The Knight; His secret author

Last kiss

*Knightley*

I have her horse readied and waiting by the time she joins me at the stables. While I know she will probably hate it, I ensure the grooms are nowhere about, so I have the privilege of placing my hands on her waist and lifting her onto the saddle, even knowing she will take advantage and send her horse into a gallop before I myself am mounted.

I don't want to hoist her up. Instead, I want to draw her nearer. But I have given up the right to those lips, her throat, her murmurs, and her sighs. However, I take my time, raising her slowly, relishing the feel of her waist against my palms.

We race over the open fields and through the occasional copse of trees. If I put more effort into it, I could probably beat her, but I'm not quite myself, not since her daughter uttered "I love you" with such uncompromising conviction. The words coming from her have undone me to my very core.

I had planned to leave as soon as the party was over. Party. It had been no such thing. A party is jubilation, crowds, friends, and family gathered about in celebration. Not dolls with lifeless eyes. Not her mother only.

Her mother. A fierce goddess, a warrior, a queen. Who has threatened me with destruction if I harm her precious child, and her tone has left me with no doubt she would indeed keep her vow. Not that I have any intention of hurting the girl. Quite the opposite. I want to protect her as much as I want to protect her mother. Even if the she-wolf needs no guardian.

And is in danger of outdistancing me by a great deal.

Turning my attention to the matter at hand, I urge Shakespeare to increase his speed, and the gelding doesn’t disappoint. I have always enjoyed these races against Althea. She is a fine horsewoman and provides competition. Normally our encounters end in a draw, but this afternoon, she is going to win. Even if I hadn't been initially distracted with thoughts of her daughter, I can tell by the manner in which she rides she is determined to best me.

*Althea*

I don't know if I have ever ridden so hard in my entire life. I need to escape the feel of Knightley's hands closing around my waist before he lifts me onto the saddle. The wondrous sensation of my hands cupping his strong shoulders for support just as my feet leave the ground.

Slowing, I guide my mare to the left, toward an area where the trees grow thick, nourished by the waters of the nearby stream. I shouldn't lead Knightley there, and yet it seems to be calling to me. Or the memory anyway. A night when a full moon had reflected on the dark waters, and then the moonbeams had encompassed us as we swam naked.

When the stream comes into view, I draw my horse to a halt and wait. Until he arrives, dismounts, and comes to me. Once more his hands are upon my waist and mine upon his shoulders. Slowly, so very slowly, as though he possesses the strength and power to extend the moment into an eon, he lowers me down. We stare at each other, our breaths coming quickly from the exertion of riding. And quite possibly something more.

“Allie.”

I break free of his clasp and walk to the water’s edge. He joins me there, to stare at the flowing stream. Somewhere birds titter. A couple of robins seem to be arguing. I don't want to consider that perhaps they were mated, that they had once loved and filled a nest with eggs and were now at discord. Squirrels chat. A fish splashes. Life carries on, even when I'm in turmoil, hating and loving at the same time. I dare to shift my view slightly until I can appreciate the cut of his profile. Smooth lines, but bold.

“It wasn’t difficult,” I finally say quietly.

Slowly, he turns his head toward me as though fearful if he moves too fast, I might stop speaking.

“The birth,” I clarify. “It wasn’t difficult. I don’t think. My experience is somewhat limited. Certainly, I couldn’t mistake it for being on a picnic, but when I held her... I would do it all again.”

His gaze is intense as he studies me, and an emotion I can't read resides within the blue depths. “I’m sorry you went through it alone, more than I can ever express.”

“My maid, Millie, was with me. And I had a midwife.”

“Still, her father should have been there to care for you.”

I offer him a wry smile. “Men have avoided the birthing bed since the dawn of time.”

He dips his head slightly, his lips twitching. “I didn’t mean quite that near.”

I release a small laugh, then abruptly cut it off. I'm not going to allow him to lighten my heart or charm me. “I noted your surprise when Ari gushed her love for you, but you should know she tells everyone she loves them. It’s a child’s openness and acceptance, I think.”

“Would that adults were the same.”

“I wish I could spare her some of life’s lessons that will serve only to make her less exuberant. But a parent can’t shield her child from all hurt... and that knowledge pains me immeasurably.”

“I can’t even imagine.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know much about young children, but your daughter seems particularly astute for all of her four years.”

“She is incredibly smart... much like her father.”

“I didn’t think you knew who he was.”

I know exactly who he is, because he is the only man with whom I've ever been intimate. “I’m not in the habit of taking stupid men to my bed.”

That muscle in his jaw fairly throbs. I should find satisfaction in raising his ire, in making him believe there had been others. In perhaps causing jealousy. No, not jealousy. If he felt that at all, he wouldn’t be striving to marry me off to Chidding. Although perhaps he experiences a bit of envy.

“Only those four?” he finally bites out.

He's jealous. Can he be if he doesn't hold feelings for me? His attempt to marry me off makes absolutely no sense. But then neither do his actions on the morning we were to wed.

“The number isn’t really your concern. I don’t ask how many she-wolves you’ve bedded.”

He releases a long, slow breath that I'm surprised to find isn’t comprised of flames of anger.

“You’re different,” I say hesitantly.

He arches a dark brow.

“From how you were before. You’re more serious. I sense no joy in you.”

Looking back toward the stream, he sighs. “I suppose maturity does that to a man.”

It isn’t the years or the aging. I don't know what exactly it is. What I do know is that the man standing beside me now is not the one who’d snuck into my bedchamber through the window the night before he was to take me to wife. Who’d whispered naughty things in my ear and promised me a lifetime of happiness.

“Which ball will you be attending next?” he asks.

“None. I’ve received no invitations.”

He swings around then to face me fully, his face a mask of near rage. “Damn the snobbery of the high packs.”

Good Goddess, is he, of all people, defending me? After what he’d done, the irony of it takes me aback, but I'm weary of striving to determine the truth of that long-ago morning, so I refrain from pointing out his own guilty behavior. “With my father gone, I have few to speak out in my defense.”

His scowl is likely to deepen the creases that had already begun making a home in his features. I wonder at the burdens that had formed them originally, hate being curious regarding all that has transpired within his life since our encounter at the church. “I’ll ensure you begin receiving invitations.”

“My father's son has seen to it that I don’t.”

The smile he bestows upon me is naught but arrogance and confidence. “Bremsford is no match for me, chic.”

Such men were, certainly none I knew personally. Not even Chidding, but then he would never be forced to battle it out with Knightley. He and I would no doubt live a quiet, peaceful existence. I long for the dull and mundane. “You confound me. I can’t determine why you care.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I never stopped caring? That all I want, all I ever wanted, was your happiness?"

“You have a damned atrocious way of demonstrating that.”

Reaching out with one hand, he cradles my cheek against his palm. I should pull away; yet late-afternoon shadows have fallen to blanket us in the sort of intimacy that calls to lovers. Even if we are no longer so defined, once we had been. Once I had been desperate for any hint of a shadow where we could take refuge to experience what we were not allowed to display in the light. Therefore, I remain as I am, with my chest working like a blacksmith’s bellows, straining to take in and release the very oxygen it requires to do its job.

“For five years, I fought to forget every moment spent in your company,” he says, his voice low, an intimate caress. “I very nearly succeeded, and then you published that damned book, and while the various true aspects of it are not as I exactly remembered, some are familiar enough to stir back to life what I thought I had finally put to rest. And they were all written with such passion.”

His thumb drops down to skim over my lower lip. “Do you know I've not kissed a single she-wolf since you?”

His intense gaze holds me mesmerized, until I doubt I could pull away even if I wanted to. Damn him. Chidding would never look at me with naught but hunger and need. Damn me because I would never respond to his perusal with ravenous desire. It was a mistake to put myself in a position to be alone with Knightley, to believe my body would not react in the manner he had taught it. Even now, I am aware of the dampness gathering between my thighs in anticipation of what he will deliver.

“Bollocks,” I force out. “I don’t believe you’ve been celibate all these years.”

“You’re right. I’m no saint. I didn’t say I hadn’t bedded a she-wolf. I confessed to not kissing one. Because I knew none would taste as flavourful as you. Because kissing you had become one of my greatest joys, and I knew no other could ever compare.”

I have not forgotten how his seduction always began with words, but had mistakenly believed I’d become immune to their mesmerizing sway. Instead, I am incredibly aware of them sparking a fire within me, a fire only he possesses the power to douse. I hate the temptation threatening to undermine my resolve to resist his allure.

“Did you kiss your Southerner?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Your Northerner?” His voice goes an octave lower.

“Yes.” My response is slightly more breathy.

“Your Westerner?” Lower still.

“Yes.” Breathier.

“Your Easterner?” Hardly audible.

“Yes.” All breath.

He dips his head a minuscule fraction. “Then end my torment, my abstinence, and kiss me. For old times’ sake. After all, a kiss is only a kiss.”

With him, a kiss had never been only anything. “You’re a fool if you think it will be as it was before.”

“Then prove me a fool.” He dares me with a voice as smooth as silk, as warm as velvet.

Oh, I am half-tempted, to show him exactly how little he means to me now. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even as much substance as a mote of dust. Strange, how I sometimes reminisce about our last kiss, not realizing when it had occurred it would be our last. It had been a quick brushing of the lips in parting because in a few hours we’d have been married and every night thereafter was to be filled with an abundance of kisses. And every morning as well.

I had been beside myself with joy and anticipation at the thought of awakening in his arms with the first rays of the morning sun teasing the day. No more stealing out of each other’s beds in the dead of night, no more sneaking around desperate not to be seen. No more feeling guilty for doing what we ought not. For my sake, perhaps I require a proper ending, a final goodbye, one filled with loathing, one to demonstrate when my heart is no longer involved, a kiss is nothing at all.

Licking my lower lip, where his thumb still lingers, tasting the salt of his flesh, I give one barely perceptible nod. But I know he detects it because his eyes darken with promise and passion.

His thumb slides away. He lowers his head and that damn heavy forelock brushes across my brow, just before his lips touch mine, gently at first as though testing the waters. I almost smile, wondering if he’d expected me to bite. Then his tongue outlines the seam of my lips, and my traitorous mouth opens to him. He delves within and I become incapable of smiling or wondering, but only feeling, as he brings back to life all the sensations I’d forced to lie dormant since the day he’d broken my heart.

My arms twine around his neck of their own accord, my fingers scrape along his skull, beneath the thick strands of his hair, welcoming their softness as they greet me after so long. His arm comes around me, pressing me against him, and then he proceeds to devour me. His mouth is that of an untamed beast, ravenous and wild. He is a beast, growling low, clamping me to him as though to never release me.

Even though I know I shouldn’t, I seem incapable of not relishing the urgency with which he partakes of our joining. I know him well enough to sense the tension in him, to be acutely aware of the restraint he wields… he wants more, wants it all. But he limits himself to only what I am offering.

He brings his hand up to cradle my head and tips it back, giving him easier access to plunder, to conquer. Except I am no longer the young innocent to be vanquished. While I had planned to hold completely still and give nothing back and prove I am completely free of him... well, that ship had already sailed since I am presently clinging to him like some sort of vine capable of finding purchase over the most challenging of surfaces. Later, I will curse myself for my lack of resistance.

But for now, I determine my best course is simply to make him suffer, to be bolder, more enthusiastic, more daring. To remind him of precisely what he could have had. To make him regret this was indeed our very final kiss.

With a low moan, I clamp his head between my hands and angle it so I can deepen the kiss with a fervor that far outdoes his. Our tongues tangle. Then I suck on his until he releases a tortured groan, the rumblings of which I feel traveling through his chest. In spite of all his clothing. I stop short of removing it, of imagining how five years might have changed his body’s contours. He’s certainly not gone to fat during that time. If anything, he feels firmer.

While he tastes of cake, strawberries, and scotch, woven throughout the mixture of sweet and dark is his familiar tantalizing flavor, one to which I had once been addicted. But then every aspect of him had called to me, had seemed right. Only it had all been a lie.

Breaking off the kiss, I clutch his head to hold it in place while leaning back to see him more clearly. His cerulean eyes are smoldering with need and want. His breaths come in short pants. His arm loosens its hold. His fingers barely touch my cheek now, as though he is awakening from a long laudanum-induced sleep and just beginning to stir.

“In case it missed your notice,” I begin, grateful my voice doesn’t betray all the emotions rioting through me, “that was farewell.”

Separating myself from him completely, I spin on my heel.

He grabs my arm. “Allie”

I break free of him and give him my most haughty glare. “Never touch me again.”

I had deliberately chosen this bend in the stream because many years before a storm had toppled a tree, leaving in its wake a stump that rain and wind had somewhat smoothed.

Now I lead my horse over to it, step onto it, and pull myself, not as elegantly or gracefully as I would have liked, into the saddle. Without bothering to look at Knightley, I set my horse into a trot. I had been wrong. Knowing when the last kiss would be hadn’t made anything any better. All it had accomplished was to leave me longing for one more.