Yearning Heart (12 page)
“Rebecca?” By God's eye, he wanted to relieve the desire he read in her eyes and rid himself of the clawing demand inside his own body.
“Stephen.” She opened her eyes—saw the fiery emotion in his face. Her heart soared with the knowledge she could make him look that way.
He set her away and muttered something she didn't understand, grabbed his gloves from the table and stalked to the door. With the door opened, he turned. His eyes went up and down her slender figure, to the wide eyes, parted pink lips. He shook his head.
“I'll be back,” he said.
Rebecca stood with clasped hands and whirling mind and watched him go.
* * * *
Stephen had gone to present the king with details on taxes and crop yields. And to listen to his complaints about Eleanor, their children, and not the least, Sir Thomas Becket.
“You have collected the taxes well, Stephen,” King Henry said, nodding at the papers scattered over the table in front of them. The king drank from a silver goblet at his elbow, peering from beneath thick brows at his noble officer.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Stephen kept his own counsel as to the way his burdened subjects received the king's increased demands. The people grumbled against the vast amounts spent for royal pleasures. For marriages. For knighting of the king's eldest son. For ransom, in case the king should be kidnapped.
Silently, Stephen agreed with them.
“My queen desires to travel to Poitiers immediately after Christmas.” Henry scowled into his wine goblet. “The country has taken all my time, and rebellion is still a cross I must consider.” He looked up. “Would that you were a knight, Stephen, I would take you into battle, for it is sure to come.”
Stephen went still, a thrill of fear for his king and queen uppermost in his thoughts. Had the king's open break with Sir Thomas unsettled his mind? The man who was once Henry's closest friend accused of betrayal, somehow binding the accusation by running away in the middle of the night. The king's thundering condemnation of Sir Thomas had rung through the palace halls, bringing unease to all who heard.
Stephen did not want to think of open warfare that would destroy England.
“I would make a poor soldier, Your Highness,” he said. “My hands cannot hold a sword steady as the pen.”
“Aye, ‘tis true. I need you to do the good job you always do for me.” Henry suddenly smiled. “Go then. You have listened enough to my ramblings. Go to Rebecca. Ah, a lovely woman, a lovely woman. You should be proud.”
Stephen gratefully took his leave. He would not want his king to know the thoughts he'd had of Rebecca whilst he sat listening to the king's tirade. The heat stayed inside him, and he was anxious to satisfy the need he had for Rebecca. Surprised, he realized she had stayed on his mind most of the time since they'd left home. Usually, he could work on business matters, think about ways to help the king work out his problems, plan different phases of the house in Salisbury, wonder about the planting of crops in the spring.
Lately, he thought a lot about Rebecca.
* * * *
At the royal dinner and dance that night, Rebecca sat at a table between Penelope, Lady Bickford's youngest daughter who giggled at everything, and Lord Botsworth, whose sweaty hands strayed to her knee beneath the table. Tempted to slap his face, Rebecca instead pushed his pudgy fingers away and moved out of his reach.
If he touches me again, I shall spill my water into his lap, mayhap cool him off.
She raised her head, clear blue eyes searching for her husband and found him easily as he stood head above the men surrounding him. He was smiling at someone's remark, his teeth flashing beneath the thick mustache, when he glanced across the room.
Rebecca stiffened, startled by the deep slash of feeling in her stomach. She wet her lips, conscious of Sir Stephen's darker blue eyes still on her. She recalled vividly his remarks that morning, the way their bodies blended, and the almost vicious wish to have Stephen inside her.
Her cheeks heated, and she looked away, turning to answer Penelope's giggling questions.
Her thoughts remained on Stephen, recalling the odd yearning inside at times after he made love to her. He did not profess to love her. In truth, she knew he did not. She was a wife, a bought-and-paid-for possession one was not required to love. Still, there were times when his tenderness left her dreamy and unsatisfied. When she could never get enough of him, his kisses, his body pounding into hers. She did not know what was wrong with her.
“My lady,” Stephen's voice interrupted her musings. “I would have you dance with me.”
Encircled by his arms, Rebecca moved to the music of the royal musicians.
“The gown is most becoming, Rebecca. You are lovely.”
The gown was blue velvet, one she had chosen their first day in London. It flowed around her, tight over her slim waist, sleeves full and pointed over her small hands. The color reflected in her eyes and enhanced the pale rose of her soft mouth.
She smiled with pleasure but didn't answer him. Even after he released her to someone else for a dance, he remained nearby. She was conscious of Stephen watching her. Every time she looked up, his eyes were on her. It was early by royal standards when Stephen told her he was ready to leave.
“I have listened to complaints and politics until my ears ring,” he said. “I am not paid well enough to linger in this madness.”
They wished everyone well and left the great hall.
In the dimness of the hallway, Stephen's arm wrapped around Rebecca as he led her toward their room. Inside, a candle glowed by the bed and another on a table in the adjoining dressing room. The white velvet cover was turned back to reveal pale yellow sheets.
Luxury, Rebecca thought. Oh, it's lovely.
“Would you like me to unhook your dress since Malvina is not about?”
The name brought a slight chill to her but she dismissed it. Malvina was in Glastonbury. Stephen was hers alone, at least for a few more days. She felt his hands at her neck, and then the looseness as the clasps gave. The soft material slid from her shoulders, and his lips brushed the exposed flesh.
“I'll be with you in a few moments,” Stephen whispered. “Be ready for me, Rebecca.” He moved toward the dressing room.
She gazed at the broadness of her husband's back, the same startled feeling she had at the dance tightening her stomach. One small hand pressed the flatness beneath the velvet cloth, and she wondered at the difference inside her body.
Her gown put aside, Rebecca went to sit on the side of the bed to brush her hair. It crackled and flew with each stroke of the brush in the cold air. Smoothing it with her fingers, she wound the long gold fall of hair into a single thick rope and let it hang in front of her shoulder. She took a gown of pale blue shimmering cloth from the chest, one she had picked for herself. Stephen had not yet seen it.
“Beautiful.”
She turned to face him as he lounged in the doorway. He neither knocked nor signaled a warning when coming to her room, but appeared whenever he chose. It was his right of possession to do so, and Rebecca did not mind.
His waistcoat had been removed, and the richly embroidered silk shirt was unbuttoned and pulled from straight-cut woolen trousers. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, his big hand fastening into the fairness of her hair.
She pushed his shirt aside and laid her cheek on the broad chest. The same fiery feeling went through her stomach, but this time, it lingered and slid into her thighs. Her body quivered.
“What, little one?” he said, lifting her chin with one finger. “Mayhap you are glad I share your bed tonight.” He brushed her lips with his thumb. “You appear warm—and willing.”
Stephen did not often smile so she stared up at him, into laughing blue eyes, a strong wide face, straight nose a bit long over a hard mouth, softened now by the teasing curve.
He was right. She felt the need of his body as much as he needed her—for different reasons. He wished to show his male dominance. Hers was a gentler, uncertain need.
“Yes, Stephen.” She brushed her lips across his, and then leaned back to look into his eyes. “I am ready for you. I need you.” His eyes widened. “Am I wrong to say such to you?”
“The right words, Rebecca. Those are the right words to say to me, especially tonight.”
For weeks, she had known a restless, uneasy contentment around Stephen. She wanted to be with him and dreaded the times he had to be away, even overnight. When he made love to her, she responded, glorying in giving him delight if only for minutes at the time. Sometimes an unholy thrill wracked her body, but Stephen didn't notice nor did she mention it. He appeared not to care whether she responded to his lovemaking as long as his body was satisfied.
Tonight was different. Stephen knew this, as did Rebecca.
He feathered kisses over her forehead, found her ear to breathe words she blushed to hear but reveled in just the same. His hands roamed her body as he kissed her, probing with his tongue. She had become accustomed to that kind of kissing from Stephen, had even learned to enjoy it and, tonight, she opened her mouth willingly, seeking an end to the yearning inside her. She became aware of Stephen's hand tearing at her gown, and then she lay naked beneath him.
“You are lovely,” he murmured as he found small breasts waiting for him. He took one into his mouth, suckling, wrapping his tongue to pull until she gasped his name, her body twisting, pushing upward against him.
Releasing her breast, he raised himself over her, his eyes traveling downward. He kissed the flat paleness of her belly and moved so he could view the dark blonde nest between her legs. With a deep growl, he buried his mouth in her warm center. Rebecca cried out, and lost her breath as his tongue plunged inside her. Her body arched upward, and fire consumed her.
An instant later, he was up on his knees over her, parting her thighs, mounting her. He entered her quickly, but only part way, hesitating until her eyes opened,
begging—and he knew it. He smiled but he, too, was trembling, his throbbing hardness eager to be sheathed inside the soft moistness of his wife. A second longer, he restrained himself, and then plunged to bury himself fully inside her. Someone cried out. He neither knew nor cared who as their bodies became one.
She had never been like this, not in the entire year of their marriage. Not even in their recent torrid lovemaking had she responded like this. She was different, special, and she was driving him insane. Her hands were everywhere on him, her mouth open and seeking, her tongue moving with lightning strokes in and out of his mouth, hips surging upward to meet his lightning-quick strokes.
Beneath him, Rebecca writhed, hands pummeling his shoulders, balled fists rubbing up and down his back, then her hands opened and fingernails scraped his skin, digging. He did not notice. His heart pounded as he gave into savage desire to possess her, a desire that sparkled and shimmered beyond anything he had ever known while Rebecca went wild under him.
“Stephen, oh, Stephen, my love,” she cried out.
He kissed her hard as he drove her against the bed with powerful and uncontrolled thrusts, muffling his own shouts in her hair.
His loins burst, flooding her with his hot seed.
And, so it was the night Rebecca realized she was in love with her husband, the night she conceived his son.
Chapter Eight
Excitement added color to Rebecca's cheeks as she peered from the carriage window at the snow-covered countryside. Only a few hours and she would see Richard again. And Sir Oliver and Lady Elizabeth, too, of course.
“I will be gone more than a fortnight, Rebecca, as I must see to the finishing of the rooms at the manor house. I will send Aubin with you to travel to Gloucester for a visit with Sir Oliver if you wish.”
She was disappointed Stephen did not invite her to go along with him. The trip during the Christmas holidays still warmed her thoughts as she recalled meeting beautiful Queen Eleanor, talking to her about the troubadours who entertained them with songs and readings.
She blushed even more as she remembered Stephen's passionate lovemaking and her own unrestrained response in the large room of the royal palace. For her, it had been special. The way he'd held her, cried out her name as he emptied himself into her. Not once, but several times. The memories were sweet and she held them to herself. She was not sure if it affected Stephen in the same way, and she was reluctant to ask.
Suppose he did not know what she was talking about? Suppose he laughed at her, saying she was becoming wanton as she grew older. No, she would keep the tender yearning for her husband as her own secret.
“You do wish to visit your parents, do you not, Rebecca?”
“Yes, of course,” she said and went to help Malvina lay out what she would take with her.
Now it was only a matter of a few hours until she would arrive at Grinwold again.
Well, she thought, gazing into the snow-covered distance. At least, I do not have to worry about papa trading me. And, for a moment, the old hurt surfaced as she recalled the cold business transaction that made her Stephen's wife. Traded. To settle gambling debts. Only sixteen and turned over to a stranger without a thought for Rebecca's feelings.
It has not been so bad. She could admit it now. Stephen is a much better master than papa. Even if he doesn't love me, he takes care of me, buys me pretty gowns, things papa had never thought to do.
* * * *
Sir Oliver had changed little except to grow rounder at this middle. His lips were paler, pursing thinly as he gazed at his daughter. He grunted and turned away as Lady Elizabeth hugged Rebecca and shed tears of happiness at seeing her.
“And where is that husband of yours?” Sir Oliver said as they sat in front of an open fire.
The room was dark and gloomy compared to the great room in Stephen's home. It smelled of disuse, as though it stayed closed without sunlight. Of course, with the cold weather ...
“Sir Stephen is seeing to the manor house he is building near Salisbury, Papa. He will also see King Henry about new taxes he must collect.”