Anita Mills (24 page)

Abruptly, he rolled off and lay beside her, trying to master his silent wrath. “I swore I’d take no other woman unwilling,” he said finally. His jaw worked in the darkness as he tried to give words to his thoughts. “When I wed you, Elizabeth, I did not know that this Ivo would lie between us in my marriage bed. If you were as cold to him, ‘tis not a wonder that you did not conceive.” And when she did not answer, he rose from the bed to walk across the room to the window slit. Flinging open the shutters with such force that they banged against their hinges, he stared into the starlit night.

She could see his rigid body outlined against the window, and she could feel his anger, and that which had been drawn so tightly within her broke. She was no longer Elizabeth of Rivaux, the proud daughter of a great house, but once again she was the rejected wife. Unable to bear it, she rolled into a tight ball, clutched the coverlet to her face and cried with an intensity unlike any since her first wedding night.

The night wind cooled his flesh and his fury, leaving him almost empty of feeling. And then he heard her anguish. And it was as if he listened to Aveline again. Mayhap he’d expected too much, mayhap a man ought to look for passion only where he paid. As her sobs intensified, he could not stand it. He would have left her then but they still feasted in the hall, and he’d not hear the coarse jests again, he’d not have them know him for the fool that he was. With resignation, he turned again to the bed and went to her.

Sitting down beside her, he leaned over to touch her hair, and as his scarred palm brushed over her wet cheek, his heart ached. “Nay, Elizabeth,” he whispered, “it does not have to be tonight. We are both overweary—mayhap we should sleep.” Easing his body the length of hers, he lay there listening to the racking sobs that shook the mattress beneath him. His hand stroked her hair against her back, smoothing it. “I know not what he did to you, Elizabeth, but if he yet lived, I’d kill Ivo of Eury for it.”

His words and his hands were oddly comforting. “He took me,” she choked out, “and… and then said I g-gave him a disgust of m-me! Sweet Jesu, but he brought up his s-supper after!”

His jaw worked again to suppress the impotent anger he felt, not at her this time, but at the fool who’d wed her. “His memory is not worth the pain it gives you,” he said gently, curving his body against her back, holding her close. “I’d have you forget him, Elizabeth.”

“I cannot!”

“Aye, you can.” His arm settled around her rib cage, and his hand rested beneath her breast. “Think you I have no regrets for Aveline also? Too many nights she lay weeping beside me for what I would have of her, Elizabeth. She lived in fear she would conceive to bear a babe that would tear her asunder.” She lay very still within his arm now, listening. “God forgive me, but at first I thought ’twas but that she was a maid, and then in my anger I took her because ’twas my right. She hated me for what I wanted, Elizabeth.” His other hand smoothed the crown of her hair beneath his chin. “She hated me so much that she practiced her simples that she would not conceive. And for it, she died.”

The remorse in his voice was unmistakable. And yet Elizabeth could not forbear asking, “How was it that she died?”

“She made her women hate me,” he answered slowly, “so the tale they gave was that I poisoned her.” His hand stopped stroking her hair. “But one of the maids here claims she brewed a strong potion that she might rid herself of her babe. There was too much henbane in it.”

“Sweet Mary,” she whispered, “and you said naught when they accused you?”

“Her father would not have believed me. And I’d not tell my king that my wife poisoned herself out of hate for me.”

“The fault was not yours, my lord.”

“I got the child on her.”

“As was your right. Nay, but the fault was hers for being weak and foolish.”

As her body warmed against his, he felt anew the intense longing. “ ’Tis strange to hear such from you, for did you not hate Ivo for taking you?”

He could feel her tense for a moment, then she sighed. “Nay, ’twas not for that, my lord—’twas that I could be nothing to him.”

“Then he was a great hinny, Elizabeth,” he murmured, pulling her yet closer. “I’d value you greatly.”

“I should not have wed again—’twas not right.”

The hand beneath her breast moved gently to trace her rib cage, and his breath caressed her ear. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, “it does not have to be like that between us. Aye”—he eased his body still closer, until she could feel the hardness of him against her back, and she held her breath—“aye—I’d love you.”

She lay very still, afraid again, as his palm slid lightly over her bare skin. Easing his arm from beneath her hair, he propped himself up behind her and leaned to brush her ear with his lips. “I’d make you forget Ivo of Eury.”

A very different shiver coursed down her spine in waves. His mouth left her ear to trace light, nibbling kisses along her bare shoulder, and his hand moved upward to touch her breast, skimming over it, and again she felt so taut she feared to break. The scars on his hand tantalized her nipples, hardening them, while his mouth grew more insistent against her skin.

Heat spread through her as though it emanated from his touch. The hand that played upon her breast slid lower, moving over her hip and her belly, kindling fire deep within her. Even though he could not see her face, she closed her eyes and swallowed, afraid to give in to her desire. But whatever he did, she did not want him to stop. She wanted him to feed the intense hunger of her body.

He could feel the gooseflesh beneath his fingertips, and it exhilarated him to know it came not from cold but from heat. Despite the fact that reason told him to go slowly, his hand moved with more insistence to the softness below, stroking the silk. Her hands caught his, and something akin to a sob came from within her. “Nay, sweeting,” he whispered against her ear, “I’d touch you.”

New shivers of anticipation overrode modesty. She felt the sudden dampness as his fingers stroked, then slid inside. Gasping “Sweet Mary,” she slackened her legs, giving herself up to the exquisite sensation he gave her. It was as though the center of her being was there, and her hot body could not have enough of what he did to her. Moaning low, she twisted against his hand and tried to turn toward him.

She was willing, even eager, and his desire rose to match hers. Turning her to lie beneath him, he could hear her anguished protest as his hand left her. Her head twisted against the pillow and her body moved restlessly beneath his, demanding ease of him. Stilling her head with a deep, intense kiss, he covered her with his body. There was no resistance, only a deep, guttural groan of pleasure when he entered her.

She wanted nothing beyond what he did to her—there was no other time, no other place beyond this. The world centered in the union of their bodies. She clasped him greedily, moving against him, trying to hold him within her legs, demanding more of what he did to her.

Spurred on by her response to him, he rode hard and fast for release, straining against her, only dimly aware that her fingernails dug into his back, only dimly aware of her gasping cries until he exploded, then floated back to earth to collapse in her arms.

She felt the bursting warmth of his seed and knew contentment. Her fingers caressed his damp, tousled hair as she caught her breath, then she cradled him against her breast, holding him. Gratitude washed over her, for in this one night at least, he’d conquered her fear.

“I was wrong,” he croaked between gasps, “the fire was yours.”

Her arms tightened around him. “Nay,” she whispered back, “the fire was ours. Sweet Mary, but I knew not ’twould be like this.”

For a long time, Giles lay awake listening to the even breathing of the woman beside him. And the exultation he felt was tempered by fear—a cold, deep, painful fear that he would be punished for taking Elizabeth of Rivaux for wife—that God would exact a terrible price for this attempt at happiness.

Forcing his thoughts away from the nightmares that would haunt him, he eased his body against Elizabeth’s, feeling again the warmth of her, remembering her fire. Her breath, where it brushed against his bare arm, sent a surge of renewed desire through him.

Telling himself that she could not be but exhausted from the journey, he nonetheless allowed himself the luxury of touching her, of proving in the darkness that she was in truth there in the flesh, that he had possessed Guy of Rivaux’s proud daughter. His hand moved over her bare skin lightly, tracing again the curve of her breast. The nipple hardened against his palm as he brushed over it, and his mouth went dry with the remembered taste of her.

She was so very beautiful, far lovelier than any memory he could carry of her, and yet he lay there in the darkness trying to see her again in his mind. Twice he’d had her, twice he’d heard her moan low as her desire had risen to match his own, and still ’twas not enough. Aye, he was enough of a beast that he’d take her again ere he slept. He’d ease his body even if there was no help for his soul.

His hand skimmed lower, brushing over her rib cage, feeling the smooth, nearly flat plane of her belly, moving to the softness below. Her breath caught for a moment, then she turned beneath his hand, sighing in her sleep, shaming him. Aveline had been right— he was no better than a rutting boar.

Reluctantly, he drew his hand back. ’Twas better to burn than to give Elizabeth a disgust of him, he told himself forcefully. Besides, he’d not have her conceive too soon, for then she’d leave him. Taking care not to waken her, he rolled away. The bed ropes creaked as he rose to search for the wineskin. He shivered as the cold night air enveloped him, lessening the heat of his desire.

After pouring himself a full cup, he carried it to the low bench on the other side of the brazier, where he wrapped his naked body in one of the drying sheets and sat. For a time, he stared into the few valiant coals that remained of a dying fire. Jesu, but he chilled. With one hand he shifted a half-burnt log onto them, then as it popped and settled to catch anew, he leaned back with his cup.

He drank deeply, trying to forget Aveline, trying to forget the nameless ones who had screamed for mercy as the flames engulfed them, and he knew God had not forgiven him yet. His gaze dropped from the fire to his scarred hands, and he saw again the proof that he was damned. He had not the right to take Elizabeth of Rivaux, he had not the right to expect any happiness in this life or the next. But it did not matter—for now, he had her. For now, he would sleep with her rather than alone with his demons. And for that he would have bargained with the devil.

Elizabeth came awake first with the awareness that she was cold, and then she remembered where she was. Dunashie. Sweet Mary, but she had wed Giles of Moray. For good or ill, she’d wed the Butcher of the Border—and without the consent of her father. For a moment, she panicked at what she’d done. But she’d had little real choice in the matter, she told herself, for had not Giles taken her from Harlowe against her will? She had but negotiated the best agreement she could for herself, marrying Moray on her terms at least. But had she?

Even as she recalled what had passed between them, she was grateful that none could see the blood that rushed to her face. Aye, but once she’d given herself to him she’d done so with the abandon of a wanton, she was certain. How she could ever face him on the morrow .. Jesu, but what he must think….

She stretched her body, then realized with a start that she was alone. And the humiliation of her marriage to Ivo washed over her again. This husband, like the last, had not bothered to stay the night in her bed. And when Helewise came in the morning she would pity her for her inability to hold a husband even one night. What a fool she would appear. She rolled over and parted the bed hangings, peering out into the nearly dark room.

“My lord… ?” she whispered tentatively, knowing he would not be there.

She startled him. The bench he’d been leaning up against the cold stone wall came down heavily, scraping against the floor. “Aye,” he answered in a voice not quite his own. “I feared to waken you when I could not sleep.”

Relief flooded through her. “I thought you had gone,” she admitted, her low voice momentarily betraying her fear.

“Nay.” He rose, stretching the tired muscles in his back and shoulders as the drying sheet fell away, then he moved to stand over her, blocking the faint, rosy glow of the coals. “Where would I go?”

“I know not. Ivo—”

“Nay, I’d not hear it,” he interrupted harshly. “I’d hear no more of him, for I am not Ivo of Eury.”

She could barely see him beyond the eerie outline of his naked body silhouetted by the waning firelight. “Nay, you are not.” Grateful that he could not see her blush for the thoughts that came to mind, she nonetheless looked away. “The cold wakened me,” she said lamely.

“Would you that I mulled you some wine? Mine own bones are chilled also.”

“Aye.”

He searched about in the shadows for the cabinet hasp, fumbled with it, then found the honey pot and the containers of spices. “Would you have ginger in it?” he asked as he shaved a little of the precious cinnamon into each heavy cup.

For some reason, it surprised her that he would have spices beyond those required for the kitchen. “Aye.”

After pouring the honey and wine over the cinnamon and ginger, he carried the cups to where the poker rested on the fire. Setting them down, he picked up the rod and blew the ashes away, then he dipped the hot metal into the mixture, stirring it. It sizzled, and the smell of smoke permeated the air. Dropping the poker back onto the coals, he picked up the cups and brought them to the bed.

She took one and sipped the hot liquid, letting it slide down her throat. The faint light played on her face, making her green eyes dark against the paleness of her skin. His eyes dropped lower to where the bed hangings cast a dark shadow over one bared breast, as though she wore the harlequin costume of a jester, and his mouth was almost too parched for swallowing.