Samantha James (16 page)

She swallowed. Her fingers grazed the center of his chest. Heat stormed all through her. Though the impulse to snatch it back was strong, she did not. It spun through her mind that her hand looked small and white there amid the dark forest on his chest.

“I will not forsake the bargain we made,” she whispered. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I-I will not leave, Norman.”

His eyes darkened. “So be it then,” he muttered, “for I can wait no longer.”

His mouth captured hers. Alana surrendered her lips with a low moan. Her spine felt as if it had turned to water. She locked her arms tightly around his neck. The pressure of his mouth was sweetly fierce, but she reveled in it. She could taste the hunger in his embrace, in the way his arms clamped tight and urgent around her back, but her own was just as wild.

Deny him? she thought in amazement. Sweet Mother Mary, she could not. Nor could she deny her own traitorous need for him.

Not once did he break the searing fusion of their lips, not even when he eased her down upon the bed and shifted to lie beside her. Her clothes were swept from her body. Only then did he raise his head. She flushed at the stroke of glittering blue eyes warm upon her naked flesh, but she did not turn away.

He rose next to the bed, his shoulders wide and awesome in the glow of the fire, his torso strong and muscular. He cast away his braies so that he was as naked as she.

Her gaze touched the knotted muscles of his arms, then strayed helplessly lower. Her breath slammed to a halt. He was aroused, and wantonly so, the rigid thickness of his manhood brazenly implicit. She tore her gaze from his rigid arousal and back to his face, only to find he knew of her scrutiny. Heat flooded her face. She was horribly embarrassed to have been caught staring at him so.

He stretched out beside her. His whisper rushed past her ear. “I cannot hide my passion for you, Saxon. But I do not mind that you stare. Indeed, I enjoy it”—he gave an odd laugh—“though not as much as I would enjoy the feel of your hand curled tight around that part of me that yearns for you so.”

Her head jerked up. Why, surely he did not mean that he would have her touch him
there
…surely he would not dare…

Sweet heaven, he did.

She gasped as he tugged her hands against his chest. Of their own volition, her palms slid back and forth over the bristly dark mat on his chest. Hard fingers caught at hers. Her knuckles grazed the ridged plane of his belly. His hand engulfed hers, guiding her down—down!—until her hand was filled with him, with his power and essence.

A strange dark thrill ran through her. His very size and breadth made her shiver, for her palm could hold but half of him. Her fingertips skimmed daintily in a shy, tentative quest. He was hot—so very hot! She was amazed at
his blistering heat and hardness, the satin texture of the sleek round crown that seemed to swell still further. Her pulse thundered wildly in her ears. She felt the muscles of his belly tighten. Then once again his hand clamped around hers as he wordlessly showed her the motion that would please him most.

It was torment—sheer, sweet torment. Yet Merrick would not have given up this moment for all the glory in Christendom. He cast his head back, his powerful neck arched, his eyes half-closed. He gritted his teeth, for her innocent caress drove him half-mad. He bore it until he could stand no more, certain he would spill himself at any moment.

His hand on her shoulders, he eased her gently to her back. Greedy fingers boldly charted warm, feminine flesh that lay open to sight and touch. She was exquisite, her breasts small and firm, tipped with delicate nipples the color of roses. He bent and touched one perfect pink circle with his tongue, then drew her deep into his mouth. He wet her nipples with curling strokes, first one and then the other until they thrust taut and stiff against his tongue. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. The sound of her breath, quick and ragged, inflamed him almost past bearing.

Slowly he raised his head. The heel of his hand slid with unerring intent down the hollow of her belly. His fingers weaved through dark gold curls to find her damp and sweetly wet. He nearly moaned. His heart was pounding so that he could scarcely breathe. His shaft
was throbbing so that he thought he might burst, but he was not yet ready to claim her.

Boldly he found what he sought. Her entire body jerked as he brushed the very pearl of sensation, hidden there within sleek pink folds. It spun through his mind to deepen her pleasure still further, but he sensed she was not yet ready. He felt her stiffen when with one long, strong finger he dipped within the cleft of her womanhood, taunting and teasing. But she did not deny him, and in the next breath her thighs parted of their own will. Her head thrashed back and forth on the pillow. She gasped, her lips were damp and parted. He stared down at her, the rhythm of his hand now blatantly erotic. Wanton sounds of pleasure burst from her throat.

Only then did he lever himself over her, fiercely compelling her to share this pleasure. Palm to palm, he weaved his fingers through hers. The sleek, round crown of his manhood parted damp, golden fleece. Alana gasped anew at the slow slide of his body inside hers, the unyielding pressure. She couldn’t look away as she took him in, all of him; he filled her until there was no more of him to give. His blood pounded with a primitive beat, there where he lay planted so solidly within her.

His whisper was taut and ragged. “I do not hurt you, do I, sweet?”

That he could yet speak was a marvel. It was all he could do not to thrust hot and wild in her clinging heat. The feel of his shaft imbedded
hot and deep in the tight silken prison of her flesh tore at his control. She was so small he knew he’d have hurt her were she not sweetly damp and ready for him.

Alana’s breath tumbled out in a rush. Her body stretched to the limit for he filled her completely, yet there was no pain. She shook her head, unable to tear her gaze from his face. His features were taut and strained, his eyes burning like embers.

She nearly cried out as he withdrew, all hard and sleek and glistening. And then he was inside her again, deeper than she thought possible.

His hands slid down to cup her buttocks. Her own slid around to his back. Her nails dug into his skin. A coil of heat gathered there in the place he possessed so fully. She breathed his name, and then again as a piercing delight shot through her. “Merrick…
Merrick
.”

It was as if something snapped deep within him. He crushed her to him, catching her cry with his mouth. His kiss was wildly devouring. He plunged again and again, mindlessly hungry. Guided by instinct alone, the churning of her hips met his in perfect tempo, faster and faster. Then suddenly sparks seemed to burst, showering all through her. At the same instant, he exploded within her, scalding her with his seed.

Time spun adrift. She was scarcely aware as Merrick eased his body from hers. He pulled her tight against his side, tugging the furs over her shoulders. Utterly spent, Alana released a
long pent-up sigh, feeling as if her very bones had melted. A curious peace settled over them, a peace she was reluctant to break.

Instead it was Merrick who broke it. With a muffled curse, he propped himself up on an elbow. Alana frowned up at him sleepily. “What is it?” she murmured.

He gave an impatient exclamation. “’Tis that accursed cat! Has he been here all the while?”

“You mean Cedric?” She raised her head, following his gaze. She smothered a smile, for it was indeed Cedric. He sat in the corner, leisurely licking one paw. As if he sensed their scrutiny, he raised his head and peered across at them with glowing yellow eyes. He padded across the floor, his tail curling lazily in the air. Alana patted the space beside her. Cedric leaped up, nuzzling his head beneath her hand. Chuckling, she buried her fingertips in his fur, petting him lazily along his spine.

Merrick’s mouth turned down. “Wretched creature!” he muttered. “Only yesterday I bid Simon take him out to the forest and release him.”

Alana looked up. “Ah, but he has nowhere else to go. Like me, would you not say, my lord? Ah, but I forget. I dare not complain, for I have a warm bed and food aplenty.”

The mildness of her tone did not rob her query of its bite. “Do not mock me,” he growled.

“Why, surely I would not dare,” she stated sweetly. “After all, you are my lord and conqueror, are you not?”

“Aye, that I am.” A slow smile claimed his lips. He leaned close. “So tell me, Saxon. Did your lord and conqueror please you?”

Oh, but the glint in his eye should have given her fair warning…“I wonder that you should ask after my pleasure and not your own,” she snapped.

His laughter was low and husky. Alana glanced at him sharply. Her heart fluttered strangely, for she could have sworn there was something of tenderness in his expression…

Cedric slipped away to settle at the foot of the bed. Alana shivered as a lone fingertip traced the delicate slope of one bare shoulder. “If you pleased me any more, Saxon, the whole of Brynwald would know it.”

Alana’s cheeks flared crimson. She hid her face in his shoulder before he could see it. But all at once he rolled so that she lay atop him. Stunned, Alana blinked down at him in confusion.

His hand caressed the tumbled glory of her hair. “Aye,” he said again, his gaze on her lips. “You pleased me, Saxon…and no doubt will yet again this night.”

And alas, she did.

The pair were not the only ones to find little sleep that night. Genevieve watched over her charge, as vigilant as a mother tending her babe. Radburn’s fever climbed ever higher, but she did not want to awaken Alana, for it was just as she’d said—such
things as fever were not beyond her realm of experience.

First she filled a basin with tepid water. She dipped a linen cloth in the water, then drew it slowly over his naked torso. His legs thrashed; he kicked away the sheet. Beneath the feeble covering he wore only his braies.

Deep in her breast, her pulse began to clamor. Of a certainty she was no stranger to the sight of a man’s naked chest, though this man’s was most impressive. Her gaze wandered at will; she felt herself blush at the sight of him.

No doubt he was a knight well-skilled with lance and sword, she mused. The muscles of his chest, shoulders and arms were cleanly defined, round and sculpted. Genevieve swallowed. Her eyes flitted to his face.

His hair was dark as midnight, long and tousled on his forehead. His lashes were dark and curved, his chin square and strong; his nostrils long and flaring. But it was his mouth that captured her attention for endless moments. Carved in harshly beautiful lines, she could not prevent herself from staring.

Her stomach fluttered. She felt curiously breathless. Her thoughts ran wild. The Saxon named Radburn was very handsome…Her hand stilled. A pang rent her breast. Indeed, she’d not thought of any man as handsome since Philippe had died…

God in heaven, his eyes were wide open—and dwelled full upon her! To her shock—and then dismay—he sat up.

She tried to press him back. “Nay, Radburn!” she cried. “You must not rise yet! You are too ill!”

A strange bright light flared in the eyes that roved her face. “You are a beauty, lady,” he murmured. “Aye, a beauty beyond price.” His voice was raspy as dry tinder, yet strangely pleasing.

It flitted through her mind that he was not himself, that he did not know her. Her hands fluttered against his shoulders. She was acutely aware of the feel of his skin, hot as fire, yet sleek and resilient beneath her fingertips.

An odd shiver raced through her. She raised her face to his. “I beg you,” she implored. “Please, Radburn, you must lie back, else surely you will harm yourself!”

His gaze had settled on her mouth. “A kiss,” he said hoarsely. “A kiss and I will do as you say.”

He gave her no chance to argue. His head descended. His mouth came down on hers. Genevieve’s eyes flew wide. She yielded with a low moan. Unbidden, her arms slid around his neck, even as his own clamped her hard and tight against his naked chest.

And she cared not. It was wanton; it was wicked, but she was unable to summon the will to deny him. Her lips trembled, then parted beneath the demanding pressure of his. Her heart cried out, even as a thrill shot through her. She’d felt no desire for a man since Philippe had been gone, but faith! it felt so good to be held fast against a man’s breast.
To be kissed and to feel passion burst into flames inside her.

Why it should happen now, with this fierce Saxon knight, she did not know. She knew only that it seemed somehow right…

Her head was spinning by the time Radburn raised his own. Genevieve struggled for composure, for she knew not what madness had possessed her.

She could feel his gaze on her face, hot and burning. Somehow she found the courage to lift her eyes to his. “Please,” she said shakily. “Please, Radburn, you must rest.” Trembling hands urged him back. For a moment she feared he might argue. Then all at once he leaned back, as if he were exhausted. His lids half-closed, then all at once he flung out a hand, groping for hers.

Strong fingers weaved through hers. “Stay with me, beauty,” came his raspy voice. “Stay…”

Soon he slept. Genevieve kept vigil the night through, caressing his brow, soothing with gentle whispers when he restlessly tossed and turned.

She gave a fervent prayer of thanksgiving, for by morning, his fever had broken…

Her fingers were still twined with his.

T
he following morn Merrick told Alana he would allow her to visit Aubrey—but only with Simon as escort.

Not that Alana minded. His change of heart was wholly unexpected…yet undeniably pleasing. Nay, she dared not question his decision for fear he would change his mind.

The days grew short, the nights long and dark. She spent as much time as possible with Aubrey, for his frail condition worried her. Soon winter spread its chill across the land, freezing lakes and rivers, blanketing hills and forest with glistening frost and snow.

Though neither she nor Merrick spoke of it, little by little the days wrought a subtle change in their relationship.

Life with Merrick of Normandy was not the unbearable struggle she had feared. Nay, no longer did she look upon him with fear and outrage.

By day a state of wary caution prevailed. No longer did they seek to wound one another with words and wit. And the nights…the
nights were spent in a blaze of passion, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Merrick had only to glance at her to kindle a soul-deep yearning unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Bleakly she despaired her weakness. She had made a vow that she would not do battle with him, and so she did not. But many was the night she sought to hold herself aloof, ever distant that he might claim her body and ne’er her heart. But Merrick was not a man to be denied.

And God save her soul, she possessed not the strength to deny him.

Yet trust did not come easy for either of them.

She watched him oft when he held manor court in the hall, resolving the grievances of those he now ruled. Mayhap she expected to find fault with his judgment, yet she could not do so.

On this particular day in early February, she stood near the winding stairs, quietly listening to Merrick pass judgment.

“Two drunken Norman soldiers seized every sack of grain in my hut!” complained a peasant named Filbert from the village. “They cut them open and scattered the grain to the wind. I have five hungry mouths to feed, my lord. But now I have naught to feed them!”

Merrick sat upon his chair, stroking his chin. “Do you know the identities of these two Norman soldiers?”

“I do,” Filbert proclaimed stoutly. “Tis the
pair there, my lord!” He pointed to two soldiers along the wall who had been laughing to each other while the villein spoke. As Merrick’s gaze swiveled to them, their laughter ceased abruptly.

“Armand. Marcel. What have you to say to this man’s charges?”

The one called Armand opened his mouth, yet no words were forthcoming. Marcel said quickly, “Why, of course the man is mad, my lord.”

Filbert shook his head. “Mad, am I? The others said I was surely mad to bring this matter before you. But I told them you were a man to bring justice fairly, even against your own men! And I saw them with my own eyes, and so did my wife!”

Merrick glanced at his soldiers. His voice took on a note of steel. “I would have the truth now, Armand. Marcel. Did you steal this man’s grain?”

This time it was Armand who stepped forward. “We did, my lord,” he muttered.

Merrick transferred his gaze to the villein. “I will replace the grain you lost from Brynwald’s stores.” He gestured to one of his men. “Jean, take him to the grainery and see that it is done. As for you, Armand and Marcel, when spring arrives you will perform seven days’ labor in Filbert’s fields.”

As the next case was called, Alana turned away, her expression thoughtful. In truth, Merrick administered justice fairly and without bias to both Norman and Saxon alike. It
was then…then that Alana came to admit the veriest truth of all…

Merrick of Normandy was scarcely the monster she had once accused him of being. He was a man such as her father had been, strong but honorable, both fair and prudent.

Yet her heart lent her no ease. Never had she been so torn! Torn between loyalty to her father’s memory and her fledgling feelings for Merrick.

She dare not love him. She
did
not love him. For despite all, he would ever remain her lord and conqueror…

Sybil was less than pleased about the turn of events. She watched the pair as they watched each other—Merrick with dark, burning eyes and Alana with vague unease. At table Alana was nearly always at his side or at his knee. And many was the night when Merrick stood, silently extending a hand to her.

Her generous mouth slid down at the corners.
Bah!
It was beyond imagination why Merrick had taken her pale, skinny sister to his bed—more astounding yet that he had yet to replace her with another! Castle gossip was such that it seemed he fancied no other. Surely her own body was far more pleasing, Sybil decided with disdain. She ran an approving hand over the mounds of her breasts, then smiled slyly. Alana was not half so generously endowed. And her hips were wide and ample as well, well able to accommodate a man the size of Merrick. The very thought of coupling with a knight such as he made her hot and wet.

And surely Merrick would be a virile, demanding lover. Her smile withered. Of a certainty the silly wench Alana possessed far less knowledge of what might please such a man than she! She scowled as she rounded a corner of the passageway.

Her foul mood did not last long. Raoul stood there at the far end of the corridor. His eyes agleam, he beckoned to her.

Her fanciful musings vanished. While Merrick might be her chosen one, Sybil had no qualms about taking her pleasures where she might find them. And Raoul was a most satisfying lover. Indeed, she’d never known a man who could please her for hours on end.

It did not take long for the pair to find what they sought—an empty chamber.

Within seconds she stood naked before him. “You have neglected me, my lusty Norman prince.” She cupped her breasts in her hands as if to offer them for his approval. As she knew full well it would, his breathing grew rough and his rod swelled full and erect before her very eyes.

He gave a hoarse laugh. “Not for long, my pet.” With his hands he squeezed both breasts, then bent to suck both turgid nipples. Sybil whimpered her pleasure and wantonly arched herself into him. His head came up and he ravaged her mouth with his tongue. He pulled her roughly toward him, his hands on her hips, grinding himself against her mound.

Sybil gasped and opened her thighs. With her nails she raked at his tunic until she encountered naked skin. But she was not content with that for long. Her hands dipped boldly into his braies, shoving them down his thighs until she found what she sought. His prick jutted forth, thick and heavy and distended in her palm.

Smiling, she wet her lips with her tongue. With the pressure of his hands on her shoulders, he thrust her down before him. Before long, a guttural moan ripped from deep in his chest.

In their haste to grapple with the other, neither realized they’d failed to fully close the heavy oaken portal.

Outside in the passageway, Alana was on her way to Genevieve’s chamber. On hearing the sounds of movement within an unoccupied chamber, she stopped, her gaze puzzled. It was then she noticed the door ajar. Moving nearer, she peered through the narrow opening.

For the space of a heartbeat, she was convinced her eyes deceived her. Her jaw sagged. A strangled sound of disbelief caught in her throat. Little did she realize she was backing away until she collided with a tall hard form.

Merrick caught her elbow. He took in at a glance her horrified expression. “Alana! What is amiss?”

Alana could only shake her head wildly. “Raoul,” she gasped. “Sybil…”

Just then there arose a series of short, shrill
feminine cries, followed by an ever-increasing hammering.

Alana went pale. “Sweet Jesus,” she breathed. She fought like a creature of the wild when Merrick snagged her arm and proceeded to drag her in the opposite direction.

She jerked her arm free. “Stop! I cannot leave Sybil there with him—”

“What is between those two is best left unheard by others, Saxon.”

The sight of Raoul, his hands tangled in Sybil’s hair, burned through her mind. “You did not see what I did!” she cried.

By now they were alone in their chamber. He folded his arms across his chest and arched a brow. “What, then, did you see?”

Alana’s cheeks flamed. “I-I cannot tell you,” she stammered.

“Aye, but you can, Saxon.”

He was insistent. Determined. He prodded and probed until—little by little—the scene she had witnessed came out all in a rush.

But Merrick did not have a shred of sympathy for Sybil. Indeed, his lips were twitching, as if he found the incident vastly amusing.

Alana’s ire spiraled. She did not find Sybil’s plight so amusing. She straightened indignantly. “You are cruel!” she accused. “Raoul is a beast. Why, ’tis surely some Norman perversion—”

“I assure you, Saxon, it is not. Why, I’ll wager he’s done the very same to her.”

Alana blanched. Did he seek to make her appear the simpleton—or, God in heaven, was
it true? “Nay,” she said faintly. “Such things cannot be…” She spun around, unable to face him any longer. All at once she felt immensely foolish and naive.

Merrick was sorely tempted to laugh again, for her eyes were enormous, her face the color of fire.

His arms stole around her from behind. He pulled her back against the solid wall of his chest, then rested his chin on the shining cap of her hair.

Warm breath rushed past her ear. “There are some who say ’tis a feast of the senses…the most wondrous sensation a man and woman can bestow on each other.”

He turned her so that her hands were splayed on his chest. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the rasp of dense, dark fur. There was a familiar tightening low in her belly. Still, she felt compelled to say, “But you heard Sybil scream…Raoul was hurting her…”

“All screams are not screams of pain, sweet.” He nuzzled the baby-soft skin behind her ear. “Need I remind you?” Slowly he turned her in his arms. All traces of laughter left his features. A finger beneath her chin, he raised her face to his.

“’Twould be my very great pleasure to show you, Saxon,” he said quietly.

And God above, he did.

He undressed her slowly, his features solemnly intent. Then he shed his own clothing and carried her to the bed. There was a melting sweetness to his lovemaking that robbed
her of breath. His hands were everywhere. She trembled as he feasted greedily on the achingly sensitive tips of her breasts, suckling and tugging.

His head moved lower, his lips skimming the hollow of her belly. Her breath snagged deep in her throat. In one smooth move he dragged her legs over his shoulders, and then what feeble protests she might have made died on her lips. All thought fled her mind.

His breath touched her first, warm and damp. And then he was there between her thighs, with the lapping stroke of his tongue, darting and teasing. A jolt of sheer delight shot through her, for he was right. It was wondrous. She closed her eyes and arched against him, searching for the elusive torment of his tongue, until at last she felt it there;
there
at the very heat and heart of her core. Her hands twisted into the sheets. But he was insistent. Determined. Her teeth dug into her lower lip as she sought to withhold a cry of pleasure.

Her breath was ragged and her chest heaved when at last he raised himself above her; Merrick’s eyes were fiercely aglow. She couldn’t look away as he bound his hips to hers. He came inside her slowly, plunging until he had no more to give, driving them both half-mad. Filled with the rigid thickness of his manhood, she clutched at his arms.

He bent his dark head to hers. “Your ferocious little beast once left his marks on my back,” he said against her lips. “But I’d not mind if you did the same, sweet.”

With that he began to move, so very slowly at first, then faster and faster until he was thrusting almost wildly, out of control. But Alana did not care. The friction of his body on hers—
in
hers—was more than she could bear. Pleasure, heady and dark, swirled all around her. Caught up in the same mindless frenzy as he, her nails dug into the smoothness of his shoulders, then slid down to capture his wildly churning buttocks. All at once, rapture burst inside her. Overwhelmed with an abandon she’d not known she possessed, broken cries of sheer bliss tore from her lips. Above her she felt a shudder wrack his entire body. The scalding heat of his seed erupted inside her, again and again, his climax as powerful and torrid as hers.

She drifted back to awareness slowly. Only then did she realize how very wanton she had been. Caught snug against his side, a muscled arm wrapped tight about her back, she ducked her head against his shoulder.

“’Tis wicked,” she whispered, “the things you do…the way you make me feel, Norman.”

Beneath her cheek, she felt his chest vibrate in a rare chuckle. He caught a length of golden hair and wrapped it round his fist.

“Wicked, eh?” This time a laugh full-blown emerged. “Faith, how could anyone believe you a witch? You are an innocent.”

Aye, it took but a single burning caress to rob the very breath from her lungs. Alana was not proud of the way her body betrayed her
anew every time they came together. She could withhold nothing, and her lack of control was frightening.

It was that very truth that weighed heavy on her mind the night through and into the next afternoon. She trudged along next to Simon as they approached the village to visit Aubrey. Merrick had gone to York. Though the day was unusually sunny, the snow bright and glistening, it was unearthly cold. The fur-lined mantle Merrick had brought her from London lay heavy and snug around her shoulders, yet still a chill seeped through. But so intent were her thoughts on Merrick that she didn’t realize Simon had stopped until he sharply called her name.

They were not alone.

A small group of men mounted on horses had halted just ahead of them.

“Ho, there!” one of them called. “I would ask a boon of you, mistress.”

Alana hesitated. She recognized the man as Saxon by his speech and by his garb. His tone was pleasant enough, yet there was a lean, hungry air to the lot of them that lent her no ease. Their tunics were ragged and filthy. Beside her, she felt Simon stiffen as well.