by Brenda Joyce
For she was aware of a horrifying possibility, one that could bring her ruin. What if Ceidre bore his child?
“My lord, I’ve brought you some hot wine. Perhaps ’twill calm you.”
“I do not want it,” Rolfe said through gritted teeth.
Bravely Alice stepped past him, aware of his incredulous expression and, too late, aware of his rage at her forwardness. She placed the wine on the chest, trembling. She turned to him, knowing that as she stood directly in the firelight he could see through her finely woven nightclothes. Would he rape her? she wondered, with a frisson of something almost like excitement. He had ripped Ceidre’s clothes from her—this was common gossip. She shivered. Would he rip hers off too? Would he strike her?
“I do not want any wine,” Rolfe said harshly.
“My lord,” Alice said softly, trembling, suddenly short of breath, “mayhap I can ease your need now— your loneliness.”
“Get out!” he roared.
Alice jumped.
“Get out—and do not dare to enter here until I demand your presence!”
Rolfe watched her flee. He kicked the door viciously shut in her wake, so hard it shuddered and groaned. Then he continued pacing, tormented with his own thoughts.
The sun was high in the sky. Rolfe urged his tired mount forward. The gray was docile, his flanks heaving, and his coat was wet with sweat. No wetter than Rolfe’s own skin. His tunic, beneath the hauberk, clung damply to his frame. “Again,” he told the four dozen men he had been drilling, and been drilling with, all day.
Someone groaned, and Rolfe swung his head furiously to find the culprit, but he could not discern who had dared to object. “Guy!” he called out. “You stay at the end of the line, to face me again.”
Guy’s face was red and damp from exertion. He nodded, his expression quizzical. The men had divided into two lines, one on each side of the field. Rolfe cantered to his own line, replacing his helmut. His adrenaline was flowing thickly. He stared at Guy from his position opposite him.
He had pushed his men remorselessly, relentlessly, all day. But not harder than he had pushed himself. And now, as he faced Guy again for the sixth time, a sickening image crossed his mind. Guy impaling Ceidre. Tonight, he thought grimly, Guy would be too tired to walk, much less fuck.
He called out, and the two lines charged at each other.
Rolfe rode at Guy with a cool smile. His lance struck Guy’s shield squarely, again causing the young man to lose his balance, but not unhorsing him. He had unhorsed him twice—the first two times they had made a pass at each other. Guy had quickly discovered that this was no easy jousting, that he was going to be pushed to his limit. Since then, with sheer determination, he had met Rolfe fearlessly, grimly. His own lance missed Rolfe completely this time.
Had Guy fucked Ceidre as soundly as he had?
They charged again. Rolfe’s lance caught Guy’s shield squarely another time, almost unseating the knight. Guy’s own lance grazed Rolfe’s shield. Rolfe moved his steed back to the line and gave another order to commence.
It was almost suppertime when he finally allowed his men to quit the field. He watched them walking their tired mounts to the bailey. No one spoke, heads hung, lances pointed at the ground. They were the best, Rolfe thought, with sudden fierce pride. He had pushed them beyond human endurance, and they had not failed him. When the time came for battle, they would be undefeatable.
He saw that Guy was waiting for him, and he scowled. He knew he should not have pushed the young man so hard, that he was taking out his frustration upon him personally. Of course, Guy could take it, or he would not be his second in command at such a young age. Still, Rolfe did not want to look at him, did not want to talk to him. To see him reminded him of what the other man had, what he still wanted. Nevertheless, he walked his steed to him, and together they headed back to the keep.
“’Twas a long day,” Guy said, glancing at him, “but the men proved they are worthy of you, my lord. Not one complaint, not one laggard.”
“They did well,” Rolfe agreed. He paused. “You did well.”
“You tested me overmuch, I think,” Guy said. Then he grinned. “The day will soon come when I will unhorse you!”
Rolfe had to smile. “I await it—but I do not hold my breath.” Guy laughed. The problem was, Rolfe thought, that he liked Guy, he could not hate him, as jealous as he was.
Jealous—was he actually jealous?
“So,” Rolfe said, before he could stop himself, “how do you find married life? Tis blissful?”
Guy hesitated, and Rolfe saw it, with a shrinking feeling. As comrades-in-arms, they had wenched together profusely. Guy had bragged on many an occasion of a sweet tumble, had openly discussed the charms he had enjoyed—graphically, as men were wont to do. Rolfe himself had never been one to discuss his own experiences, for, until Ceidre, a toss in the hay was a toss in the hay, one barely distinguishable from another. Guy’s enthusiastic descriptions of this redhead and that blonde amused him; why, he could rarely recall the hair color of a wench he had bedded! Now, however, he was disappointed, for Guy was not eager to share the pleasure he had found in Ceidre’s arms. It was, Rolfe supposed grimly, because he felt respect for a wife that he did not feel for a dairymaid.
“’Tis agreeable,” Guy finally said, with some unease.
Rolfe felt himself flushing. He knew himself just how agreeable Ceidre was. He was positive, in that moment, that Guy would not share graphic details with him as he had used to because he was so smitten by the woman in question. Because he had tasted her passion, and was protective of it. Because it had been passion that had enthralled them last night—while he paced his chamber like a madman.
Rolfe urged his steed on ahead, his face dark, thunderous.
Alice was about to settle in front of the hearth in the hall after supper with her embroidery and her lap-dogs. She felt him approaching, and every fiber of her being tensed. Rolfe paused in front of her. His gaze was direct, although his voice was moderated so as not to be overheard. “Make yourself ready for me,” he said. “I will be awaiting you in my chamber.”
Alice’s eyes opened wide, but he had already turned and was going up the stairs. She started to tremble. Finally, finally this mockery of a marriage would be consummated. She was so nervous, and so afraid, her stomach hurt. She was keenly aware of his ugly mood these past few days—since he had bedded Ceidre on her wedding night. Unbidden, graphic images flashed —images that had been haunting Alice. Rolfe ripping off Ceidre’s gown and knocking her down, throwing himself upon her while she wept, impaling her with his huge manhood. Hurting her.
Alice shuddered. She had not been able to get this particular fantasy out of her mind, not since Mary had told her the gossip, even showing her Ceidre’s torn yellow gown. She wondered if he would take her that way. She shuddered again, breathless.
In his chamber, Rolfe sipped a cup of wine. His thoughts were not on his wife, about to come to him a virgin, but on another man’s wife—on Ceidre. At night his thoughts became intolerable, his mood equally so. He knew damn well Guy was with her now, touching her, fucking her. Anger and jealousy engulfed him, made him throb from his head to his toes. His pumping blood even filled his groin. He was so frustrated he felt he might jump out of his skin.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and grimly, realizing who it was, he called for his wife to enter. There would be no delaying, he thought resolutely, what should have been done a long time ago. Instead of dwelling upon another man’s house, he would put his own in order.
Alice saw that he was in the same grim mood, and that he was drinking, although apparently sober. Again, his gaze was level. “’Tis time to consummate this marriage.”
“I will not resist,” she told him, her voice frail. “I want your sons, you know this.”
“Then I will do my best to give them to you.” He gestured at the bed.
Alice climbed in, rigid with fear, with excitement. The room be
came utterly dark as he doused the lamps, and she heard him stripping off his tunic and hose. She recalled his big, ugly body, so powerful, strong enough to break a woman like her. He climbed in beside her and, for a moment, lay still, making no move toward her. Alice felt the first touch of disappointment. According to Mary, he had taken Ceidre on the floor—that was where her blood had been. He had ripped off her clothes, thrown her on the floor … She shifted uncomfortably.
He made a sound, almost of disgust, but surely she had heard it wrongly, and rolled toward her, shoving her gown up to her hips. His hand stroked over her thighs, then delved between her legs. Shock reared, and she tried to shift away.
“Be still,” he said. “I need to touch you or I will not be able to take you.”
Disappointment loomed. Alice was no fool, and she knew what he was saying. She could feel his sex organ against her outer thigh, and it was not rock-hard like a stud stallion’s. Not rock-hard as it had been when he had raped her sister. He was touching her to arouse himself, and to be touched so intimately was disgusting. He finished fingering her, then heaved himself on top of her. He reached down and positioned himself. Alice kept imagining how it had been with her sister. She could not believe this was the same man. He thrust into her.
The pain was overwhelming, and she screamed.
Rolfe stopped, not because of her cry, but because despite the power of his thrust, she was so small and narrow he was momentarily deterred. Rolfe impaled her again; again she screamed, as if he were ripping her apart. Having had many women, he knew she was unnaturally small and that he would hurt her until he finished, owing to his own uncommon largeness. There was no way to avoid it.
Alice knew he was killing her. “Stop,” she begged, weeping from the raw pain. “Stop, you’ll tear me in two! Please!”
He paused, still within her. “I am sorry,” he said indifferently. “You are too small for me, but ’twill get better, in time, I assure you.” And he began moving rhythmically, steadily, harshly.
Alice wept, the burning, tearing pain unbearable, trying to push him off with her fists. His movements did not cease. And then, just when she thought she would faint from the excruciating agony, she was swept into a violent series of tremors and contractions, crying out with pleasure, gasping into his neck.
Her orgasm surprised Rolfe. He had not even been completely aroused, not as he knew he could be, and because she was not made for a man like him, he was glad, otherwise he might, truly, kill her. He was surprised at her response because he had not been pleasuring her but hurting her. Her climax, however, brought his blood to the level he needed, and he began thrusting more rapidly, seeking release. She moaned, in pain, he knew, but he was almost finished, and he was determined to spill his seed in her.
She whimpered again.
Rolfe felt himself swelling further, hardening further, as he buried himself as deep as he could. She screamed. Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Harder,” she cried. “Oh, harder, yes!”
He came as she sobbed and keened beneath him.
He rolled off of her immediately, separating their bodies while still in the fog of his aftermath. His mind cleared instantly. He almost laughed in the night. His malicious little wife liked pain. He supposed it should have been a surprise, but somehow, it wasn’t.
“My lady, you must come at once.” Mary gasped, panting.
Ceidre was in the corridor between the kitchens and the manor, instructing two boys on their duties for the day. “What is it?”
“’Tis the lord. He is hurt and will allow no one to touch him but you!”
Almost a week had passed since her wedding night. Ceidre had not seen Rolfe since the horrendous noonday meal the day after. She had kept to the manor, overseeing its servants, and she had kept to the village —anywhere that would keep her as far as possible from him. Once, when she was cutting through the orchard on her way back to the manor, she had heard the sounds of his men in their mock battles, and she had glimpsed him, from a distance, on his huge gray steed. She had not paused to watch, but had hurried on. He hadn’t seen her.
Two days ago he had taken a dozen men hunting for large game, including Guy. Ceidre was well aware that the hunting party had just returned, for she had heard first the watch’s horn and then the large cavalcade passing through the bailey, the sound of so many horses’ hooves echoing thunderously. She had been replacing the rushes in the manor with Lettie, and she had ignored their advent. Lettie had not. She had cried out gleefully and run to the doorway to watch, waving at her favorites.
Ceidre had forgotten, the best she could, her wedding night. The truth was that it had become almost like a dream and, like a dream, haunted her mostly after dark. She tried not to think about the Norman, and when his golden image invaded her mind, she was quick to tell herself how she hated him. The hurt at his casual indifference to her was gone, numbed now with the passing of some time, into her own attitude of indifference. Therefore, it was a surprise that her blood should start racing madly at Mary’s words. “I will fetch my potions,” she said. He was hurt!
Her feet had sudden wings, and she returned in a flash. Mary was crying, wringing her hands, urging her to hurry. “What happened?” Ceidre asked, somehow getting the words past the lump that was trying to choke her.
“’Twas a boar! He has been gored, Ceidre.” And she started to weep.
He had been gored. The maid was hysterical, so Ceidre ignored her, running now. She was aware that her throat had tightened at the ominous words, that her heart was palpitating unsteadily. She was flying across the bailey and through the inner portcullis. She was not aware of bounding up the steps of the keep, or throwing open its huge door. Most of the Norman’s men stood huddled and quiet in the great hall. Oh God, it was like a burial! They parted as she swept through their midst.
In the doorway of his chamber she came to an abrupt halt. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him. Alice and Beth were hovering by his side, as were Athelstan and Guy. She could only see his shoulders and head and neck; he appeared naked. He was not lying in agony, as she had feared, but sitting straight and tall, his face in that hard, contained mask she knew so well. Her heart froze at the sight of him. He was golden and handsome, he was sexually magnetic, and she had forgotten this in the past week.
He saw her, and their gazes locked. Ceidre realized she had stopped breathing, so she took a long breath. Anger reared. He was not badly hurt, this she could clearly see, because he looked her over carefully, the way only a man who has been intimate with her could, in a way that suggested he would be intimate with her again. She blushed.
“Come here,” he said, his voice strong, in a command. “I am hurt.”
If he was hurt, she was a witch, Ceidre thought caustically. She came forward, lips tight. Her heart was thudding so hard it was painful. The men moved aside. She noticed that Alice did not, and that her delicate white hand was clasped possessively upon his shoulder. The sight almost stopped her in her tracks. It certainly brought a sudden nausea to her. He beckoned her forward.
Then she saw that he was hurt, and a cry escaped her lips.
He was completely naked. His right thigh, nearer to her, was gashed from hip to knee, raw and bloody. “Get water and linens,” Ceidre ordered, kneeling by his side, at Alice’s feet. She was aware of his gaze relentlessly upon her, as she gently touched the unmarred flesh near the wound. It was already hot. His leg tightened beneath her fingertips. “It hurts when I touch you?” she asked, with real worry.
“No,” he said harshly. “Your touch does not hurt me, Ceidre.”
His tone made her look up. His gaze was both so bold and so intimate that for a moment she forgot his wound and the presence of everyone in the room. She recovered, however, when Alice shifted angrily, her skirts swishing. She noted, then, the tight curve of his mouth, and knew he was in some pain. “How hurt are you?”
“I’ve suffered much worse.”
“Do not play the hero with me,” she s
napped.
His tone was low, almost a purr. “I want only to be a hero in your eyes, Ceidre.”
A flashing recollection of her wedding night pierced her. “Then you have gravely erred in judgment, my lord.”
“I realize that.” His laugh was bitter.
“My lord,” Alice cut in, her voice high, “you look uncomfortable. Here, lean back, I—”
“I am fine,” Rolfe said curtly. “Do not hover over me, I am not a boy.”
Alice removed her hand from his back, taking a small step back. Ceidre quickly dropped her gaze to his torn flesh, but not before receiving the full brunt of Alice’s glare. Alice’s movement, as well, crowded her unreasonably, but she said nothing and began a careful inspection of the wound. It was not deep, not deep at all, and she was relieved. But it would require a few stitches after being more thoroughly cleaned. Beth returned with the items she had requested, and Ceidre placed everything upon the floor where she knelt, within easy reach. Alice’s skirt billowed near the urn of water. Ceidre looked up at her sister and said politely. “Would you move, Alice? I need room.”
“I will not,” Alice said, her face pinched.
“Lady Alice, take yourself to the hearth,” Rolfe ordered, and that was that. Alice obeyed, mouth pursed.
Ceidre couldn’t help feeling sorry for her sister, to be spoken to with such obvious dislike. She wanted to ask the Norman exactly how he felt about his wife, and if he disliked her so, she wondered how he could bed her, night after night. She reminded herself that liking had nothing to do with lust—as she knew firsthand. And of course she could not voice these questions, even if they were alone in the room, ’twas not her affair. She picked up a clean rag. “’Twill hurt.”
“I suffer gladly,” he murmured, holding her gaze.
She broke the contact, thoroughly unsettled now, and began cleaning the wound. He made not a sound, although she was aware of his big leg cramping beneath her gentle touch. She became thoroughly immersed in what she must do. When the wound was cleaned to her satisfaction, she picked up needle and thread. She did not hesitate. Her stitches were small and neat and very fast. Rolfe was so still he might have been carved of stone. She was keenly aware, however, that his breathing was harsher than usual.