by Brenda Joyce
He was thick with desire again.
Incredible, but he would not question it. He had already overused her, he thought, although she had met him as frantically as he had taken her, each and every time. If she was bruised, let her heal tomorrow. Tonight was theirs. Tomorrow belonged to another.
Anger swept him, hard.
But being a disciplined man, he willed it away, instead concentrating on the path of his hand. From her nape he explored her shoulder, broad for a woman, yet not overly so. He ran his palm down her arm, then twined his fingers with hers. In her sleep, she gripped him tightly.
It would be dawn soon and he would have to leave. The night had sped too quickly. He touched her waist, stroking it, then reached to lift one full white breast. Long nipples, he thought, watching them harden as he merely held her, nipples to nurse a babe—or a man. He lowered his head and tongued her.
Still asleep, she shifted herself so that her breast was more accommodating. As the darkness in their chamber lightened with the graying of the sky outside, Rolfe began to suck her more fiercely. He slid his hand between her legs, his finger toying with her. He knew the instant she was awake, before she gasped. Then, languidly, she spread her legs wide, arching for him, her long white throat exposed as she tossed her head back.
The sky outside the Saxon windows was now a pinkish gray. He felt the panic, like a knife in his stomach, as he shifted between her eagerly parted thighs. He caught her mouth with his as he thrust abruptly into her, pinning her lips to her teeth. She cried out; he clasped her buttocks and drove deep, deeper, into her. As he thrust, her eyes flew open, her gaze sleep-fogged, passion-glazed, but unwavering upon his. He bent to kiss her again. She must have felt what he was feeling, must have seen the dawn, for her nails raked his back as her mouth attacked his. “Please,” she cried, “please!”
It might have been the same plea as his—to hold onto the night, deny the dawn, or it might have been the plea for instant gratification. Rolfe ceased to care. In Ceidre’s arms, inside her tight, hot sheath, he was lost. Lost. She matched him thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss. He felt her nails again, and they drove him insane, making him wild to go deeper, until he was one with her. Together, violently, they rose and fell, bucked and writhed, drenched with sweat, panting, gasping, until as one they cycloned out of all earthly existence.
Ceidre was still waiting for her heart to cease its violent thundering when she felt him leave her. She knew it was dawn, she had seen its rosy tendrils of light when he had awakened her with his passion. There was a constricted feeling in her chest, one suggesting imminent tears. She felt the bed tilt and did not have to look as he left it.
She closed her eyes, afraid to open them, afraid to face the dawn and him. She heard him dressing. The lump inside her grew, until she thought she might strangle. Should she open her eyes? Or feign sleep? Say something? He had not said a word to her all night, not since he had carried her to the bed. The lump persisted, unbearably. She heard the clink of his scabbard and knew he was donning his sword belt.
Ceidre opened her eyes.
He was standing in the middle of the room, wrapping his cloak around him, but his gaze was upon her. She refused to allow herself to cry. There was no expression on his face, although it seemed taut with willful control. His eyes were opaque, windowless, shadowed. He held her gaze, then let it slide to her bare torso, her breasts and waist. She had forgotten to pull the covers up, but she was past blushing. He glanced at her briefly again, then turned. In three long strides he reached the door, opened it, and was gone.
She sat up. She stared at the closed door, at the empty room, hugging herself. The door grew blurry, the room grew vague. Tears spoiled her vision. She would not cry, she told herself. Then she pulled her knees in, dropped her head, and began to weep, rocking.
Ceidre had pulled herself together by noon.
She had not seen a soul since Rolfe had left her. Guy, of course, would be with the other Normans, drilling in the field, or carrying out whatever tasks Rolfe had given him. Ceidre had no maids to wait on her; she never had. Servants were using the manor’s kitchens, to feed the excess of men, but other than the carrying sound of their voices, she had no truck with them. She was very, very grateful for the privacy.
She could not hide forever, and she knew it.
After the tears, she felt sufficiently numb to get dressed and attend the noonday dinner, as always. Sooner or later she would have to face the leering looks of everyone. Sooner or later she would have to face him.
However, when she realized she had no clothes, just the ripped yellow gown, she started to cry again. She had no choice, so she donned it, holding it together the best she could, managing to conceal her bare flesh. The moment she entered the kitchens, all the serfs’ chatter stopped, and they stared, wide-eyed, at her.
This was a different kitchen staff, of course, the original one, including Tildie and Teddy, now working at the keep. Her gaze sought out Lettie, who was close to her own age and who was regarding her with sympathetic blue eyes. “Could you run up to the manor and fetch my rust gown and an undertunic?” Ceidre asked.
Lettie shoved wet strands of red hair out of her face. “Tore it right off of you, did he?” Her tone was sympathetic. “I’ll just be a minute,” she promised kindly.
Ceidre was horrified, she felt like weeping again. She returned to the manor but could not enter the bridal chamber. Instead she paced the hall below, alone. Lettie was true to her word, and returned with her things instantly, slightly out of breath. Ceidre thanked her.
“’Tis all right,” Lettie said, smiling. “If we don’t stick together, those brutes will destroy us, now, won’t they?”
Ceidre was somewhat surprised at Lettie’s philosophy, because she made herself available to just about any man around and it was no secret. In fact, since the Normans had come she was continuously at their disposal. Ceidre began to change.
“Hurt you, did he?” Lettie asked, pointedly eyeing her bruised wrists.
Ceidre recalled the way he’d wrenched them back after she’d drawn blood on his cheek. Surprisingly, she felt the urge to defend him. “No. He didn’t.”
Lettie dropped the topic. “Why don’t you stay abed today? No one will care.”
Ceidre looked at her. “I am going to the keep to dine, as usual.”
Lettie shrugged. Then she grinned mischievously. “So tell me, is it true? Is he as big as a bull and as tough?”
Ceidre flooded with color. She wouldn’t answer, she couldn’t.
* * *
Rolfe paused before seating himself at the table, surveying the room. She hadn’t come yet, and he was overwhelmed with disappointment.
He got a grip on himself. ’Twas over. He’d had her, sated himself, exorcised his lust. He had tried his best not to think a single thought about her since he’d left her, and he’d succeeded. Now was no time to fall back into old ways. He did not care if she came to eat or not, did not care that she was married to another, did not care that tonight she would lie in another’s arms. He sat down abruptly.
He was aware of Alice filling his cup. He hadn’t seen her since last night at the wedding feast. He spared her a curt glance now. Her face was carved in white stone. Her hand, pouring the wine, was steady. She did not look at him.
Nor did he care. He was the lord here, and if he chose to exercise le droit du seigneur with every bride that graced his fief, he would, and she would not say one word about it. He began to eat, quickly and quietly. Still Ceidre did not come. He refused to think about her, yet he was suddenly worried. She did not have the strength he had, and she had matched him all night long. Perhaps she was sick, or hurt from his attentions. Perhaps she was so bruised she could not get out of bed. Or perhaps she was merely defying him, refusing to come to his table.
’Twas not her day.
Ceidre was late, and she was aware of it, but she did not hurry. She made her way slowly toward the portcullis, staring at the ground. Dread filled he
r, and that nameless, breathless, quivering lump had risen to choke her again. Why was she so near tears? She should be relieved. She had survived the worst, and now it was over. Indeed, she was now another man’s wife. This would not only protect her from the Norman, but it gave her her own status, and she had even made the bargain to keep Guy out of her bed. She should be happy.
“Ceidre, Ceidre!”
Surprised, Ceidre turned to see Feldric huffing up the hill after her. She turned and started down to meet him, her body tightening with anxiety. “What is it?”
She knew he was back; she had noticed him yesterday at her wedding. He paused to catch his breath, then said, “My boy is sick. Can you come?”
“Of course,” Ceidre said, as two knights passed them. She followed him down the hill and over the outerbridge, knowing well that his boy was not sick, he had been trying to tell her something. Had he a message from her that he hadn’t been able to give her yesterday? She felt a flaring of interest. Once they had left the castle’s walls and were in the village, she demanded the truth.
“’Tis Albie. He wants to speak with you.”
Ceidre hurried her pace. Albie was waiting at the mill; no one else was about. He lounged in deep shadows, careless but watchful, disguised as a serf. “Is it bad news?” Ceidre asked immediately. “Are they all right?”
“Yes, they are fine, do not worry so,” Albie soothed.
“Thank God,” Ceidre said, relieved.
“Ed is most impatient. You have news for him?”
Ceidre froze, then she blanched. “No, I do not.”
His eyes were soft. “You did not take the Norman to your bed yet, Ceidre?”
So Albie was privy to everything. Now she blushed, to her chagrin. “Ed sent you because he thought I might have learned something? ’Tis too soon!”
“We run quickly out of time,” Albie remarked. “In seven weeks we rebel, Ceidre. You have learned nothing? You have not lured the Norman to your bed? Tell me something!”
She was hotly red. And more miserable than ever. “Albie, I’m afraid I only have bed news. The Norman has married me to one of his men!” To her horror, she felt tears escaping.
Albie stared, then muttered an inaudible curse.
Ceidre wiped her eyes. Albie laid a rough hand on her shoulders. “I am sorry, Ceidre,” he said.
“’Tis not the whole truth,” she said, sniffing. “There is some ancient pagan custom they keep, and he claimed me on my wedding night.”
Albie turned startled eyes on her. “What? Why, that is good news!”
She recoiled. “I did not learn anything.” It was good news that she had been raped? She was suddenly furious, with Albie, with her brothers.
“Don’t you see? You can still become his mistress, if you are careful and cunning. All is not lost with this plan. You must do so, Ceidre. We need you privy to his innermost thoughts if we are to take back Aelfgar and chase him to the sea!”
She wanted to tell him that she did not want to be privy to that barbarian’s innermost thoughts, nor did she want to share his miserable bed. She said neither, the feeling of hurt she had been harboring all day increasing to overwhelm her. No one cared what she had been through. She had been raped; then she had experienced utter ecstasy in her enemy’s arms, which was worse than rape. He had left her as coldly as he had first taken her. No one cared what she felt. No one. The Norman had used her, her brothers were using her. Ceidre hugged herself. She was so utterly alone. Damn them all.
“I had better go,” Albie said. “At least I can report some progress. God be with you, Ceidre.”
She was too angry to call out a like farewell. Too angry, too hurt. But she knew one thing. She was not going to become the Norman’s leman, oh no. Never would she share his bed again. Even fortified by this resolution, she didn’t feel better. Not at all.
He knew the instant she entered the hall.
He and his men were more than halfway through with their meal. Like a magnet, his eyes were drawn to her as she made her way quickly and gracefully to the table. Her head was high, chin in the air. His breath seemed to get stuck in his chest. She did not look his way, and then she took her seat.
Rolfe became aware of many things at once. Alice’s rigidity as she sat beside him and the utter, absolute silence of his men. And that he himself was staring. He resumed eating. He no longer was hungry, but he ate rhythmically, as if entertaining the same gusto as before. Conversation slowly resumed. Rolfe did not look down the table again. He did not have to look. Her presence filled his senses.
Ceidre was shaking inside. The instant she had entered the hall, the talk had ceased, and every eye had been riveted upon her. She had attempted to show no feelings, to remain like a marble statue. It had not been easy to do, with her heart winging frantically, with his hawklike gaze upon her.
She could not eat, but realized, suddenly, that she had made a mistake. She was sitting at the lowest end of the table while Guy, her husband, sat on Rolfe’s right. A quick glance confirmed that Guy was aware of this too, for he was coming to her. Ceidre felt herself flushing. He paused beside her. Someone snickered not far from her. Guy lifted a furious glance at the culprit, one of his own cohorts. “Lady, please, ’tis unseemly you dine below the salts now that you are my wife.” His hand was on her elbow, urging her to rise. His gentleness and kind tone made Ceidre unbearably grateful.
“But is she yet your wife, Guy?” Beltain chortled from the other end of the table. “Mayhap you should take her to bed and rectify that immediately!”
Laughter greeted this reference to Rolfe’s having bedded her in place of the groom. Ceidre went hot red. Guy froze next to her. Ceidre wanted to shrink away, with everyone joking at her expense. The one responsible for this entire mess, of course, said nothing, just sat there listening indifferently. Ceidre realized she was glaring at Rolfe, but he was not looking at her. Nor was he amused.
“I demand satisfaction for such coarse comments,” Guy said stiffly, flushed. He pulled Ceidre to the other end of the table, where she dreaded going. Athelstan slid over to make a place for her, and she quickly sank down upon the bench, wanting to sink, instead, through the floor. Rolfe was oblivious to her, as if she were invisible, and she wished, desperately, that she were anywhere but here.
“The good knight is malhumored.” Beltain laughed. “But I know how his good humor can be restored!” He chuckled again, lewdly, and more laughter rose.
Before Guy could retort, Rolfe interjected, “Enough.”
At least, she thought miserably, beet-red, he had the decency to end Beltain’s crude insinuations. She stared at her hands, folded in her lap, a silence ensuing. Rolfe rose abruptly from the table. “There will be no quarrel among my men,” Rolfe stated. “If Guy’s wife is offended”—and still he did not spare her a glance—“Beltain will apologize.” With that, he strolled out.
Guy’s wife, Ceidre thought, shrinking up inside. He had called her Guy’s wife.
“She is most offended,” Guy said into an interested silence. “Apologize, Beltain. Do not make me defy our lord.”
“I am most sorry,” Beltain said to Ceidre, who finally lifted her eyes. “’Twas only a jest. I meant no harm.”
Ceidre mumbled an appropriate reply. She was sorry she had come to this meal, sorrier still that she had laid eyes on the Norman, that cold, unfeeling animal. He cared not an ounce that they had shared a night; he had no feelings at all. He had finally gotten what he wanted, and he had clearly forgotten everything that had passed between them.
If only she could forget as well.
He had succeeded; he hadn’t thought of her all afternoon.
But his success was short-lived. Supper was over, and his men had long since adjourned for the evening. Rolfe found himself in his chamber, alone, pacing like a wild caged lion. Now, now he could not stop his thoughts; he had not the willpower. Ceidre taunted him as twilight deepened the sky to jet-black. Ceidre— with Guy.
Now, at this v
ery moment, was she writhing beneath him in ecstasy?
Rolfe cried out, slamming his fist against the mantle, the same fist he had bruised not so long ago on the table in the hall. Pain was fierce and instantaneous, he welcomed it. But it did not provide the distraction he sought.
He was going mad, he thought, for he could barely contain feelings he had no right to. Feelings of fury, feelings of jealousy. The desire to hurt, to punish, to kill.
He tried to calm himself with logic. Ceidre was only a woman. There were women in this world aplenty. For some reason, he was still entranced by her, but it would pass. There were more timely matters to reflect upon than a mere woman. Matters of state, of treason. Treason. He had given her to Guy to protect her from the ultimate, irreversible fate that awaited traitors to the crown. God, he groaned, was Guy taking her now? Worse, was Ceidre truly welcoming him? Ceidre would make any man insatiable, he knew this firsthand. He could not contain his wrath, his rage—he was strangling with it, and he wanted to strangle his own best man and good friend.
He could barely stop himself from leaving the keep, striding down to the manor, pulling Guy off Ceidre with his own bare hands, then slamming him into the wall for touching her….
I am truly mad, he thought. She is his wife!
There was an untimely knock upon his door. Rolfe strode to it and flung it open. Alice, seeing his blazing expression, took a step back. She was dressed in her finest bedclothes. “What do you want?” he said with a snarl.
“I …” What could she say? She had come in desperation, hoping he would receive her as a husband should, praying that he would get her with child. She had never seen him so livid, and she was justifiably frightened. But she was also desperate. She sensed, with all her shrewd intuition, that her position had never been more precarious. The fact that he had chosen to bed Guy’s bride sharpened this awareness. She would ignore the humiliation she had suffered the best she could. Alice knew she must conceive his child quickly, to distract him from that witch.