Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Soon her bodice slipped down, to uncover white shoulders. He left her mouth, to plunge his lips down into the noble curves of those magnificent breasts, urgent but tender.

She moaned a little, but neither urged him on nor held him back.

He had to hold himself back, indeed, with a stern curb; but sought that no hint of it should evidence itself, even though his breathing deepened. As the rest of her gown fell to the floor, he stooped and scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the bed.

She was no light armful-but that would serve to account for his

disturbed breathing.

“There,” he panted.

“Lie you there … and let me tell you how beautiful you are.”

“As well the lamp is low!” she got out. But she stroked his face.

“That is the second time this day that you have impugned my eyesight.

Do you think me so old? At forty, woman?”

“I think you … besotted. With love, it must be!”

“So be it. I shall recount my love’s loveliness. Here and now. She is tall, see you-tall, and proudly made, comely of feature and of form.” Pressing her back on the bed, he ran a discerning finger down from head to toe.

“Her hair is heavy as spun and shining gold, and has the colour of ripest corn.” He lifted a long coil of it and kissed it, running its strands through his lips.

“Her skin is honey and cream admixed, yet softer than either and firmer than both.” He laid his rough cheek against her smooth one.

“Her face is fine-wrought yet strong, clean-cut yet so fair as to break a man’s heart. And her lips-ah, her lips are kind and warm and wide and open to all delight!” He covered her mouth with his, and sank his tongue to hers.

When she could speak, breathlessly, she gasped, “Since when … has Robert Bruce … turned poet!”

“No poet,” he assured.

“All this I have but rehearsed. On my bed so many nights. In camp and cave and heather. Going over every inch and line and joy of you. In my mind. So that I am expert.

As thus.” He touched the tall column of her neck.

“Her throat is smoothest marble, but alive, warm, strong. Her shoulders are whitely proud, turned to perfection. As for her breasts, they are all heaven in their twin loveliness, rich and round and rose-tipped, bold, beautiful, frank and firm.” He was moulding and caressing, thumbing, stimulating the awakening, rising nipples.

“But-save us, the tongue of man should be better employed than parading mere words for such delights!” And he closed his lips to better effect on fair, throbbing, thrusting flesh.

Whatever sweet confusion he aroused in that superb bosom, Bruce was all too aware now that his own arousal was all too potent, and time running out. He dared not linger, then, as he would, and as the woman’s reaction invited. Biting his own lip rather than her swelling flesh, he raised his head, hand drawing down the linen shift that still part-clothed her, spread fingers smoothing.

“Her belly is polished ivory. With a central well of sheer

enchantment.

Her bush a golden thicket of happy entanglement guarding the valley of of paradise. In sweet delay.”

But he did not delay there, a man all but in extremity. His touch on the soft insides of her thighs, he got out, “Thighs … thighs satin-smooth … long… long… smooth …” He smothered the rest against her breast, wordless, tense, no longer stroking.

“Robert, my dear,” she whispered.

“Have done, my heart. Yield you. Yield. Do not distress yourself.

Come-yield now, Robert.”

But whether she had thought of it or not, that was a man to whom the word yield had become, above all others, anathema.

Whatever else, he was no yielder. Now the very sound of it seemed to give him new strength and control. Between clenched teeth he found more words.

“You are … altogether beautiful. Desirable … beyond all telling. A woman fairer than any … that man could dream of.”

“Oh, my love! My love!” she breathed.

“I pray you-do not wait. Do not wit hold For my sake. Not yours!

Quickly. Come-come into my love, Robert. Mine! Mine!”

“Is it true? Not for me? You do not cozen me? True that you want me?”

”Yes, yes. Quickly. He held back no longer from entry to her warm

embrace. Yet still, even on the delirious tide of satisfaction, achievement, triumph, he did hold back, in some degree controlled himself with fierce effort, sought to contain himself, determined as ever he had been in all his struggling, that Elizabeth should know fulfilment at last. This he could do, must do, owed to her … When at last, with a strangled cry, she reached her woman’s climax, it was nevertheless not a moment too soon for Robert Bruce, as, thankfully, he let nature take its thwarted course. He had seldom fought a more determined fight. It was indeed sheer thankfulness, not any masculine triumph with which he let himself sink into the damned-back surging tide.

It was the taste of salt tears on his lips against her hot cheek which presently revealed to his returning awareness that Elizabeth was in fact quietly weeping.

“What now?” he mumbled.

“Tears? Surely not. Why so, lass … ?”

“Tears-but only of joy, Robert. I thank you-oh, I thank you. Dear heart-you have made me whole again. My brave, true, kind knight-you have rescued me indeed! Lifted my fears from me. I was afraid that that never again would I know this joy, this oneness with you. That the empty years had made me less than woman …”

“I’ faith-if you are less than woman, then I am less than half a man!” he exclaimed.

“A callow boy, no more! Who could not handle a full woman. Have mercy on me, lass!”

“I shall make up to you that sore trial, Robert. I shall…”

“You shall indeed. But give me a little time-just a little time!

Have mercy on my forty years!”

“Sleep, then …”

“Sleep, no! I have had nights a-plenty for sleeping. To have all this splendour beside me in my bed, and to sleep-that would be sacrilege, no less! I can still… appreciate, woman, even when … a little spent!” And his hands began to prove his words once more.

Her chuckle was warm and throaty, and all Elizabeth de Burgh again.

After a while, out of the desultory talk and enriched silences, she spoke, without any change in tone or stress.

“Christina MacRuarie?”

she asked.

“Tell me of her.”

The man drew a long breath, and on his part at least, tension came back.

“You know of her?”

“Think you that was a name of which my gaolers would leave me unaware?”

He moistened his lips.

“Christina of Garmoran was-is- my friend. My good friend.”

“Friend, yes. And lover?”

“Friend, I said. Lover only in so far as she gave me her body.

From time to time.”

“That was friendly, to be sure. And could conceivably be more than that!”

“Could be, but was not, Elizabeth That I assure you.” He raised

himself on an elbow, to address her.

“See you, lass-only you I love.” That was urgent.

“Only you I have loved. That I swear.”

“Yes, Robert-I believe you, I know you love me. Have given full proof of it. But she? How is it with the Isleswoman? When a woman gives herself, not once but many times, over years-then more man friendship is mere, I think! Do not mistake me. I am lying here, in your arms, and joying to be so. Fresh from your loving. Not here playing the jealous wife. God knows I have no right to that role, even if I thought to play it. Which I do not.

But-I would know what I have to face, in this. Will my husband’s friend Christina be my friend? Or my enemy?” This was very clearly still the old Elizabeth de Burgh.

He shook his head.

“Your friend also, I do believe. But, if she is not-if she becomes your enemy-then she becomes mine also.