublet hung open, his shirt half unlaced to reveal a chest damp with the sweat of the fight. He looked lazy, considering—like some Eastern king watching a slave who had been delivered to his feet.
Celia suddenly wanted to shatter his laziness, that look of casual possessiveness. She gave him a smile, and his own faded.
Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward and rested her hand on his unwounded thigh. His whole body grew taut and wary. Celia held onto him and placed her parted lips on the skin left bare by the torn breeches. She moved her mouth over him, tasting him.
“Celia …” he said hoarsely.
She pressed her hand tighter on his leg and he went still. She closed her eyes and kissed her way higher, over the velvet fabric that lay tight over his upper thigh, until she could trail the tip of her tongue along the crease between leg and groin.
She could smell him there, the faint scent of sweat and musk she had once known meant he wanted her. He had left her, but he still wanted this, and the knowledge gave her a sudden surge of satisfaction. Of pleasure. At least she still had that. And now she wanted more, wanted to know all of him.
Her feelings surged inside her, so tangled and confused.
Her hand slid up his leg to just beneath his codpiece, cradling him in her fingers. He was already hard, but he grew even harder, longer. She found the vein on his underside beneath the cloth and slid her fingertips along it.
“Oh, aye,” she whispered. “I remember all the things one can do with hands and mouths …”
She’d just barely touched her lips to the tip of him when she felt his fingers dive into her hair, tumbling the few pins that were left there free. He pulled her head back until she stared up into his eyes.
Those burning eyes that pierced right through her tore her careful defences down one by one and destroyed them until they were ashes around her.
“Celia, you drive me mad,” he growled. Then his mouth drove down onto hers.
His tongue plunged inside, tasting her, claiming her—every part of her. She tried to draw back but he held her fast, his hand tight in her hair, his mouth sealed over hers.
She moaned and tried to push his tongue out with hers, but instead she found it twisting with his, tasting him return. He tasted dark and sweet, like wine and the night and John, and she wanted it. She wanted it with such raw longing it terrified her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. He was all around her, all she knew.
His other arm came around her shoulders and drew her up until she sat on his lap, balanced on his unwounded thigh. He never broke the desperate rhythm of the kiss, only drove deeper into her.
She wrapped her hands around his neck and felt the soft hair at his nape brush over her fingers. She caressed him there, trying to learn the feel of his skin, the essence of him, all over again. John groaned, and untangled his hand from her hair to touch the base of her throat, pressing over her pulse.
He brushed aside the edges of her surcoat and traced his fingertips over the bare swell of her breasts above her bodice. His fingers were rough on that soft skin, and she wanted more. She arched her back with a soft moan into his mouth and his palm flattened over her breast.
One finger slid beneath the brocade and swept over her aching nipple once, twice, then harder, making her cry out. His thumb slid in with the finger and he pinched her between them.
Pleasure shot through her, and Celia accidentally fell back on his lap. She kicked his wounded leg with her slipping foot and he gasped.
“Oh, hell!” she cried, tearing her mouth away from his. She pushed out of his arms and leaped to her feet.
He reached out for her, but she could see the fresh blood spotting his bandage.
It brought her coldly to her senses as nothing else could. He had held her captive in their own hidden world where there were only the senses, the way he made her feel. She couldn’t stay there, no matter how much she wanted to. It had already destroyed her once.
“I—I will send someone in to finish tending to your wound,” she stammered. John reached out for her, but she shook her head and spun round to run out of the room. She was always fleeing from him, from whatever terrible power lay between them, but it seemed it was all she could do.
Clutching her surcoat closed, she dashed through the near-empty great room and up the stairs. Past the sleeping bodies to the palette where Lady Allison already slumbered.
Trembling, Celia shed her clothes as best as she could and slid under the blankets in her chemise. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to find sleep, to forget John Brandon, even as her body still felt tingling with newly aroused life.
“Why, Mistress Sutton,” she heard Lady Allison whisper, “you naughty thing.”
Celia’s eyes flew open and she peered at Allison over her shoulder. Allison grinned at her, as if they were conspirators.
“Is he as wonderfully skilled as they say?” Allison whispered.
Celia felt her cheeks grow warm. Ashamed of that ridiculous blush, she turned away and closed her eyes again as Lady Allison softly laughed.
Oh, aye, she thought bitterly. John Brandon was entirely too skilled for any woman’s good.
John shifted in his saddle, trying not to wince as his bandaged leg brushed the hard leather. It had been some time since he had indulged in a tavern brawl,