Rexanne Becnel (36 page)

“It doesn’t matter
why
he agreed, only that he did.”

She brushed away her tears and lifted her chin. “And why did
you
agree? Why not simply marry me to the same lackey you originally had wanted me for? Surely there are other maidens who hold more valuable properties than I.”

Joanna was too upset to recognize the patient expression on Rylan’s face. When he placed his hands just above her elbows and pulled her to stand before him, she tried to shrug them off. “No. Don’t you
dare
touch me now!”

“Joanna, you work yourself into a turmoil for naught. I want to marry you. ’Tis a choice I made freely—”

“But
I
did not!” she cried. “I did not make
my
choice freely. You and the king have decided and agreed, and now
I
must cope with it as best I can.”

“We also decided for the Lady Marilyn and she does not object.”

“But she is loved! She loves Evan and he loves her. Oh, but you could never understand!” She twisted furiously in his grasp but he only held her tighter.

“Christ and bedamned! If that is all you want—love—then I can easily accommodate you.” So saying, he drew her against his chest and tilted her head back with one hand tangled in her hair.

She knew he meant to kiss her and again she felt that unwarranted surge of heated emotion. Yet the very longing she felt only increased her struggles.

“No! This is not what I—” The rest was lost as his mouth crushed down upon hers.

Joanna fought the onslaught of pure physical pleasure that washed over her. She fought it with her body and her mind. It was her heart, however, that finally betrayed her. She steeled herself against his rough caress and reminded herself that here again he only sought to manipulate her. But it was hopeless. His lips demanded a response from her, and he received it. His tongue stroked and probed, and she gave him entrance. When his hand loosened in her hair, then ran down her back, she arched against him in shameless desire, unable to deny the surge of fire in her veins. In response her hands found his shoulders and circled his neck. She rose upon her toes to meet his possessive embrace and searing kiss.

Like a living flame Rylan’s tongue ignited her. Sweet and hot, he delved deep, stirring the passionate embers that had been dormant, only waiting for his return. Now it was like a conflagration, a burning heaven that caught her up in its power no matter how unwilling she knew she should be.

Rylan’s arms were around her, crushing her against him. One of his hands slid down to her derriere, moving in a slow hot circle and pressing her urgently to the hard proof of his desire.

“God, but I would carry you off to that island this very minute!” he murmured as his lips moved to her cheek and then to her ear.

A shudder of pure longing rippled through Joanna at that, and she felt a damp heat rise in her lower belly. She had fought so hard to forget the impossibly wicked things they’d done in that holy place. Yet his words brought them all rushing back: the way he’d touched her everywhere; the feel of his strong body sliding naked along hers. The wonderous panic he’d inspired within her. Could anything truly have felt that divine?

Then his hand moved to cup her breast, and Joanna knew it had been just as exquisite as she’d remembered. Once again she felt the inexplicable current igniting her body. The callused pad of his thumb rubbed back and forth across the tensed crest of her nipple and she could have swooned.

“Rylan …” she whispered as her forehead fell weakly against his shoulder. “You cannot … I must … Oh!”

She gasped as one of his thighs slid between her legs to press up against the hot font of her torturous feelings. His hand moved at the same time, cupping lower on her derriere until she was writhing within his grasp.

“I would have you now, my little dove. My bride. My wife.” His breath came in harsh gasps. “I would have you beneath me now and always.”

Joanna could hardly breathe, she was so overcome with desire for him. The wind sighed in the trees above them. The soft layer of leaves rustled beneath their feet. One solitary night bird cried its evening lament. But she was conscious only of Rylan and the way he made her feel.

She pressed her face against the side of his neck, kissing and tasting the slight saltiness there, nuzzling the place where smooth skin gave way to the rougher texture where he had scraped his beard away. He swallowed hard and she kissed the spot where his throat bobbed, then smiled when he reflexively swallowed again. As he had the power to overwhelm her with passion, she recalled, so did she also have the ability to excite him.

Then his hand moved beneath her raised skirts and up her thigh, to the moist apex where all her longings seemed to be concentrated.

“Ah, damn, woman, but I need you—”

One of his fingers stole into that heated crevice and she unwittingly cried out. He rubbed along the slick folds, and she sagged within his embrace. Then he slid his finger deep into her and she gasped at the power of her reaction.

“Rylan—Oh!”

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he breathed hotly in her ear, all the while stroking deeply into her and then out again. Joanna was near to fainting from the excruciating pleasure of it. She was caught up in a wicked magic and drowning in its sultry seduction. Without even being aware of it, she moved in rhythm with his hand, rising to his touch, blinded by the need he roused in her.

“Rylan,” she murmured, panting, clutching frantically at him. “I need …”

“I know what you need, my passionate little dove. And you shall have it, just as I shall finally have what I need.” His finger slid out to wet the sensitive nub hidden by her curls. “It has cost me much to have you,” he murmured, biting at her earlobe. “But I shall be repaid a hundredfold.”

Joanna did not understand his words nor even note them. She was too close to that explosive feeling he’d brought her to before. So close. But then his hand stilled and he groaned in frustration.

“Milord?”

“Damnation,” he growled as he hastily removed his hand and jerked her skirts down.

“Milord?” the same deep voice called out from very nearby.

“I am here, Kell, but I warn you to keep your distance else I—” He broke off with a foul oath.

“’Tis the queen. She sends word via Sir George that the marriage contract but awaits your signature. However, I did not think you wished him to follow you here.”

Rylan sighed. His eyes closed and for a long moment he appeared to fight for control. Finally he opened his eyes and gave Joanna a pained smile. “We cannot be away from this damnable place too soon, my love.”

Joanna had stumbled back to lean upon one of the giant birch trees, all the while struggling to regain her wits. Her body yet hummed with desire, a feeling far too strong to easily suppress. In the fog of conflicting emotions that still gripped her, she clung to the only constant she had.

“I … I must go back to the priory. I cannot marry. I will not.”

“You’ve never had that option, Joanna. Never. Can you not be content that it is I who shall be your husband?”

“But that … that cannot be true!”

In frustration, Rylan raked one hand through his long hair. “You would have been wed to another. Better me than John’s choice for you.”

She shook her head as her senses slowly began to return. “I would not have married his choice either.”

“You would have been forced.”

“No. No, when they learned I was not pure—” She broke off as she remembered how ineffectual that approach had been with Isabel.

“What?” Rylan crossed to her in three steps and grabbed her arms. “My God, woman, don’t you know how vulnerable that would have made you? You would have become prey to every lusty fool—” He broke off at Kell’s impatient call.

“I’m coming, damn it!” He stared down at Joanna, and despite the meager light, she could see he was frowning.

“There is no need for you to risk your reputation that way, Joanna. Not now. ’Twould not have worked in any event, for you are far too tempting a morsel for any man to be so easily put off. But ’tis
I
who shall wed you now.”

He pulled her to him for a swift, possessive kiss, effectively squelching her opposition before it could begin. Only when she became pliant and unresisting in his arms did he pull away and take a long shaky breath.

“Let us go now, and do our duty as loyal subjects of the king.” He wrapped one arm about her waist and guided her out of the little grove and onto the path. She saw Kell turn and walk back toward the abbey proper, but Rylan hesitated a moment and turned to face her. “The time fast approaches when we shall do our duty only to one another, and I promise you, my sweet, that you shall be very glad of it.”

Joanna tried to pull away, for she was beset by too many conflicting emotions to be made sense of. “I do not wish to wed. Not with you nor anyone else!”

His answer was a laugh, low, seductive, and undeniably mocking. “I shall make you regret those words. The day will come—the night—when you shall pander to my every whim and beg for my attention.”

Although she wanted vehemently to deny his words, Joanna feared they were much too true. With a furious cry she tore from his grasp and stalked stiffly away. She would have preferred to run, especially when he called out to her.

“You shall beg for my attention, Joanna. And I shall gladly give it.”

H
OW HAD THINGS CONSPIRED
to reach such an improbable end? Joanna bit her lip and focused on the dry seam in the stone wall before her while two maids dressed her. How was it that the unwanted daughter of a relatively minor baron had been bartered in marriage to one of the most powerful men in the kingdom? The last thing she wanted was to marry.

But that was not completely true, a disturbing voice contradicted her. Marriage to Rylan … Joanna shook her head, unable to organize her tumultuous thoughts regarding him. He was heartless and self-serving. Yet he was to be her husband. He did not care for her beyond her property. Yet he would this day take a vow to care for her all the days of her life.

And what would she vow?

She leaned her head forward at the subtle pressure of the maid’s deft hands. A silver-woven caul was slipped onto her head and fastened by two cords beneath her chin. But as the woman artfully pulled locks of her curls this way and that around her brow and cheeks, and arranged the rest of her hair in a long cape down her back, Joanna worried over that question. What
would
she vow?

Obedience, of course. And faithfulness. To love, honor, and obey. The irony of it almost made her laugh. Almost. Love was not an emotion that existed between Rylan and her—if indeed it existed at all. But then she reminded herself of Marilyn’s joyful anticipation of marriage to Evan, and she knew that love
was
possible in a few rare instances. But certainly not in her own forced marriage.

As for honor, how could she honor a man who put political gain above the consideration of people? He was devious in his methods and ruthless in pursuing his goals.

Obedience was equally unlikely, if she was to be completely honest with herself. It was inevitable that she would balk at anything he suggested, for he seemed to bring out the very worst in her character. Her impatience became belligerence in his presence. Her willfulness became inflexibility.

At the behest of the maid, she did a slow pirouette. The wide skirts of her kirtle and super-tunic flared prettily around her ankles, then settled in graceful folds of rose and wine-colored flurt-silke over the fine chaisel undergarment.

“The queen sent her looking glass for you to view yourself, milady.”

Joanna took the carved wooden frame the maid offered her and peered cautiously at herself. Her first thought was that she was excessively pale. Her eyes provided the only color on her face. It was due to being indoors too much, she decided. At the priory she necessarily spent more time outside.

But Joanna knew that was not the real cause. The truth was, she was completely terrified by what was to come. Within hours she would be the wife of Rylan Kempe. Beyond her frustration with his motive for marrying her—the motive for all noblemen in the selection of their wives—she also feared the absolute power he would now hold over her. She would soon be his to command—not just her property, but her physical self as well. She would live where he decided, run his households as he dictated, and perform the wifely duties—

With an abrupt motion she thrust the looking glass into the maid’s hands. She felt the heat of color rising in her cheeks and she suddenly was trembling. But this time it was not fear.

She would perform her wifely duties because he no doubt would not allow her to avoid them. But also, though she inwardly cringed to acknowledge it, she knew she would not long be repulsed by his solicitation of her favors. She had succumbed too many times already to his kisses—to his caresses and even more. Should she object to anything he demanded, he had only to command her with kisses and she feared she would comply.

Joanna closed her eyes briefly and pressed her fingertips against them.

“Art aright, milady?”

Joanna straightened with a sigh and faced the maid’s concerned expression. “I am … I am fine.”

“’Tis not a rare thing for a maiden to fear her wedding,” the woman ventured with a reassuring smile.

The other maid nodded vigorously as she fastened a tunnel-quilted girdle about Joanna’s waist. “At first ’twill be a trial, to be sure. But yer a lucky one. Ye’ve a bonny lad, not some dour old man to take t’ yer bed. He’s sure to give ye strong babies.”

Babies.

Joanna stopped breathing at the word. They were summoned with a strident knock and Joanna went along mildly with the two pages sent for her. But as they made their way to the abbey cathedral, she was all the while unaware of her surroundings.

Babies. Somehow she’d not even considered that possibility.

Logic deemed that babies were a natural result of marriage—of the marriage bed—yet the thought of bearing a child of Rylan’s had not occurred to her. Now that she’d been forced to confront the subject, her confusion increased tenfold. When the two pages drew her before the assembled nobles to stand to one side of Isabel’s chair, she trembled as violently as did the dry heather on the wind-whipped cliffs of Flamborough Head. Her hands were cold as ice; she knew that her face had gone pallid. Though she tried to shake off her terrible anxiety, she could not. Rylan would inevitably give her a child. Would she be a better mother to it than her mother had been to her? Would she be able to protect her child from the unreasoning demands of its father? Or would she fail her baby as her mother had failed her?