Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Eleven

Eleven

Never had Griffin been in such a frank conversation with a lady, not even when he used to visit a shepherdess in her dreams. He hadn’t importuned her, although she’d been as jolly as a colt, for she’d been a man’s willing wife, but she’d amused him greatly in their conversations by hinting at the triumphs and travails of her marriage bed.

Emily did not, as he’d believed, possess much in the way of feminine modesty. He didn’t fault her for it. With God’s grace, she would soon be his wife, and what use then would they have for minced words? It made him feel closer to that blessed state already that she could speak to him of such things, with such candor.

Was he a virgin? He opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again.

“What?” she prompted him.

“It may not be pleasant to hear of ladies who have come before you, though there are none before you in my heart.”

To his relief, she giggled. “Well, you know I’m not a virgin, right?”

“I did guess, for you have been wed.”

“I was with a few guys before I was wed, too. Which isn’t unusual these days!” She gave him a warning look. Did she think he would judge her for consorting with other men? Not likely, when every fiber of his being strained with eagerness to be the next.

“?’Twas not unheard of in my time as well.” He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. With all her admirable studies, she must’ve known there had never been an age when only chaste and pious saints walked the earth.

And though she was his angel of deliverance, he was glad she was no saint. He allowed his gaze to travel down her body. A saint shouldn’t have hips that flared like that, or thighs so shapely, or a sweet, scratchy voice that roused both his highest ideals and his basest desires.

“Christ forgive me,” he said, “but knowing you are so hot of blood enflames my own ardor even higher.”

“I’m not that , um, hot of blood, I’m average…although with you…” She trailed off, stroking the tassel on the throw pillow next to her on the sofa. “So you’re not a virgin?”

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I do not know that I deserve to be called one, for many a time have I spent myself in the mouth or hands of a playful lady.”

A vision came to his mind of Emily taking him into her mouth in such a way, right then on the sofa, kneeling between his feet where he sat like a king on the throne. Her sweet lips wrapped around his girth, her wet brown eyes lifting to meet his… Christ Jesus. His imagination, which had become more vivid to sustain him through hellish years, was now a curse. And his lady might think it would debase her to thus be used.

“But you never did more than that?” Emily pressed.

“As in our dream, oft I have slipped my greedy fingers into a silk purse to steal the pleasure there.”

Her mouth fell open. “That’s, uh, certainly an interesting way to put it.”

Since she had no objections to honest speech, he might as well make a clean confession of it. He made himself more comfortable, setting his feet on the coffee table. “And betimes my tongue has delved into it and has tasted that pearl that brings a lady exceeding joy.”

Emily’s eyes widened and she put the pillow on her lap. She gave a shaky laugh. “Honestly, I could tell you’d had some practice.”

He felt the smile spread across his face again. “I cannot regret it, for it pleases me that I have pleased you, and I would do so again, as many times as you would allow.” His body yearned for her. Soon .

“How, um…How long had it been since you’d done these things with a lady? When you were first cursed?”

Too long. “It had been four months.”

“And you hadn’t had any problems with your health since then?”

He understood the question perfectly. “Nay, none of the ailments that might come from such vice.”

“But you’ve never actually…” She made a circle of her finger and thumb and inserted the finger of her other hand.

He laughed out loud. He hadn’t seen anyone make that gesture since he had been a boy among other boys, and he’d never expected to see it from a lady.

“Nay, my gardener has never assayed the walled garden.”

It was Emily’s turn to laugh. “Did you just call your dick a gardener?” He must’ve looked confused, because she said, “That’s what we call…” She gestured toward his crotch this time, which he liked even better. “A prick. A few people still say prick. Or cock, which I like better. I think it’s, uh, more sexy.” Her cheeks flushed.

“What does that mean? Sexy?” He didn’t ask about the definition of every unfamiliar word. Doing so would’ve driven her mad. But something told him this one was important.

“Um…appealing? In a way that inspires lust.”

Ah. “Like you, my lady. You are sexy.”

“I…” Her eyes sparkled. “Thank you. But…what were we talking about?”

“Your favorite word for my prick is cock ,” he reminded her. “There is some sense to that, for often it has risen early in the morning.”

She burst out laughing, and he laughed with her.

“I can’t believe you’re technically a virgin,” she marveled. “Was it a religious thing?”

He shook his head. “Nay, you give me too much credit. The Church had more rules than I could remember, and some I did recall and did not heed. But to get a child on a maid is a serious matter. I would be bound to take her for a wife, so she would know no shame and so the child might have a father.”

She rewarded him with a loving gaze. “That’s very honorable of you. Why didn’t you get married? There must’ve been a lot of willing ladies.”

He’d asked himself this same thing many times over the centuries. “I did not think then that I was ready to marry. Nor did I think that I had met the lady destined to be my wife.” He couldn’t resist giving her a meaningful look. She averted her gaze, but not before he read her emotions. Worry, but there was pleasure there, too.

“You know…” She toyed with the tassel on the pillow again. “People can do that now without having a baby.”

“By withdrawing?” He shook his head. “I have heard it does not always work, and that in the heat of passion it can be difficult to retreat.”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s medicine that women take to keep them from getting pregnant. Getting with child.”

He frowned. “I have heard of ladies using pennyroyal, tansy, and rue, to wash out the planted seed, but such herbs may do the lady grievous harm.”

“No, the medicine prevents a…seed from getting planted in the first place. I take it every morning.”

He set his feet on the floor again and sat up straight. His mind reeled. “And it has made you barren, my lady?”

“No! If I stopped taking it, I could probably get pregnant. I think I’d like to someday.” She frowned. “When I was with Tom, I thought I wasn’t ready. But maybe part of me knew things weren’t right between us.”

This was a lot to consider. “In my time, a lady could not choose to not bear children, unless she went into a nunnery.”

“Well, we get to choose now,” she said, a little defensively.

He had not meant to cause offense. He was only trying to comprehend this extraordinary change. Deliberately, he moved from his chair to a place next to her on the couch.

“My sweet cinnamon, you know the tale of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, do you not?”

“I don’t think…Did you call me cinnamon ?”

“I did, my lady. Because you are enticing and sweet.”

The small smile at her lips made her even more so. “Kind of like we say honey. ”

“Aye, we would say that, too.”

“Except cinnamon is more spicy.”

“Does it not please you? There are other names of love. My fair bird, my dove, my sweeting, my treasure, queen of my heart… ”

She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “I like cinnamon. I like all of those.” How beautiful she looked sitting next to him, in her black shirt of some fabric as fine as silk. “Speaking of cinnamon…when I first kissed you in the dream, that’s what you tasted like to me. Isn’t that strange?”

He smiled. “Not strange at all, for I would rinse my mouth in the morning with water and white wine, steeped with cinnamon, fennel seeds, and cloves.”

Emily’s mouth fell open. “Medieval mouthwash.” Then she shook her head. “I forgot what you were saying. Something about Gawain and Dame somebody.”

“Ah. It is a story about what women want most.” He noted the skeptical twist of her lips and felt obliged to explain. “Gawain wed Dame Ragnelle, who was hideous to behold. She was often called the Loathly Lady.”

She snapped her fingers. “I did read this once, but I forget how it goes. Loathly Lady—that’s horrible.”

“Aye, but Gawain treated her with perfect courtesy.” Someday he would tell her the whole tale, for she would be moved by Sir Gawain’s honor. “On their wedding night, he entered the bedchamber and found a beautiful bride. He learned that she was cursed to be hideous for twelve hours every day. She told him that according to this curse, her husband could choose whether he wanted a lovely wife in the daytime, or at night.”

She nodded. “Right. I can’t remember which one he picked.”

“He told her that she should be the one to choose.” Griffin smiled. “And with that, the curse was lifted, and she was always beautiful.”

“So that’s what women want most?” Emily asked. “Beauty?”

“Nay, not at all. Sovereynté. Women want the power over their own bodies and their own lives.”

A smile spread across her face. “I like this story.”

He reached out and took her hand between both of his own, stroking the tender place between her forefinger and thumb. “This medicine you speak of is a miracle. You and I could partake in every earthly delight and never fear the consequences.”

She stared at him, transfixed.

“Are you imagining it now, my lady?” he asked in a lower tone. “Amorous embraces between us, and all the ways our bodies might meet?” He was, and his breath came faster at the images in his mind. Never, in the Before Times, as he’d started calling them in his mind, had his yearning been so strong.

“You…you have to stop saying things like that. We’re not doing that yet.”

“Not until I am invited,” he said promptly, and a smug voice inside him added, ’Twill not be long.

He had not known that cocksure feeling for so long that it startled him. Before, his pride had led to his doom…

But it was also a part of him. He could not help but welcome it, for with it he was whole. Perhaps, if he kept it in check, it would do no harm.

···

The next morning, Griffin was woken up from his sleep on the sofa by a sudden weight on his chest. He opened his eyes as Andy planted his front paws on his shoulders, his tongue lolling cheerfully.

“Good morrow to you, too, Master Andy,” Griffin said, scratching behind one of the dog’s velvety ears. He rolled his head to one side and then back to work out a kink. It was glorious. Every day was like the first day of his life. Would his wonder ever diminish?

A banging sound led him into the kitchen. Emily, wearing a soft T-shirt —he’d learned that word yesterday—and loose-fitting pants, crouched in front of an open cupboard of pots and pans. Just the sight of her filled him with tenderness. Her hair was mussed and her sweet feet were bare. What would happen if he got up, picked her up in his arms, and sat down again with her on his lap? Even cuddling her would be bliss.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling as she stood up, a copper kettle in hand.

Morning, not morrow , he noted. “Good morning to you, my lady.”

“I know you don’t like coffee.” He’d tried it the day before and had, to his regret, spit it out: it was bitter as wormwood. “But I thought you might like to try tea. You’re British, after all.”

As she filled a kettle with water, he said, “It does not seem right for you to serve me.”

“Tea is easy. But I’ll show you how to do it.” She peered at him. “Aren’t you used to people serving you?”

“Aye, by men, women, and children, too, in every matter of thing.” He leaned against the doorframe. “But they were servants, and you are my beloved.”

“I…” She looked up at the ceiling briefly, as though for help from heaven. “Come over here. I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

He needed no second invitation to stand at her side.

“All right, I’m setting it on this circle on the stove, okay? And then I reach back here…and turn this knob all the way to where it says ‘high.’ That means, um…high heat.” She looked up at him. “Oh my God,” she murmured helplessly.

“What troubles your mind, my dove?”

“Um, nothing.” She darted away from him—indeed like a graceful dove flying to the far rafter of a barn—and took a box out of another cabinet. “I’m showing you the easy way, with tea bags. You take the tea bag out of the paper packet, like this.” She demonstrated.

He drew closer to inspect the tea bag. “Dried herbs?”

She beamed at him. “Kind of!” She put the bag in the cup on the counter, with a string hanging on the outside of it. “Dried leaves grown in China.”

“I know of that country! The land from whence the Venetians brought silk and spices and jade, and the horns of unicorns.”

Her lips curved upward at his last words. “Unicorn horns?”

He nodded. “For goblets that would render any poison useless, and the treatment of the gout. And to give an old man new vigor in the bedchamber, or so ’twas said.”

“Okay, but unicorns aren’t real .”

It was his turn to be puzzled. “I am sure they are, for there were many accounts of them. In the East, for in Christendom, they had faded away,” he added sadly.

“And do you think griffins are real? The animal on your coat of arms?”

“They were in my time, my lady. They also lived in the East and in the Byzantine lands.” He laughed and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Do you believe I’d have an imaginary beast upon my shield?”

She gave him a small smile. “Well, I’m clearly no expert on what’s real.”

The kettle let out a shrill whistle, and she picked it up off the stove. “Okay, we pour the hot water in the cup with the bag, and in a few minutes we take the bag out—Andy!”

Griffin turned to see the dog running into the kitchen, tossing his head proudly, with something pink in his mouth. It had straps, like a little harness.

Emily snatched it out of his mouth. “My new bra!” she admonished the dog, who had the grace to lower his gaze. She cast a flustered look at Griffin. “He loves these. He knocks over the hamper to get them. I don’t know what his deal is.”

Griffin peered at the item in her hand. “What is it for?”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “I wear one every day under my clothes. Like…” She briefly held it up against her chest, then pulled it away again. “Anyway.”

“I see. And the padding is for extra protection?” She looked away, even more chagrined.

He hadn’t meant to embarrass her further. Before she could answer, he quickly added, “I understand. We wore padded codpieces on campaign, and at tournament, too, for even though the armor covered us in full, one could still be sorely injured by all the jostling and battering.”

That got her attention. “Did everyone wear them in battle?”

“I would guess so, though I had neither the time nor the wish to inspect them all.”

She laughed, her embarrassment gone. “Fair point.”

“There is one such codpiece among my old clothes, should you like to examine it.”

“Yes! I’ve always been told that padded ones didn’t come until much later. It would be amazing to see your codpiece.” Abruptly, she looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “For academic reasons, I mean.”

He inclined his head, trying to meet her gaze. “What do you mean, mon trésor ?”

She went over to the steaming cup of tea and took out the bag. “I’m giving a…scholarly lecture, about clothing and hairstyles and things in sculptures from your time. Could I maybe ask you some questions later?”

“I am ever at your service.” His voice came out husky.

“That’s—generous of you.”

When she invited him into her bedchamber, he would show her the true meaning of generosity.

She pressed her lips together and ducked her head. It was not only he who felt this way. Never had his soul sparked against another like steel and flint.

“Careful, it’s hot.” She handed him the steaming mug and startled when their hands touched. “Give it a minute. Let’s go sit down.”

She grabbed some coffee for herself, and they sat at the table. Andy settled beneath her feet.

Griffin sniffed the tea, then took a cautious sip. It had a brighter flavor than he’d expected. He took another drink.

“?’Tis very good!”

She laughed. “It became a very big thing in England, centuries ago, and it still is. Lots of us like it here, too.”

He nodded and drained most of the cup. “What are you teaching people, sweet bird, about clothing in sculptures?”

“How to use them to estimate the date of a sculpture when there’s not much provenance. In other words, when there aren’t many papers that prove how old it is, or who owned it. Your provenance went all the way back to the 1460s, which was one of the reasons you were worth so much.”

Something about her words hurt. He distracted himself by reaching a hand out to Andy, who came over for a scratch behind the ears.

She noticed the change in his demeanor at once. “What’s wrong?”

It came to him slowly, and he did not speak until he was sure he had it right. “The stone was not me. It was a thing. But I was not a thing.”

She reached over and took his hand. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She gave a small, sympathetic smile. “You know, as soon as I met you in my dream, I started to call it your statue . I thought of it as a separate thing from you. Does that make sense?”

He nodded, appreciating her attempt to be kind. Why should his heart be troubled when he had been delivered from despair? But the shadows of his past stretched long, and he could not seem to keep from speaking of them.

“For centuries, I wished I had left the night after the tournament and stolen off to some far country…perhaps Malta, where the sun shines brighter, or so ’tis said.” He sighed. “Or if my fate were inescapable, I would’ve hanged myself from some lonely tree.”

“Oh my God.” His lady’s face had gone white as chalk, and when he looked up, her lovely eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Something in his chest swelled at her compassion. He lowered his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, the delicate place where the life he valued most ran close to the surface. She took in a quick breath and he felt her tremble.

Her gaze hung on him. “You don’t feel that way now, right?” she whispered. “Wishing you had died instead?”

“I have wished so for centuries,” he said. “But here with you, I am glad to have survived.”

“Oh, Griffin. Can I give you a hug?” An embrace , he translated mentally. “I don’t want to do anything else, but…”

He gathered her close, bowing his head to her neck. She held him tightly. The warm clean scent of her hair and her soft breasts pressed against his chest filled his senses. Ah God, that I might know this embrace every day of my life. She trembled in his arms, and it was almost more than he could stand. His body, ever stupidly hopeful, stirred in arousal, and he made no move to hide it or step away.

No, she was the one to do that. “It’s good for you to talk about these things,” she said, a little breathlessly. “You can always talk to me. It’ll make you feel better.”

His flare of irritation surprised him. “My dove, you know well there is one thing that would ease my body and soul as nothing else would do.”

“I don’t think that’s how overcoming trauma works,” she said gently.

Trauma. Word upon word he didn’t know. It taxed his brain. He’d been a diligent scholar in Latin, if not the quickest one, but learning as a lad had not seemed so difficult as learning now.

“Trauma is, uh, damage. Suffering,” she supplied. She translated many words now without his asking. It showed both wisdom and kindness, and she’d already shown him such sweet sympathy. A man could appreciate good fortune while desiring more.

But he was squandering this good fortune with his ill humor. He’d been a stone statue for lifetimes. He could wait a few days longer to taste her lips and her luscious queint again. It wouldn’t be more than a few days, would it?

He smiled and willed his happiness to return. “I would rather not speak of any such trauma again, nor even think of it.”

She didn’t return his smile. “Don’t you think it’s better to deal with those feelings, though?”

He laughed. “Nay, I do not.” He should make short work of such grievous tales, or better yet, keep them to himself. His lady, for all her sweet sympathy, loved the way he lightened her heart. He had nothing to offer her but laughter and the devotions of his body, and so far, despite the sublime dream they had shared, she’d refused the latter. He could at least offer high spirits, merry tales, and song. It made him a jester, maybe, which pricked at his pride…but then again, had he not done the same for his men, more than once, to dispel their fears before a great battle? Emily faced no such trial, but in matters of courtly love, even humble service was honor.

It would be no hardship to conceal his past sorrows. Better yet, he could cast them into the River Lethe and let those waters of forgetfulness bear them away.

“?’Tis morning, and we have a fine day ahead of us,” he said, still smiling. “Shall we not make the most of it?”