17 Floored

Tristan blanched, squeezing her hands. A good father ? What she saying that ? His heart skipped a beat.

"Are you …?"

Isolde blushed and bit her lip, nodding vehemently. Stunned, Tristan could only thank the Gods he was already sitting for he knew he would have toppled over. A father! Breath short, he could only drag the little seamstress – his wife – up into his arms and squeeze the life out of her.

Fear, joy, pain, longing shot through him in such rapid succession that he couldn't make heads or tails of his feelings. He'd never thought … he would make it this far. Could he really be a father? The man watching over an innocent bundle without breaking it to pieces?

Isolde surrounded his shoulders with her arms, her smooth skin so soft against his scars, and lay her cheek upon the crown of his head. Tristan gradually relaxed in her embrace, realising that even though he found himself absolutely unsuitable, he was a husband to her nonetheless.

That moment of peace lasted forever, he, basking in her presence and she, holding on to him like a lost child. There was fear, here too. Did she doubt her ability to be a good mother? He, for one, didn't. Tristan squeezed her waist once, causing her to tighten her hold.

"Beltane ?", he asked, pulling away to gaze into her eyes.

"Probably", she breathed.

"You are magical, Isolde."

The young woman laughed, but her features were tense.

"I was so afraid I'd lost you, and you would never know our baby."

Our baby. Such a strange notion! Speechless, Tristan only nodded. Then he took advantage of his position, and gently lay his forehead upon her breasts while his hand caressed her lower belly. There, his child grew without a clue about the world, protected in his mother's womb. His child, born from his seed and Isolde' loins. Tristan felt a little lightheaded, and realised why she seemed so tired. Her body was adjusting to the child. Hence her lopsided smile, and deflection of his previous question.

Standing tall, Tristan watched his wife's face as she beamed at him. She was happy. The scout captured her lips in a kiss that conveyed, he hoped, the miracle that she was in his life. The miracle of allowing him to plant his child inside of her, the miracle of her body nurturing him.

How far they had come, from the exhausted knight that had considered leaving her on the road after her attack by bandits. HIS wife, HIS little woman was now safe. And a lady, albeit she insisted to continue working as a seamstress.

At last, Isolde gasped for air, and Tristan relented, leaving her now swollen lips.

"The stew is ready, will you dress and eat?"

The scout's lips quirked up. He had never thought she'd be the kind of woman to stuff him happy, but the truth was that she had learnt how to cook pretty quickly, and with gusto. If his nose didn't deceive him, there was an apple pie freshly baked. Sneaky woman; she knew he would return from the dead for an apple pie.

Isolde was half-asleep, curled against him in their bed, the glow of the flames dancing upon her creamy skin. Her reddish strands lay like a waterfall of fire over her shoulders, covering her upper back ever since he had undone her braid. Tristan couldn't have enough; he loved passing his fingers through her silky curls. For once, his own mane was rather tamed; she had fallen asleep before her deft fingers had tangled in his freshly washed hair. Exhaustion.

Now that he knew it was only the pregnancy sucking out her energy, Tristan's worry had lessened. Not entirely, of course. A brand-new cart of 'what if' had just been delivered upon his doorstep. Well, technically, to the seamstress' doorstep. What if the pregnancy went wrong? What if she got sick? What if childbirth robed him from his wife? What if the baby died before birth? What if he didn't survive more than a few days? What if…

Sighing, the scout pushed those sombre thoughts at the back of his mind. For the moment, he was home, alive, and rested beside the most beautiful woman of the fort. And she loved him, just as much as he did. His hand hoovered longingly above her white skin until he could not contain himself, allowing his fingers to caress her shoulder. Isolde stirred with a hum, her hand rising to lay upon his heart, burying in dark curls marred with white.

He was thirty-two now, on his way to being an old man covered in scarred tissue. How could she even look at him, and find him handsome? A wonder. Did he deserve her, this little woman of his? Probably not, yet he would not live without her now. If this baby took her to the grave, he would follow for sure. Tristan had had enough of his solitary life.

The urge to make her his rose from the depth of his entrails, demanding, almost overwhelming. The animal in him could feel how her scent had shifted; it was just a subtle difference, but once there, it couldn't be ignored. Already, the baby was affecting her.

Tristan pushed her into the mattress, hovering over her, the full length of his stark-naked body in contact with her plush curves. Stiff like a board, raised on his upper arms, the scout awaited for his prey to acknowledge him.

Isolde opened her eyes, slightly groggy, only to find his lips barely an inch from her face. Teasing, just out or reach, domineering in the marital bed. His warmth seeped through her, her whole skin blazing from his proximity. His loose strands fell around them, his dark brown mingling with her reddish curls. His soft breath caressed her face … he was close, so close, but not enough so she could kiss him. Still lingering in a half sleep, Isolde whimpered and pushed her body flush against him, arching her back to make contact.

Tristan growled, aroused by the unexpected reaction. His right hand descended on her skin, landing upon the soft flesh of her waist, his whole weight supported by the strength of his other forearm alone. The cut on his thigh throbbed… it could go to hell, for he was busy. Isolde responded to his touch with another wave of her body, her eyes held captive by his intense gaze.

Tristan's lips quirked slightly; she was so responsive today, a delight to touch, a pleasure to tease. The simple contact of his hand upon her flank seemed to set her ablaze, and when his thumb started stroking the soft skin of her waist, she lifted her thighs on either side of him, encasing him without any hope of release.

Her breath was short, her breasts grazing his chest as she bit her lip.

"Please…", she whispered.

Tristan's eyebrow quirked, teasing, before he slowly lowered his body to hers, mindful of his greater weight. Isolde sighed in contentment, reaching for his lips with a moan of pure bliss. The knight welcomed the kiss heartily, sliding his tongue in the depths of her hot, wet mouth, amazed at the strength of her own arousal.

Her body searched for the contact, writhing below his, calling for his bare skin. Tristan's hand dug into her loose curls, taking a moment to watch her blazing cheeks as she regarded him, her deep eyes loaded with desire. How beautiful she was, his woman, when she wanted him!

His own body throbbed for her, and Tristan obliged without delay. A slight tilt of his hips was all it took before her wet flesh welcomed him, a deep, sensual sigh escaping her lips as she called him in. Tristan gasped; he never got used to the pure jolt of pleasure that greeted his body whenever he entered her. Being inside of her felt like home.

The knight surrounded his woman from all sides, his arms locked around her as her head fell backwards, moans of pleasure escaping as he worked them to their own little place of ecstasy. Her thighs tightened around him, her ankles crossing to keep him close, her body asking for more, and more of him until he couldn't contain himself anymore.

She cried out when he lost control of his thrusts, her long shudders testimony of the intense peak she was going through. Her inner walls clenched around him so tightly; his own orgasm, already uncontrollable, only prolonged by her writhing.

It took a long time for them to descend from cloud nine. Isolde kept him trapped in the safe haven of her legs, skin against skin, caressing his back and shoulders until her hand stilled. Tristan didn't even need to look at her face to know she had fallen asleep; her breathing had changed. Damn, she was exhausted, his little woman!

With one last sniff – what a peculiar smell – Tristan untangled their limbs and settled by her side with a happy smile. Pregnancy certainly made things interesting, and he remembered Bors' saying how horny Vanora could get in those special circumstances. At the time, Tristan had dismissed his comments; after all, those two were little more than rabbits. But now he understood. Who knew how long this shift would last, but he intended to take advantage of it.

Yes, life certainly was sweeter with the little seamstress by his side. And to think that she had been the one to gather the nerve to ask him to wed her… Not that anyone would know, mind you. But it said a lot about the strength of her character. A very suitable wife to the scout indeed.