Experimentally, Adam touched his tongue to the fullness of her lower lip. He heard her indrawn breath. Her eyes remained shut. He repeated the gesture with her top lip. She leaned towards him. He took her other hand and moved closer, so they stood a mere inch apart, fingers clinging. Adam wanted to press his body close, so he could feel her breasts against his chest, but she was wearing his cloak and he his padded leather gambeson—and besides, it was full day, and they were in the middle of the old Saxon capital behind St Swithun’s Cathedral, and he was Duke William’s knight and a grown man, and he ought to know better…
It was so innocent, this gentle kissing. He was likely the first to kiss her. She did not know how to respond to a man, and had yet to open her mouth, but Adam had never felt so aroused in his life. Making certain he kept his lower body clear of her, for fear his ardour would frighten her, he rubbed his cheek against hers, pressing kisses against her neck, absorbing her scent.
She gave a soft moan. He nudged her headdress aside and managed to kiss her ear, nipping softly at the lobe. Another little moan. And when he next nuzzled her neck she turned her face into his, and he was almost certain…yes, it was only the most fleeting of touches, but she kissed his neck back.
He worked his way back to her mouth, gradually, oh, so gradually, increasing the pressure of his lips against hers. Kissing, kissing, kissing, hungry for a stronger response from her…
‘Cecily,’ he groaned. ‘Sweet Mother, open your mouth.’
Dazed blue eyes met his. ‘Wh…what?’
He dropped her hands and took her face in his. ‘Relax your jaw, sweetheart. Let me in. Like this…’
She jolted in his hands when his tongue first pushed past her teeth. She quivered, but she did not draw back. He took his time, letting her grow accustomed. And then, all at once, it was as though his kiss had brought her to life. Her arms slid up and around his neck and she held his head to hers, even altering the angle of her head to grant him better access. Her tongue flickered over his in a tentative response.
Yes! Smiling, Adam tried to raise his head, but with a murmur she held him close, and then it was she who was covering his face with kisses, it was she who was kissing, kissing, kissing…
Her fingers tunnelled into his hair. She was stroking and petting his head so much his ears burned. If this was a taste of what was to come in their marriage bed, Cecily Fulford might bring him great joy.
Closing his eyes, Adam held still while untutored fingertips explored his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the shape of his lips. Still smiling—he could not seem to stop—he gently trapped her forefinger in his teeth.
She gave a little laugh and his eyes flew open.
A curl of long yellow hair peeped out from under her wimple. Idly, still using every ounce of control not to pounce on her and devour her as he wished, he wound it round his fingers. With her cheeks flushed, her lips red with his kisses and her bosom heaving, she was temptation incarnate.
The Cathedral bell tolled.
‘Oh!’ In a trice, the dreamy expression vanished from her eyes and she stepped back, muttering, ‘Th-the Angelus bell.’
She made as if to cross herself, noticed he had her hair wound round his finger, and tugged it free. ‘I…I must tidy myself, sir.’ Hastily she pushed the curl back under the wimple and drew his cloak more closely about her.
The bell tolled on.
She continued to fuss with the sackcloth that passed as her clothing, straightening her veil, her wimple.
Adam grinned. ‘Be calm, Cecily. You are not in the convent now.’
‘I know. It’s just that it…it’s the first time I’ve missed the Angelus in four years. It feels wrong—like a sin.’
Shaking his head, he took her hand, kissed it. ‘It’s no sin if you are my betrothed. You were not made to be a nun. What age are you?’
‘Sixteen.’ Her blue eyes regarded him gravely. ‘And you, sir, what age are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’ He bent to murmur in her ear. ‘And you called me Adam a moment ago.’
‘Adam.’ She whispered his name and blushed, but would no longer meet his eyes. The Cathedral bell had reminded her of who she was, and who he was. Cecily had reverted, and was once again the shy Saxon novice he had taken from St Anne’s, and he was a Breton knight, Duke William’s man. Their tryst was ended.
Gently, Adam took her hand again and cleared his throat. ‘We ride for Fulford in half an hour, in order to make the most of the light.’ He eyed her wimple and grey veil with distaste, remembering how far Fulford was from Winchester’s market. ‘But first, if there is anything you need to buy here, I have some silver.’
She blinked. ‘I thank you, S…Adam. But until I see what state my parents’…that is…your holding is in, I cannot say what provision we may need.’
‘I’d have you better gowned. My wife will not walk around in rags.’
Cecily looked down at her skirts as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Oh.’
He tugged at her wrist. ‘Come—there’s bound to be a mercer’s stall at the market.’
She hung back, shaking her head.
‘Cecily?’
‘I would not waste your money. My mother used to keep bolts of fabric in a chest. There should be enough stuff for a gown for me.’
He bit back a smile. ‘I see I am marrying a thrifty soul.’
‘It’s the convent, Sir—’
‘Adam—remember?’
‘Adam. The convent made me so. The Rule of Holy Benedict…’
Raising her hand to his lips, Adam took pleasure in the colour that washed into her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly.
‘Sir?’
‘We’ll get to Fulford tonight, and tomorrow we’ll wed.’
‘S-so soon?’
Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss on the part of her brow not hidden by her wimple. ‘I see no reason to delay. Once at Fulford Hall you will have time to renew old acquaintance and—’ he flicked at the wimple with a grimace of distaste ‘—set a maid to see to your clothing. And then we’ll marry.’
Leading her back round the north wall of the transept, Adam marched to the Cathedral forecourt, where Richard was waiting. As he buckled on his sword he intercepted one of Cecily’s shy smiles. His heart felt lighter than it had in years.
Adam had not known what to expect when he had first gone to Normandy to uphold Duke William’s claim to the English throne. Setting out from Brittany, he had hoped for land and favours, for a new life away from the places where Gwenn’s ghost haunted him at every turn. He had thought he might win himself a new wife, but he’d never dared hope for one as lovely as this. One who might, if he were not on guard, tempt him into losing his heart again. He’d certainly not reckoned on an innocent novice for a bride either, but that was of no matter. Her smile alone was worth the crossing of several seas.
He was, he realised with baffled astonishment, feeling an emotion that was too complicated to be expressed as happiness, but it came close—damn close. And for that Cecily Fulford was entirely responsible.
His lightheartedness lasted as long as it took to walk back to the Saxon Palace, where the troop was stationed. The guards jumped to attention as they entered the