Free The Order of the Lily by Catherine A. Wilson Page A

stool out of his way, carried her to the hearth. Laying her on the fur in front of the fire, he swiftly divested himself of his shirt, and gathered her into his arms.
    â€˜Lady, when I saw you unconscious, I feared the worst.’ He covered her eyelids with tiny butterfly kisses, ‘Why, in God’s name, do you torture me so?’ He kissed her mouth with the familiarity of ownership and Cécile sighed as he gently prised open her robe and explored with the intimacy of a lover.
    Coaxed and lured, before long she was arching, quivering for release like a tightly strung bow. She trembled beneath his experienced touch. She was a lyre in the hands of an accomplished musician and he knew exactly which notes to pluck.
    â€˜Gillet,’ she panted, ‘please.’
    â€˜Mon Dieu!’ growled Gillet, finally claiming the release his own body craved.

    The lovers lay entwined, bathing in the afterglow, their ener-gies spent. Cécile’s hand stroked the wad of padding across Gillet’s chest. ‘You suffered this because of me,’ she whispered. ‘Was it at the inn, after you sent me to the boat?’
    â€˜Yes.’ His smiled crookedly. ‘Despite my boast, I could not outrun the soldiers.’ His hand slid over her belly and hers fell atop his.
    â€˜Edward and his child will always be between us, Gillet. As will Anaïs. She will hold sway over you and will not hesitate to destroy us.’
    His jaw clenched tight. ‘Anaïs can hurt us no more, but there is the child.’ He raised her chin and stared intently into her eyes. ‘I would have it raised under my own roof. Would you be a mother to a bastard child of Anaïs’?’
    â€˜No.’
    Gillet nodded as though he had anticipated the response but Cécile took his hand and kissed the palm. ‘But I would be mother to a child of yours, Gillet. We could raise our infants together, and know ourselves as mother and father to both.’
    Gillet’s chest rose and fell in a long sigh of relief.
    â€˜Thank you, Céci,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you.’ His mouth fastened upon hers with such ardour that it was not long before they were oblivious to all else once more.
    The shadows grew long and, cosseted in each other’s arms, pearled in sweat, they listened to the soft crackling of the fire. Time did not exist, only the gentle kisses and sighs of lovers.
    Reverently spreading Cécile’s hair over his chest, Gillet combed it with his fingers. ‘Fair damsel with the golden mantle,’ he crooned. ‘Had Jason known of such a mane, he would have left the fleece hanging on the tree.’
    Cécile felt a tiny pulling along her scalp. ‘What are you doing?’
    â€˜Playing a besotted lover,’ smiled Gillet. ‘I’m braiding your hair. No, you do not laugh. I do not usually accord my mistresses this honour.’
    â€˜And where did you learn such a noble profession?’ Cécile laughed, in spite of his warning.
    â€˜I have four sisters, my love.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘And on the battle field, I am oft called upon for my skill, to dress the horses for war.’
    â€˜Sisters! Mon Dieu. Gillet, how could I forget?’ Cécile sat up hurriedly, the plait slipping from Gillet’s hand. ‘What happened to Catherine?’
    â€˜Hush, my sweet. By God’s good fortune she is yet safe, both physically and from Edward’s bed, though it grieved me to leave her behind. I was escorted onto the boat and that left little chance for me to do anything but Tariq assured me Catherine’s rescue awaited my departure. Simon would not allow Edward the chance to play us against one another.’ He watched Cécile’s disappointment and pulled her into his arms.
    Cécile released her breath on a long sigh. ‘So Simon has a chance?’
    â€˜Every chance in the world, my sweet. In fact your sister is probably in his arms