Rose of rapture (31 page)

"Nothing," she whispered. "Twas naught."

She set down her chalice and moved toward the antechamber of their room, intending to summon Jocelyn or one of the other maids to help her undress. But Warrick stopped her, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders.

"I do not believe 'twas naught, 'Sabelle," he murmured in her ear, running his hands down her arms caressingly. "If ye want me, ye do but have to speak the words," he told her. "There is no shame in desiring your husband. And ye do desire me, 'Sabelle, do ye not?" he queried softly, turning her around to face him.

"Aye," she breathed at last. "I do not understand how or why, but ye have wakened something in me that has made me want ye."

"'Tis called passion, 'Sabelle." His voice was low and husky; his golden eyes were dark with hunger and gleaming with an odd light. "It pleases me that ye want me," he said. "Go, and tell your maids ye will have no need of them this evening."

When she returned, she found her husband had blown out most of the candles and stripped down to his shirt, which hung open to reveal his sun-bronzed chest matted with dark hair, and to his hose, beneath which she could see plainly the evidence of his desire for her. Slowly, he walked toward her, taking the stecpled cap from her head, allowing her hair to fall in a shining silvery stream to her hips. Then languidly, he began to strip the garments

from her body. When finally she stood naked before him, he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the bed. Briefly, he towered over her, watching her as he cast away the remainder of his clothes, then joined her.

Already, Isabella could feci her body trembling with anticipation, and she knew her husband could feel it too. For a moment, he studied her intently, one hand drawing tiny circles on her belly.

"Why didst thou come to me this eve, 'Sabelle?" he inquired curiously, for though before, after the first few nights of their mating, she had received him willingly enough, this was the first time she had sought to initiate their lovemaking.

"I—I wished to please ye, my lord."

"Why?"

"Because—because although I had not thought it possible, ye are a good husband to me, Warrick. And much as ye dislike our marriage, ye are trying to make it work. It seemed I could do no less."

"I see." He was silent for a moment, then, "And what of Lionel Valeureux, madam?"

"He betrayed my love for him, my lord. I—I try to think of him no more."

"If what ye say is true, then ye have pleased me, my lady, for I wouldst have your loyalty—nay, I demand it."

And my love, Warrick? she wanted to cry out. Wouldst ye have that too if I can ever find it in myself to give? But she did not ask the question. It was enough, for now, that Warrick believed she had put Lionel from her heart and mind. She must go slowly and give their relationship a chance to grow if there was to be something more than desire bom of it.

Gently, she touched her husband's face.

"How could I refuse to give ye my loyalty, my lord? Ye saved my life, Warrick. For that alone, I wouldst give whatever ye asked of me."

"Would ye?"

"I—I wouldst try, my lord. I am trying."

"Then put your arms around my neck, and make love with me, 'Sabelle."

Slowly, she moved into the circle of his warm embrace and met his lips eagerly, if a trifle shyly. Her mouth quivered vulnerably just a little at the intimacy of the kiss, for Warrick's tongue parted her lips demandingly, possessively, as a man who knows it is his right. Savagely, he sought the sweetness that

awaited within, pillaged her mouth until her lips clung desperately to his, craving still more. Almost cruelly, he wrapped his hands in her silver-blond tresses, which billowed out over the pillows, as though to draw her even nearer while he went on kissing her deeply, fiercely, setting her aflame with passion. His tongue darted hotly in and out of her mouth, ravaging her, tracing the outline of her lips searingly until she knew they were bruised and swollen with desire. But she did not care. More boldly now, Isabella followed where his tongue led, licking, caressing, entwining, as she tasted the inside of his mouth, exploring it just as he had done her own. Warrick moaned with pleasure, the low sound mingling with her own whimpers of delight as their mouths pressed feverishly to each other; their breathing became as one.

They gasped for air as Warrick's lips left Isabella's to slash like a whip across her cheek to her temple and the damp, silky strands of her hair. He buried his face in the cascading mane, inhaling sharply the fragrant rose scent of her. Hoarsely, he muttered in her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

"Witch!" he snarled, then, more gently, '"Sabelle, sweetheart."

She thrilled to the words and flung her head back in exultation; her eyes closed; her mouth parted slightly as his lips slid down her throat, his teeth grazing lightly the pale slender column offered up, so bare and trustingly, to him. He laid one hand there, fingers tightening momentarily, possessively, before both palms swept down to cup her breasts.

His mouth found that small, soft, sensitive place on her shoulder and teased the spot tormentingly with teeth and tongue while she writhed beneath him, her blood like quicksilver as it pounded through her veins. He could feel the pulse beating crazily, jerkily, at the hollow of her throat and her nipples growing hard and rigid as his fingers played with them, his thumbs brushing the flushed little peaks.

He lowered his head, pressed his lips to the swollen crests, first one, and then the other. He sucked the ripe buds deliberately, took them between his teeth, his tongue flicking the rosy tips rapidly, swirling about them tauntingly so they stiffened even more with excitement. Tiny electric tingles rippled like shock waves through Isabella's body as she cradled Warrick's head in her hands, stroking his hair gently as his tongue continued to titillate her nipples, his fingers to fondle her breasts.

Something soft and warm stirred in her as she opened her eyes to watch him, and for a moment, she longed for a child of his

making to fill her belly, suckle at her breast. Then his mouth began to travel even lower still, and the feeling passed to be replaced by one even more primitive.

Somehow, he had his wine cup in his hand and was pouring the liquid over her; she could feel it trickling down between her thighs, intertwining with the soft curls and folds of her womanhood, where, even now, his lips were kissing her, his tongue was tasting her, lapping at the wine and honey of her. She trembled uncontrollably at the sweet sensations he was arousing in her, opening the gentle swells of her valley, caressing her rhythmically until she was wet and warm where he touched her, and she yearned for him to fill her deep inside.

His fingers slipped in to stroke the length of her with small, fluttering movements that made her loins quicken unbearably. The little flower of her secret place budded beneath the heat of his tongue, its tiny petals furling and unfurling until suddenly it blossomed wildly, the bursting of its bloom making her arch her hips frantically against his hand that cupped her. Over and over, she cried out with wanting as the throbbing tremors shook her; then, momentarily content, she sighed and breathed deeply with pleasure. She was sated but not yet satisfied. It was she who had wanted to do the taking this eve! How could she have let him sweep her away so utterly when 'twas she who had wished to conquer him?

Her hands sought her husband, drew him up so she could kiss him, taste the moist, musky scent of her that clung to his lips. He moved to enter her. but she denied him, her small palms pushing against his chest until he lay upon his back beneath her, gazing up at her curiously. He started to speak, but she put her hand over his mouth, silencing him.

"Be quiet," she told him softly. "And let me do my will. Ye will not regret it, 1 promise ye."

Gently, she wrapped her fingers in his hair and kissed him tenderly, at first, as though she were yet a shy maid, who had not Iain with him before. She kissed his eyelids and his nose and his mouth. Lightly, very lightly, her eyelashes swept, like butterfly wings, over his cheeks, exciting him in a strange way with their feathery touch, for Warrick had never experienced such before. Then her lips were upon his ear, parting as she breathed a low sigh into the curved shell. Her breath was warm and made him tingle with desire that quickly sharpened as she nuzzled his lobe and bit it gently with her teeth.

His loins stirred, raced. This was an Isabella he had never seen

before, an Isabella who had learned well the lessons he had taught her and was boldly applying her talents to please him. For a moment, he again wondered why. But the thought was fleeting, for soon, she had driven all but his lust for her from his mind.

Lingeringly, sensuously, she pressed the length of her body over his. Then slowly, very slowly, she undulated against him, her flanks rubbing his briefly, enticingly, as her mouth seared its way down his chest, tickling the soft mat of dark fur there. Her lips found his nipples, stimulating them as he had her own, nibbling at them with her teeth, teasing them with her tongue until they hardened as rigidly as her own had done; and she wondered if he felt the same radiating ripples of delight she had known earlier. It seemed he did, for he gave a small groan, and his fingers dug into her back, kneading the sinuous muscles that stirred beneath his hands.

Her mouth drifted down to his belly, then lower still, to his thick strong thighs. Her tongue trailed its way down first one leg, and then the other, tormentingly until, at last, she kissed the spheres of his manhood and let her lips slide tauntingly, languidly, up the bold shaft, then down, then up once more, her tongue flicking quickly along his flesh. When she sensed he could endure no more, she poured what remained of the wine upon him. Then her mouth closed around him, sucking at him, taking him deep into her throat before her tongue swirled about him deliciously, fluttering here and there like a hummingbird until he strained against her and gave a low cry.

She raised her head at the sound; her fondling hands moved to his waist, where they tightened upon him as deliberately she pulled herself up and poised herself above him briefly, then lowered herself upon him, engulfing his fiery sword with her velvet sheath. Again and again, she enveloped him, riding him faster and faster until she could feel the tension in her womanhood building, heightening, and then erupting in a blaze of glory. She clutched him tightly with her dark, molten core as her climax came and, with it, his own, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust into her wildly, crushing her to him, impaling her upon his blade until, at last, they were still.

Warrick's heart pounded crazily in his breast, for he had seldom made love, in the past, in the manner he had just experienced with Isabella. For an instant, he understood what it meant to be taken, for there was no other way in which to describe what his wife had just done to him. Still panting for breath, he stared up at her wonderingly. Her head was flung back; her shinmiering

mane of hair was wet and clinging to her wantonly; her lips were parted as she too rasped for air. Her skin glistened like satin with a fine, dewy sheen and was flushed with the rosy afterglow of their violent lovemaking. He had never seen her look more exciting, more beautiful, like some savage pagan goddess in her naked splendor. He reached up to cup her breasts with his hands as she bent to kiss him one last time before easing herself from him, then curling up next to him, her head on his shoulder.

What had she done to him, his witch of a wife? For somehow, Warrick felt different, changed. Briefly, the alteration puzzled him; then suddenly, he recognized what it was. Brangwen's bitter ghost had ceased to haunt him. To his surprise, he found he could not even recall her face. How could that be when he had loved her so, hated her so? He did not know. He knew only that it was Isabella who now filled his thoughts, Isabella's lovely countenance that shone clear and pure in his mind. Witiiout his even realizing it, a deep sense of peace invaded his soul as, link by link, the chains of his past fell away; and he was free.

"Oh, 'Sabelle," he said. "Oh, 'Sabelle, what magic have ye wrought upon me?"

But the sorceress who had so enchanted him did not answer. She was fast asleep, a soft smile of triumph curved upon her mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Three

ISABELLA AWAKENED IN THE MORNING TO A CHAM-ber full of roses, white roses. Slowly, she sat up and stared with amazement at the room, thinking, for an instant, that she had somehow wandered into the royal gardens. Then the chamber door was flung open wide, and old Alice bustled in, carrying yet another large bouquet.

"Oh, good morning, my lady," the nanna greeted her. "So, you're awake at last, and high time too, for 'tis nearly noon. Still, the Lord said ye were to sleep as long as ye wished, so we didn't disturb ye," Alice rattled on as she set the basket of long-stemmed blossoms down and began rearranging them. "I'll have your breakfast in just a minute, my lady."

"Alice."

"Aye, my lady?"

"Where—where did all these flowers come from?"

"Why, from the courtiers, my lady, all, that is, except for that single bloom lying there on the table. That one came from the Lord. Oh, isn't it exciting, my lady? They've been arriving all mom. Goodness knows where we're going to put them all—"

"Take them away," Isabella directed sofdy as she reached out and picked up the solitary rose that lay beside her bed, for to her, it was the most perfect blossom in the room.

She buried her face in its velvet petals, her fingers trailing caressingly down the gay riband of white silk that had been tied around the stem in a bow.

"I—I beg your pardon, my lady." The nurse, thinking her ears had deceived her, gazed aghast at her mistress. "But did ye say— did ye say—"

"Take them away, all of them, save for this one." Isabella indicated the flower she held in her hand.

"But—but, my lady!" Alice sputtered, stunned. "What—what will I possibly do with them all?"

"Give them to the Church or the poor. I care not. This single bloom is the only one I desire."