Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) (21 page)

DEMETRIUS

CHAPTER TWELVE

Deep in the
bowels of Chichester Castle, Demetrius unlocked a heavy gate and carried a torch into the former dungeon.  Months after the Brethren took possession of the ancient residence, they cleaned out the underground prison and turned it into a holding cell for a vast amount of the Templar treasure they brought from France.

After Isolde revealed that Athelyna had sewn a burgundy gown for the St. Valentine’s festival, he commissioned Margery to line the ermine cloak and knew precisely what he wanted to give his wife for the special occasion.  He dug through two chests overflowing with jewels until the third yielded the item he sought, and he returned to the ground floor.

When he walked into his solar, he noted the new outwear draped on the back of a chair, and he clucked his tongue.  Then he strutted to the inner portal and knocked on the door.  “Athel, art thou ready for the festival?”

“Aye, my lord.”  Peering inside, he discovered Margery had just completed plaiting Athel’s blonde hair.  His bride stood, turned, and smiled.  “How do I look?”

“Thou art a vision.”  He glanced at the housekeeper and dipped his chin.  “Thank ye, Margery.  Thou art dismissed.”

“Have a wonderful time at the festival, my lord.”  As she passed him, Margery winked.  “Everything is prepared, per thy request.”

“Dost thou favor my attire, as we purchased the material in Chichester?”  As was her way, Athel all but bounced with excitement.  “Dost thou remember?”

“Aye, how could I forget?”  He narrowed his stare and pretended to give her ensemble due consideration.  “But thither is something lacking.”

“Oh?”  Her ebullience faded ever so slightly, as she smoothed the folds of the velvet skirt.  “I can change into something else.”

“I know what thou dost need.”  He snapped his fingers.  “Close thy eyes, my lady.”

Emitting a heavy sigh, she did as he bade.  With care, he led her before the long mirror, moved behind her, and settled the bauble about her neck.  As he could have guessed, she peeked and then started.

“Oh,
Demetrius
.”  She pressed a hand to her bosom but stopped short of touching the expensive choker.  “Never have I seen anything like it, but it is too much.  My cherished knight, I cannot accept it.”

“On the contrary, thou art my wife, to bedeck as I see fit.”  Fashioned of solid gold, intricate findings, with large ruby cabochons encircling her throat, the jewelry contrasted with her creamy flesh and blonde hair, and he would brook no refusal, as he traced the edge of the gemstones.  “It is my gift to thee, in celebration of this most auspicious occasion.”

“Can we not forgo the fair and remain hither?”  She rotated to face him.  “I am so excited I can hardly breathe, and my head spins whenever I think of our plan.”

“I, too, am excited, but I wish to show off my beauteous bride, so let us away.”  In the solar, he collected her new cloak.  “May I?”

“Another gift?”  She positively glowed, as he tied the laces.  “And it matches my gown.  My lord, thou dost spoil me, and I fear my present pales in comparison.”

“Nonsense.”  In play, Demetrius nipped her nose.  “My bestowal is but pauper’s fare, in regard to thy treasure.”

“Prithee, can we not stay home?”  She clutched fistfuls of his black cloak.  “Else I shall go mad with wanting thee.”

“Nay.”  He lifted his chin.  “I promised my lady a day at the festival, and I intend to keep my oath.”

With that he offered his escort, and they rushed into the hall.  In the front egress, a crowd gathered.  One by one, the Chichesters ventured forth, and Demetrius, with Athel perched in his lap, drove his destrier to town.

Chichester was alive with activity, as musicians played various dances, and Demetrius tutored his wife in several maneuvers.  They patronized the roast house and savored a fresh venison bake, and then they shared an apple muse.  Athel clapped and cheered for the tumblers, and she grew misty-eyed, when he commissioned a lover’s lantern with a unique design that he would explain to her, anon.  And all the while they favored each other with frisky smiles, stealing gentle caresses whenever possible, as they held a secret known only to them.

Ere long, she dragged him from the crowd.  “My lord, I have so relished the festival, and I shall remember it until I die, but if thou dost not take me home this instant, I shall expire, on the spot.”

If the short trip to the village had been stirring, the return journey was rife with unbridled exhilaration and tension.  Soft and feminine in his arms, Athel kissed every bit of exposed flesh she could reach, and no part of his neck or face escaped her tender attentions.  By the time they crossed the drawbridges, navigated the barbican, and drew rein in the courtyard, Demetrius was on the verge of exploding.

The master of the horse collected the stallion, and Demetrius struggled to maintain a calm composure.  The castle was quiet, given most of its occupants were at the fair, and the path to their private chambers seemed never-ending.  In their solar, he noted the simple meal that had been delivered, as he closed the double doors.

In their bedchamber, he set the hand-carved lantern on a side table, retrieved a taper, lit it from the fire in the heath, and placed the candle inside the gourde.  “Dost thou recognize the symbol?”

Athel doffed her cloak and shook her head.  “Nay.”

“It is called a true lover’s knot.”  He shed his outerwear and tunic.  “The two loops, side by side, are meant to signify the unfailing connection between a couple in love.  Seamen parted from their ladies created all manner of accessories from rope, to ease the pain of separation, and they often fashioned an item for every day, until they were reunited with their sweethearts.”

“How romantic.  Thou art so thoughtful, my lord.”  Athel reached for the clasp of the necklace.

“Nay, my lady.”  He positioned a chair and sat.  “I would have ye remove everything but the jewels.”

“As thou dost wish.”  A charming blush colored her cheeks, as she disrobed, one garment at a time, but she never faltered.  When she rolled down her hose, she cast furtive glances in his direction, and Demetrius gritted his teeth.  At last, his wife loomed before him, with hands resting at her sides, ornamented only in the bauble.

“Now take down thy hair.”  Hard as forged steel, his man’s yard begged for relief, but he restrained his base instincts, as she loosened her long blonde locks.

Finally, Athelyna stood beside the fireplace, and the soft glow illuminated her flawless alabaster skin.  Only then did he go to her.

“Art thou afraid, my lord?”  Grasping his wrist, she pressed her cheek to his palm.

“Nay.”  He lied.  “Art thou?”

Without warning, she emitted a high-pitched cry and leaped at him.  In seconds, she claimed his mouth, ripped open his shirt, and untied his breeches and braies.  When he tried to halt her, she fondled his longsword, and in the third tug of his stout length, he shot his seed all over her flat belly, but still she worked him.

And so Demetrius ceded the battle for self-control.

To her whimper of frustration, he lifted her from the floor, conveyed her to the bed, and threw her to the mattress, none too gently.  After divesting himself of his boots, and clothing, he knelt between her legs and spread wide her thighs.

The first glimpse of her most intimate flesh reminded him of some strange sea creature that threatened to swallow him alive, and he reconsidered his plan.  In previous exchanges, he played her with his fingers to bring her to completion, but that activity usually took place under the covers, in the dark, in the ancere, or beneath her cotehardie and kirtle.  Never had he devoted any time in serious contemplation of that part of her body.  But Arucard assured Demetrius that the center of her pleasure existed therein, and he had better become familiar with it.

Rubbing his nose to her tiny golden curls, he expelled his breath, and she shrieked.  But when he fastened his lips to her pearl, she wiggled her hips and yanked his hair.  That was the encouragement he needed, and he licked and suckled until she screamed and became rigid with release.

Riding a wave of desire, he crawled atop her, gave her his weight, positioned his man’s yard, and thrust.  “Oh, sweet sanctuary.”

And Athel burst into laughter.

#

The slow descent to reality, as heralded by her husband’s odd exclamation, rendered Athel on the precipice of hysteria.  And poor Demetrius looked down on her and frowned.

“Did I do something wrong?”  He stilled.  “Have I hurt ye?”

“Nay.”  Yet she could not quiet her giggles.  “But I am so glad we waited, my lord.”

“So am I.”  When he pumped within her, the world titled, and Athel rested her palms to his shoulders.  Yet she soared to some heretofore-foreign place, whither an alluring deliverance reigned supreme.  “But I am thine, and that is remarkable, is it not?”

“It is, my lady.”  Groaning, he increased his pace.  “But we can discuss it, anon.  Right now, I wish to make love to ye.”

To her infinite shock, her once secretive husband said far more, as he found his rhythm, and she curled about him.  He told her of his devotion, he imparted what she did to him, and he praised her fledgling attempts to please him.  And in that brief but poignant conversation, Athel fell in love with her husband.

Again and again, they came together, after that first fiery coupling, until she lost count, not that it mattered.  And she bared more than her physical self, inviting him to luxuriate in something far deeper than passion.  The connection flickered and took root, enveloping them in an invisible but nonetheless potent blanket of dedication, as Demetrius rose above her, flung back his head, and signaled his fulfillment with a mighty roar, before he collapsed atop her.  And Athel held him, stroking his muscled back and running her fingers through his thick black hair, even after the torrent had passed.

Demetrius shifted and propped on his elbows.  “How dost thou fare, my lady?”

“I am quite well.”  Oh, she could dance an estampie, naked, down the center of the Great Hall.  Then her stomach rumbled, and she snorted.  “But I am hungry.”

“As am I.”  He rendered a thorough kiss and then rolled from the bed.  “I shall fetch some food from the solar.”

It was then Athel spied the mark from her visions, and she lurched upright.  “My lord, wait.”

He glanced at her and arched a brow.  “What is it, sweetheart?”

“The brand thou dost bear, will ye tell me of it?”  She blinked and tried to gain a better view in the dim light.  Did it have the jagged scar?  “It is fascinating.”

“Of course.”  He disappeared, only to reappear, carrying a tray with two trenchers of brewets—what else, bread, and ale.

But Athel wanted to inspect the Crusader’s Cross, so she grabbed a candlestick and held it high, as he sat on the edge of the mattress.  Thither it was, the telltale disfigurement cut right through the symbol, and she shouted for joy.

“That is it.”  She traced the design, and his flesh was warm to her touch.  “Thou art my one true knight.”

“My dear, thou art delirious.”  He offered her a tankard of ale.

“Permit me to explain, and I beg thy forbearance.”  With a generous gulp of the tasty brew, she hummed, as everything seemed to fall into place.  Indeed, her life suddenly made sense.  “But first I would know when ye got the brand.”

“In thirteen hundred and four, on my maiden trip to the Holy Land.”  He fed her a piece of a spicy brewet.  “In fact, it is customary to commemorate the religious expedition.  Wherefore dost thou make thy inquiry?”

“All right.  I am going to recount something of importance, and I would have ye tell me if I am correct.”  When she shivered with elation, he tucked the covers about her.  “On thy journey, a vicious battle raged, sword clashed with sword, and thou didst protect a group of innocent pilgrims, beneath the glare of a brutal sun.  With incomparable skill and speed, thou didst valiantly charge numerous assailants, kicking sand in thy wake and dispatching thy foes with lethal aim, until the enemy cowered in the shadows, but ye were merciful.  Anon, as thou walked amid the bodies scattered across the dunes, the sweet stench of blood hung heavy in the air, and thou doffed thy gauntlets.”

“Thou dost describe a battle just south of Nazareth, on the old Roman road to Jerusalem, whither I was wounded.”  With mouth agape, Demetrius stared at her.  “How didst ye come to know this?”