Domning, Denise (29 page)

Her husband tried to stifle his grin. "He leapt into the fishmonger's trough to avoid me."

"Poor man," she tried to say, but her inner vision of the scene drove her pity away. Laughter gurgled out of her. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a terrible, terrified sob broke free. She covered her face with her free hand in a desperate attempt at control, but it did not stop the next gasp, or the sob after that.

"Rowena," he murmured, his voice filled with sorrow as he drew her into the circle of his arms and held her close. She cradled her face against the curve of his shoulder as tears flooded from her. His fingers caressed the back of her neck, their pressure soft against her nape.

Tears flowed from her, ripping away the locks she'd placed on all the hurts that had ever been done her. She cried for the forlorn child she'd once been, for the loss of her far-flung goals and ambitions, for the pain of his rejection, and for the new sense of belonging she'd discovered at Graistan but did not yet know how to accept.

"I'm so sorry." He softly murmured it again and again against her cheek. At last, drained and empty, she caught her breath in a hiccupping gasp. "Hush, sweet. Hush. Be still. I will not let you go."

She heard his voice, heard his kindness, and felt his gentleness. And then, she knew. Here, in this wild place and away from the source of all that was wrong between them, they would begin again.

Her fingers burned with the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. She slid her hand upward along the strong column of his throat. The soft curls of his hair lay within her reach. A shiver wracked her as she combed its silkiness with trembling fingers. Then she caressed the hard outline of his shoulder and upper arm.

He shuddered just a little, his voice dying away until only the lively quiet of the woods remained. She pressed her ear to his chest and heard the steady thud of his heart. His fingers curled beneath her chin and lifted her face until his lips touched hers. Her breath caught at the quiet sweetness of his kiss.

But this was not what she needed. It was his passion for her she craved; she coveted his demanding need to fill the newly borne emptiness within her. Her mouth melded to his, teasing, taunting until she felt him shake against her onslaught.

His fingers raked through her hair to cradle her head while he took her mouth with his. A deep sigh escaped her as she slid her hands beneath his shirt to caress his chest. Her fingers found the waist string on his chausses and loosened the knot, then slipped inside.

He groaned and tore away from their kiss to lean back as her hand closed about his shaft. His heat seared her, bringing throbbing life to her womb. With a muttered word, he ripped off his shirt and eased his chausses over his hips. They, and his boots, flew behind him. She laughed at his eagerness, the sound sultry with her own rising need. But her amusement died into awe as he knelt before her, every inch of him revealed to her in the soft summer's light.

Mary, Mother of God, but he is beautiful, she thought. The wide sweep of his forehead, the arrogant line of his nose, his mouth curved in a smile. His eyes burned with his desire for her, their gray lights intense and hot despite the cool color. She laid her hands on the broad stretch of his shoulders as she studied the solid curves and planes of his torso. At last, her gaze caressed the proof of his need for her, and she touched the tip of his shaft with a finger.

"Love me, Wren," he asked, his voice heavy with more than physical need. "I have been cold and dead these past years until you came. Love me."

She caught her breath at his invitation, at the use of her private name. It shivered through her, promising much for the future. With a smile, she stood and pulled her loose gown off over her head. Beneath it she wore only a thin, linen chemise. When she would have shrugged free of that as well, he shook his head. "Let me."

Slowly, he lifted the sheer garment, kissing each newly revealed inch of skin from her knees to her inner thighs until he reached her nether lips. When he touched his mouth to that most intimate part of her, she could tolerate no more. Her legs shook, and she sank to kneel on the ground.

He tossed away her undergown and cradled her breasts in his hands while his mouth met hers. When his fingers teased her nipples into hard points, she drew his face down to them. His mouth against her sensitive flesh made her cry out in longing.

It felt so different here. True, before today his touch had made her shiver and shake, and his kisses had teased her body into readiness for him. But then she'd only been focused on seducing him into caring for her. Now a different goal had been awakened.

His caresses reminded her of their wedding night and the odd longing she had known for that greater something from their lovemaking. She gasped in sudden excitement. A new, delicious tension sprang to life within her. It made her need to touch the very part of him she so desired.

He caught her hand. "Nay," he breathed gruffly, "touch me and I swear I will explode. Sweet Jesu,

I want you, but this time, I seek only to pleasure you."

But her own needs made his words almost unintelligible. She knew only that he urged her to lay back, that he kissed her breasts, her stomach, then finally her womanhood, until she hoarsely demanded that he enter her and grabbed him by the arms as if to force him. He laughed and acceded to her command. But even this simple act became sweet torture as he eased into her with such deliberate slowness that she finally thrust upward to sheathe all of him within her. His deep groan at her unexpected motion made her smile.

He moved with agonizingly slow movements, teasing himself as well as her. With his every motion that impossible tension grew. It made her writhe beneath him as she sought relief from it while praying it would never end. Her legs clasped him hard to her, her arms bound him. His thrusts grew faster, harder. She raised her hips then cried out when her tension exploded away and burst into waves of pleasure. They washed over her, each one more exquisite than the last. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, her hands clutching, grasping against the incredible sensations. His movements quickened, and he begged her to let him have his own fulfillment.

Incapable of answer, his passion carried her along to greater and still greater enjoyment, until she felt she would die if it did not end. Then, with a final, searing flood of heat that rippled and surged over her, her husband groaned in his own pleasure.

She could not move. She closed her eyes and sank into the soft completeness of it. When he lowered himself to lay upon her, she savored the touch of his skin on hers, his fingers in her hair. She gloried in his weight atop her. His arms closed around her and he rolled to his side, pulling her against him. "My God," he breathed in ebbing passion, "I will never let you leave me."

She lay content beyond expression in his arms, her head pillowed against his shoulder. Sensations blurred, and she drifted into sleep.

She awoke to the chirping of birds, the bark of a vixen to her young, the scurrying of mice around them. With a sigh, she stretched just a little while still in the circle of his embrace. Deep within her lay the warm memory of their passion and her fulfillment. She cherished it and made it precious. Oh, but dear God, the very movement of her skin against his was an almost painful pleasure.

He stirred, but his breathing remained even and untroubled. She looked up into the lacy boughs above them. The sky was stained rose and gold with sunset. "The bishop!" she cried out frantically, trying to lift his arm from her while rising at the same time.

His embrace tightened, and he dragged her back down beside him, then he sighed and opened one eye. "The bishop does not come today," he murmured. "Weren't you told? I sent the pantler with the message when I arrived. You are warm." He closed his eye, kissed the top of her head, and tucked her back into the curve of his shoulder.

She relaxed against him in relief. "Nay, I heard nothing. I suppose he did not find me in time." It felt so right to lay next to him like this. There was such wonder in the pleasure he had given her. She greedily wanted to experience it again, but not here. "They will be closing the gates soon. Should we not go back before they begin searching for us?"

"They already have," he whispered back without opening his eyes. "Do not stiffen so, it was only Temric and when he found my clothes, he looked no farther." His mouth had quirked up into a smile at her reaction. At last, he opened his eyes and studied her.

She gently touched his cheek, awed by the warmth and acceptance she found in his look, then she sighed with worry. "You are so changed. How can this be and all so suddenly? I am so afraid, Rannulf. Tell me that when we leave here, this will not have been a lie." Her heart caught at the very thought of how his rejection would hurt her now.

He briefly closed his eyes against the depth of pain he'd caused her. "I have a tale to tell you, but it is very difficult for me. Will you dress, then come sit with me so I can say it?"

She nodded and rose quickly to gather up her shift and gown, then hand him his shirt and chausses. When once again properly clothed, she sat down next to him ready to listen. But he was not content with that. He drew her to him until she rested with her back to his chest, protected in his embrace. His gaze aimed out away from them, his focus far outside this tiny glade of theirs.

"Six years ago I wed Isotte DelaCroix. She was a beautiful girl, but much petted as the family's youngest daughter. She had little dowry, having gained what she did have through the auspices of a bachelor uncle. I had been a widower for two years and, although I could have wed a woman with more wealth, I found myself wishing to be the master of such a beautiful creature. Unfortunately, she was only fourteen when we married, and found my thirty years to be enormously old and me quite frightening. When it came time for our bedding, she cried and pleaded with me to spare her. So I did so."

Rowena looked at him in confused curiosity. She opened her mouth to ask, but thought the better of interrupting. Nevertheless, he caught her motion and glanced aside at her, then smiled. "You are too naive. There are many ways to bloody sheets to the satisfaction of worried and overprotective mothers.

"I took her to Graistan, her virginity intact. Once home again, other matters held my attention. I do not know if you recall that our family yet claims a keep in Normandy? Aye, my father's younger brother holds it, but he has no surviving children and is now quite old. It will come to me when he is gone. It was for him that I left England, to serve in his stead whilst our Henry fought his war against his son, our present king. I did not leave again until the old king's death in June that year.

"When I arrived home, I discovered that Gilliam was here. He'd returned to recover from an illness so grave, his foster father had not expected him to live. But live he had. I suppose it could only be expected that these two so close in age should seek each other out in their mutual loneliness and boredom. There was no one here to see that they were kept apart. Friendship became love, and love became loving. If only I had not left her alone," he sighed, then fell silent.

She lay back into the hollow of his shoulder and watched him for a moment. He tried to smile, but couldn't. He rested his cheek against her hair before continuing. "I truly thought I had forgiven all. I cannot blame Gilliam for being sixteen and hot-blooded. Nor can Isotte be charged for being what her family had made her, a spoiled child who had never before denied what she desired, save when they married her to me. But, God help me, he took what was mine; she gave him what she would not give me." His voice broke as he tried to continue.

She lay her hand on his clenched one and when he opened his fist, she twined her fingers between his. Suddenly, many things were making sense. There remained only the question of why he had sent her to Graistan knowing that she and Gilliam would be there alone. Had he meant to test his brother and his new wife? Or had it been a test of his own forgiveness and trust?

"There is worse to come," he said and continued. "He had got her with child. I had been gone too long and home too little to claim it was mine." He shot her a grimly amused look. "There has never been a child twelve month's in coming. By this time, Richard had been crowned and was calling knights to his crusade. I convinced Gilliam's foster father to join them so my brother would be gone for the babe's birth. As for Isotte, I kept her confined and out of the reach of her family, thinking that once the child was born and enough time had passed, no one would care as long as I accepted him.

"But, she hadn't the intelligence to see what she'd done was wrong and hated me for sending Gilliam away. It was obvious she would never be a wife to me, not that I wanted her any more. When she became ill, I dismissed her complaints as a spoiled child's manipulation. She begged to see her mother. I would not allow it. I could not tolerate the truth of their actions coming to light.

"Then, she began to bleed. We called the midwife, but there was nothing to be done. It was late in the pregnancy, and we hoped the babe might live." He shrugged uneasily. "Something went wrong. She died. Gilliam's son died, both sacrificed to my pride."

She slipped her arms around him and held him tightly. He sighed, then lifted her face to kiss her cheek. "My guilt over her death has driven me to do a number of things I now have cause to regret. You were right."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "About what?"

"Maeve." He paused for a brief instant. "I think I brought her here to absolve myself of her sister's death. To find my own peace, I had to blind myself to what she was and what she did. This I managed quite successfully until you arrived. But you, you forced, nay demanded, that I acknowledge a truth that I just as stubbornly refused to see. No doubt I would have destroyed us both over her had she, herself, not confronted me. Last night, when I received Oswald's message, I sent my man into our chamber—"

Her heart clung to his naming his chamber theirs.

"—to retrieve my armor. When he returned, Maeve followed him. She made me a proposition I found most foul, the same one that you had earlier suggested and for which you had been named liar. Although I sent her back to their room, I told her I intended to speak with John about her when I returned with the bishop."