by Brenda Joyce
The awful nightmare of her imprisonment for a day and a half, which had seemed like eternity, was abrasive but fading. More potent, it seemed, were the events since her rescue and her recollections of her rescuer.
Had his hands really been so gentle, as if she were a chick that might be crushed by mistake? Had his tone been so soothing, as if she were a newborn, motherless babe? No, ’twas impossible—it had to have been a dream!
She was stunned to find that it was way past noon, that she had slept for almost an entire day. Ceidre could not stop wondering, as she roused herself, if he had really been a gentle savior. Certainly the recollection of his carrying her here, to his bed, was true. She was wrapped in linen towels, naked beneath them, and this fresh discovery kindled a vague remembrance of being bathed—but she was sure she was imagining that Rolfe had done so. In all likelihood, being out of her mind from the choking fear, she had been delirious and hallucinating, thinking one of the maids to be the Norman. Yet she was tortured with the need to know what was real and what was not.
Her hands were bandaged, and as she dressed, they were stiff and sore. Ceidre shuddered, reminded forcefully of her endless attempts first to climb the walls of the dungeon, then to tunnel out. Once dressed, she returned to the manor where she shared the chamber with Guy, without passing anyone.
Her husband returned before supper, as was his custom, for he bathed each second day, and recently, due to the Norman’s overzealous demands on the mock-battlefield, every day. Ceidre, as usual, had his hot water ready and clean garments waiting, along with wine and a few spiced cakes. His glance swept her. “Are you all right, my lady?” There was compassion in his tone.
She blushed, feeling like a fool for having behaved like a crazed woman. “Yes, thank you. Here, let me.” She helped him disrobe.
“I would have awakened you for dinner, but Lord Rolfe thought you should sleep until you woke yourself,” Guy said, letting her pull his tunic over his head.
For some reason, this comment deepened her color. “Yes, well, I was certainly a laggard today. Did all go well at Dumstanbrough?”
“Yes, the land is rich, if rocky, but the villagers barely till it. They are shepherds, but that will change. I will show them the benefits of the harvest.” His tone was rich with excitement as Ceidre bent to ungarter his hose. “And there is a perfect site for a keep, a natural hill. There is no water for a moat, but a deep ditch will keep all invaders out.”
Ceidre straightened, smiling slightly. “I am glad you are pleased, my lord.” She meant it. Guy had proved to be a good husband. He never had a harsh word, never raised his hand. True, he did not love her, true, he was out late most nights, and Ceidre knew he wenched excessively, but this, of course, relieved her. Now he stood naked before her, a finely made, lean man. His nakedness discomfitted neither of them. Ceidre found herself comparing him to the Norman, not for the first time. There was no comparison, the other taller, broader, his muscles so thoroughly hewn, as if by a master whittler. And of course, the Norman would never stand naked unaroused before her for long.
Guy was unaware of her scrutiny. “Ceidre?”
It was the first time he had called her by name, so intimately, and her gaze flew to his face.
“Did you receive the missive from your brother?”
“No! ’Twas a lie!”
Relief swept Guy’s face. “I believe you. I have not known you long, not even a fortnight as your husband, but I begin to understand many things.” He looked at her. “I am no longer afraid of you, Ceidre.”
She felt her tension in her trembling knees. “No?”
“I believe, still, that you are a witch, but I also believe you are a good witch. I am right, am I not? You do not seek to harm, only to heal.”
Ceidre was afraid. If he no longer feared her, would he want to assume his husbandly rights? She did not find Guy distasteful, not at all, yet she had no desire to share his bed—indeed, she felt an urgency to keep their relationship chaste.
He did not wait for her answer. “I also believe you are no liar—although I know you are loyal to your brothers. I am glad you did not commit so foolish an act. Ceidre, I will not allow my wife to betray my lord. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He sighed and climbed into the steaming tub. “Will you wash my back?”
“Of course.”
“Afterward, I will go tell Rolfe that you did not receive any missive from your brothers. Anyway, you do not need to fear further punishment. Our lord believes you have already suffered enough in the dungeon, regardless of the missive.” He settled back in the tub.
It had not occurred to Ceidre that further punishment would be awaiting her, not because she had suffered enough, but because she was innocent. Now she was relieved her husband believed the truth and would even defend her if need be, although apparently ’twas unnecessary.
As she helped him bathe, her thoughts immediately hurled themselves to the more imminent crisis—she wanted desperately to know if he had changed his mind regarding their relationship, but was afraid to bring up the topic, reluctant to give him ideas. She was relieved that under her touch he did not become aroused, and thought that this was a hopeful sign. But she found herself anticipating the night with worry and dread. If he had changed his mind, she realized there was no way she could stop him from consummating their marriage. Oh, she might hold him off for a night or two, owing to her recent ordeal, but ultimately she would be forced to capitulate.
Ceidre knew she was a fool. Guy was a good man and, although Norman, not half the enemy their lord was. He was kind. He now had his own fief. One day he would be a powerful northern lord in his own right, and she was his wife. She should accept it, she should warm his bed, bear his children. They were already becoming friends, and this friendship would grow. Not so long ago the suitor her father had approached had rejected her, and all her hopes of every marrying had been dashed. Yet fate had intervened. She had been gifted with a husband, both a fierce warrior and a gentle soul. What woman could be luckier? She was a fool if she continued to keep him at a distance.
Her mind discovered this quickly and was sure it was the truth. Yet she could not find the determination in her heart to change her relationship. She hoped it was not because a golden pagan image kept invading her thoughts.
Ceidre was surprised by the courtesy she received from the Norman’s men at supper. Not only did those seated near her inquire politely after her, Beltain openly apologized. Ceidre was pink with embarrassment. “Since I was a child,” she told him, “I have had an unnatural fear of that dungeon. You could not have known.”
She was seated next to her husband, who was on the Norman’s right. Alice had not come to take her place, and Ceidre wondered why. She avoided looking at Rolfe, although she was impossibly aware of his presence, of his every gesture, his every word and movement. Memories of his tender comforting of her assailed her, and whether real or not, they felt real. When he addressed her openly, she had no choice but to lift her gaze to his.
“How do you fare today, Lady Ceidre?”
Lady Ceidre, not Ceidre. She looked at him. His poise was relaxed, yet there was a bold tension in his blue eyes. He appeared to be casual, yet she could feel his intensity. He toyed with his eating dagger, yet his regard seared her. He was so handsome her breath was stolen away. “I am quite well, thank you.”
He nodded and turned to Athelstan, and began discussing the breeding of a wolfhound.
glance constantly flitting to where he sat. He had the presence of royalty—the powerful presence of royalty. Seeing him reminded her that by now her brothers were awaiting information. Albie had told her to send Feldric again as soon as she had worthy news to impart. Of course she had no news; she had not become his mistress and was unable to gain his trust and his ear. She found it difficult to remember, now, why she had so furiously decided never to become his leman. She felt no anger toward him, none at all. As if sensing her regard, he shot her a look.
>
Their glances held and burned.
Ceidre tore her gaze away and continued to eat. Worry raised itself frankly now. She had been so involved with her own problems, with being married to Guy, with being taken on her wedding night by the Norman, with being imprisoned in the dungeon, she had forgotten the very serious predicament she was in. Her brothers were planning a rebellion by the end of August. They were intending to overthrow Rolfe, and, she assumed, to drive William the Conqueror south, and out of Mercia. They were expecting her to provide them with information. She knew they had other spies, but none so well placed here at Aelfgar. She had promised them she would become the Norman’s mistress and obtain information. They were depending upon her. They knew her nature, and knew she would not fail them.
Which, of course, she could not.
Now that she was no longer angry, she could think clearly, logically, and knew she had to fulfill her duties to her brothers first and foremost. She eyed the Norman. She was a terrible seductress, this was proven. She had tried to seduce him and he had married her to his vassal. Even now she felt the pinpricking of hurt. Yet it was nothing compared to what she had felt before. She was not sure, in truth, if he still wanted her, as he had on her wedding night, and even if she did attempt a seduction, would he forget his loyalty to Guy? On the other hand, he was their liege lord, and if he really wanted her, he would be arrogant enough to take her and justify it because of his overlordship.
Her stomach was in knots. Now that her own problems had faded into insignificance, she felt the great weight of responsibility that her brothers had placed upon her. Gazing upon the Norman, she knew to do nothing was to fail. She must, at least, try something.
He looked at her again, his gaze sharp.
For a brief instant, Ceidre was mesmerized by those smoking eyes. Glancing away, she knew what she must do.
Because he had not been able to sleep the past night, tossing and turning, his mind filled with the horror of finding Ceidre in the dungeons, crazed with fear, he should have been tired. No, Rolfe thought, he was tired, bone weary, but he doubted he would be able to sleep on this eve as well. Why had she kept looking at him during supper?
He was in the great hall, wine in hand, gazing into the hearth. He was loath to go upstairs. Most of his men were already asleep, their snores strangely soothing. Other than the dying fire, the hall was cast in shadows of the night.
He tried to turn his thoughts away from her, and failed. She had seemed fine at supper, as fine as ever— as radiant as ever. Thank God the ordeal she had endured had been brief—he wished it had been briefer, if not nonexistent. He hoped Guy would not take her this night, that he would allow her to rest. Such speculation brought an instant stiffening to his spine, a tightening to his gut. Yes, he decided, Athelstan was right, he would send them both to Dumstanbrough. He was a fool if he did not.
He drained his cup, left it on the table, and trudged up the stairs: He took an oil lamp from a wall sconce and pushed open the door to his chamber. He set the light down, moved his hands to the clasp of his sword belt. His gaze raced to the bed, which was cast in dark shadows. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking that it was occupied.
He was not angry, he was disgusted. “Get yourself out of my bed, Lady Alice, and hie yourself to your own. I have no wish to consort with you tonight. And you push me greatly, to defy my orders. You are still confined to your chamber, and now I will think twice before lifting your punishment.”
Ceidre sat up, the covers dropping to her waist. She was magnificently naked, her full breasts gleaming ivory, her long bronze tresses swirling about them, yet parting for her erect nipples. Rolfe thought he was dreaming. “What are you doing?” he croaked.
Her breasts shimmered, rising and falling too rapidly. “I want you,” she said simply, her violet eyes holding his. And Ceidre realized she had spoken the truth.
Rolfe stared into her gaze and saw everything he wished to see there. He was at her side, her arms were open. He came into her embrace like a ship finding its safe harbor. She held him. He moaned again and lifted his face from her neck to find her mouth with his.
There were no thoughts in his head other than her name, her being, her presence, her willing gift of herself to him, of what was about to pass. He pushed her down, kissing her hard, and she opened, responding as fiercely, clutching his hair so hard it hurt his scalp. He did not care. With his knee he spread her thighs, rocked his thick penis into her groin, lifted his head and nipped her throat, then caught her nipple to bite it gently. She whimpered and arched, wrapping her long legs around his hips, pressing her plump, wet flesh against his rock hardness. Rolfe captured her mouth again and thrust his tongue deep into her. He was aware of her hands wildly stroking his back, urging him on, then grabbing his hard buttocks. “Ceidre,” he cried. Her tongue entwined frantically with his, pulling him furiously deeper, and any further words were cut off.
He gasped when her hands moved from his backside to his groin, one palm closing around his massive length, hard. He bucked, rearing; she ripped his hose off his hips. “Yes,” he cried as she jerked him roughly to her entrance. Clasping her bottom, he thrust deeply into her.
They moved together, hard and fast, panting, gasping, moaning. Her nails tore his back, his hands bruised her buttocks. He knew he was about to erupt, about to spill his seed into her. “Ceidre,” he cried, shaking violently as he paused, trying to restrain himself.
“Do not stop!” She caught his face and kissed him, urging him with her hips. He was lost, he plunged into her, again and again, and then she grabbed his arms, as if he were an anchor, and she keened, head flung back, arching convulsively. He saw her face, dark and strained with passion, and miraculously thrust again, bringing her to another orgasm, watching her, relishing his power, and again and again. She was sobbing now from the pleasure he had given her. Like a ripe plum, he burst within her.
Sanity returned.
Rolfe’s heart was thudding thickly. He was still on top of Ceidre, and within her, and he had her wrapped tightly in her arms—as if to hold on to her forever. He could barely believe what had happened. She had come to him. She had wanted him. She had responded to his passion as fiercely as he had given it. Ceidre— Guy’s wife.
He rolled off her, grim now, and stared up at the ceiling. He felt her touch, a soft caress on his bicep, and he jerked his head to her. Anger—at himself, at the both of them—faded, to be instantly replaced with warmth. She was radiant and gorgeous, and mostly it was her eyes that held his, shining with pleasure—with joy.
He looked at her hand on his arm. Naturally, she stroked him, as if enjoying the feel of his skin, his flesh, his muscle and bone. Unbelievably, he could feel his desire renewing itself. He stopped her hand abruptly.
“Where is Guy?”
She met him steadily. “He is out wenching. Have no fear, he will not miss me this night.”
The words came out before he could stop them. “He is a fool.”
She said nothing.
He moved closer to her so that he was looking down upon her, into her eyes. “Did I hurt you, Ceidre?” His tone was thick. He still held her hand.
“No.” She smiled, a smile of contentment, and something else, something more, something that choked him with pleasure.
“After your imprisonment, maybe ’tis not good—”
“’Tis fine.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly.
What was he going to do? He was only a man, and much weaker than he had thought himself to be. He groaned and fell back on the pillows, staring again at the ceiling.
“Do not torture yourself,” she whispered, raising up to do so. Her breasts flattened against his arm. Her face was near his.
“Do you read my mind?” he asked gruffly.
“I do not have to read it,” she answered. “Your thoughts are written on your face, and besides, I know you well enough.”
He shifted onto his side, his palm spreading on her taut back. It slipped to her hip. Her fl
esh curved perfectly into his hand. “I should never have given you to Guy,” he said roughly.
“It matters not. You are our liege lord. You may take what you want.”
“Guy most likely will feel differently.”
“No, he would deny you nothing.”
“You are so sure?”
“I am sure, but if it bothers you, he need not know.”
“What are you suggesting, wench?” His grip tightened. “I am not a liar. I do not cuckold my best man. Yet I am doing both!”
Her palm grazed his face. “We need each other, my lord,” she said simply.
Her touch was going to undo him. He groaned, fighting with himself, telling himself to get out of the bed and leave, now. Yet he knew, all along, that he would not. He could not. “You are a witch,” he rasped. “Because I am under your spell, of that there is no doubt.”
Her hand slid from his jaw to his neck, paused, then slipped to his shoulder. She began rubbing his thick chest muscle. Rolfe’s head went back, his eyes closed, he arched himself into her hand. He heard her whisper “You are so powerful, my lord, so big, so strong …”
He groaned, lifting her on top of him, nuzzling her breasts. A simple touch, a few words, and he was lost. He prodded her with his throbbing organ. “Can you ride me, Ceidre?”
“I don’t know.” She gasped, surprised, as he lazily rubbed his swollen tip against her derriere, tonguing a nipple at the same time.
“Ride me,” he commanded, holding her in place, then swiftly thrusting up into her. She cried out as he filled her, instinctively shifting to lessen the vast pressure. He held her immobile. “Don’t move, I will be gentle, you will get used to it in a moment. Relax.”
She trembled on top of him. “You might split me asunder.”
“No, no, I will not, trust me….”
He watched her relax, and as she moved, slightly, he saw her gasp with pleasure as she grew accustomed to him. “Ride me,” he said thickly.
She needed no urging. Head flung back, breasts thrust forward, she rode him hard.