Stuart, Elizabeth (24 page)

He
shifted again, stretching himself over her, matching his body to hers as she
curled around and into him. Her breasts ached, the lower half of her body was
heavy and aching and tight with the need for more.

And
then with one sharp, tearing thrust of his body, she had more. He was buried
inside her, rigid and swollen, a forced and painful intimacy that was suddenly overwhelming.
This wasn't at all what she had expected, wasn't the exquisite thing his body
had promised at all.

She
whimpered and shifted against him, easing the pain, tightening her arms around
his neck, instinctively seeking reassurance. She had never felt so vulnerable
in all her life as she did stretched out here beneath him like this.

"That's
all the pain, love," he whispered shakily, kissing her mouth, her throat,
holding himself back with an effort. "The rest, I do promise you'll
like."

He
waited a few seconds, kissing her, stroking her, letting her body adjust to
his. Then he shifted deeper, fitting himself tighter, and Jocelyn forgot to be
uncomfortable. He drew out of her and began to thrust, a deep internal stroking
that reawakened the need, that sent every other awareness spinning into
blackness.

Jocelyn
groaned and grasped his shoulders, burying her face against his throat, digging
her fingernails into his back as some incredible explosive force began to
gather. All pride and poise and dignity disappeared. She arched into him, clung
to him, as their bodies strained and slid together, as sensation built on
sensation until she thought she would surely die.

Awareness
blurred, reality spun away. She was barely aware that he was groaning,
shuddering, gasping out her name. She hung mindless, quivering—the essence of
eternity somehow distilled.

And
then her whole being shattered, convulsed.

Anguish.

Wave
upon wave of unendurable pleasure that swept over her and away.

She
was gasping, almost sobbing for breath as the convulsions began to ebb, as the
wild throbbing pleasure began to fade.

For
several moments she lay still, eyes closed, every last vestige of control and
self-protection crumbled and torn away. Reality began to return but it was
difficult to reorient herself.

Then
her husband was rolling off of her, and the emptiness between her thighs was
unbearable. A long, shuddering breath slipped from her. She couldn't believe
what she had done, the shameless way she had behaved.

God,
dear God in heaven, why didn't he say something?

Robert
shifted to one side, drawing her into the curve of his shoulder. "Judas,
love... I do believe we owe Edward of Pelham far more even that I had first
thought."

Jocelyn
lay perfectly still, afraid to believe she had heard correctly. "What do
you mean?" she managed in a small voice.

Robert
gave a low, throaty laugh, his arms tightening around her, drawing her even
closer. "If I'm not badly mistaken, I think you must know."

She
drew in a shaky breath. "Were you... pleased?"

"Judas,
madam, if I'd been any more pleased, I'd not be breathing now!"

She
said nothing further and Robert pushed up on one elbow, staring down at his
wife. She looked incredibly beautiful lying here beside him, but she also
seemed terribly unsure. How could any woman be so responsive, so wildly
uninhibited in her lovemaking, and then look so guarded and uncertain now that
it was done?

But
then Jocelyn didn't like being vulnerable—that much he'd learned. And this did
make a person vulnerable in the most intimate and personal of ways. He'd
learned early in life that sex was a pleasure. He hadn't known until marriage
that it could be a weapon more vicious than any blade.

Marguerite
had been a master at using it to tease and torment, to humiliate and cripple
and maim. He'd given her that power because he had worshiped her. She had tried
to use it to bend him to her purpose. And when she hadn't been successful at
that, she'd done her best to destroy him. She hadn't even stopped at using her
own son.

He
frowned and drew in his breath. There was no place for Marguerite in this bed.
"I'm thinking, love, on how best to tell you how very much you did please
me," he said. "And realizing there's no good way to put what just
happened between us into words."

"Is
it always... like that?" she asked softly, raising wide, wondering eyes to
his.

"For
the man there is always some pleasure. But seldom, I assure you, quite like
that. For the woman it depends on the man, I think." He hesitated.
"And on how the woman feels about him."

He
drew her closer, let one hand range up her body to stroke and fondle her
breast. Her skin was rose-petal softness. He couldn't get enough of touching
it, was already wanting the feel of her against him again. "Did I please
you?" he asked, wanting her answer while knowing full well that he had.

Her
eyes lifted to his. They were soft and liquid and just now they looked very
green. "Very much. But then, I imagine you know that."

He
smiled. "I wanted to be able to talk to you before our marriage but there
wasn't time. I didn't want you forced unwilling into this."

"I
was many things that day, Robert. Unwilling wasn't one of them."

He
bent and kissed her then, long and slow, bending her head back over his arm,
making her arch her breasts against his bare chest. "Just think," he
whispered, nuzzling the curve of her throat, "if we are this good without
practice, what it will be like when we finally do get it right."

To
his utter delight, Jocelyn began to laugh—deep and throaty and sensual. He
lifted his head and stared. He had never heard his wife laugh before.
"You've a mouth made for that," he said. "Laughter and kisses.
Don't be stingy with them, sweet. I crave them already as a starving man does
food."

"I've
never done much of either, but I hope to do a great deal more now." She
gave him a teasing smile as she lifted one hand to his chest, trailed it
slowly, experimentally down his body. "For the woman it depends on the
man, you know. At least someone did tell me that once."

He
groaned as her hand slid lower, couldn't suppress his laughter at the look of
awed satisfaction that lit her face as the thrill of her power began to dawn.

"Judas,
madam, and to think I did keep myself from you last night, worrying you might
be shy of me."

His
teasing, confident temptress vanished. "Am I supposed to be shy?"

"I
was done with shy women when I was barely fifteen." He caught her hand,
guiding it lower. "But whatever you are, Jocelyn, whatever you choose to
be... that is exactly what I want you to be."

***

When
Jocelyn came to her senses the second time that day, she could tell it was
late. She had obviously slept, for the fire in the hearth had burned low and
the room was growing dim.

She
glanced around and discovered she was alone. For a moment she lay unmoving,
wondering if she had dreamed all that had taken place. But then she shifted her
body, felt her muscles protest in several exceedingly odd places.

It
hadn't been a dream. Robert had lain with her, called her his sweetheart and
love, done exquisite, unbelievable things to her body and taught her to do the
same to his.

And
the wonder of it was that he had wanted her. He had left no doubt about that.
He had told her she was beautiful and somehow made her believe it herself. He
had responded to her and with her and in return she had held nothing back, had
flown with him as high and as far as he had wanted to fly.

She
pushed herself up against the pillows. A cup of wine sat on the nearby coffer
and she reached for it, smiling. Robert had obviously poured it for her before
he left.

She
lay back, sipping the wine, aware of a warm, languorous feeling, a sense of
security unlike any she had ever known. Did other people feel like this all the
time? Was this how it was to be wanted, cherished, confident of who and what
you were? Could any contentment ever match such a thing?

She
thought of her sister, of the incredible gift Adelise had given her without
even realizing it. "Oh, Adelise, wherever you are, be happy," she
whispered. "For I do intend to be."

She
heard the outer door open. There were footsteps, muted whispers. Then the
bedchamber door opened, and Robert stepped in. She was struck with renewed
wonder by the sheer improbability of all that had occurred. She, Jocelyn
Montagne, was married to the Lion of Normandy, had just spent the most
unbelievable afternoon of all her life in his bed.

"Good,
you're awake," he said. "I've something to show you."

She
wasn't sure where the words came from, was surprised to hear them sounding in
her own voice. "You've shown me quite enough for one afternoon, my lord.
Not that I'm complaining, mind."

His
smile was incendiary. He crossed the room quickly, bent to take her mouth for a
swift kiss. "I've not shown you nearly enough, madam. But good things do
come to those who wait."

He
lifted his head then, calling for someone to enter. And at once there was a
crowd of milling, chattering people in the room, women with trim and shears and
lengths of cloth: exquisite velvets, finest woolens, the sheerest, softest
linen Jocelyn had ever seen. All were held for her inspection or came tumbling
across the bed in a riotous spill of peacock hues.

Robert
sat down, reaching swiftly for her unsteady wine cup as she clutched the
blanket to her chest and stared. It was too much, too fast. A small fortune in
precious cloth lay here before her eyes. She said as much.

"Aye,
I suppose. But since it came along with those supplies and salt I took from
Shrewsbury, which, madam, do you prefer?"

She
reached out almost reverently, stroking a sumptuous velvet of forest green.
Velvet was a rare and incredibly expensive cloth. While Adelise had several
pieces, she had never owned so much as one scrap. "I... I don't
know," she said, awed. "They're all so beautiful."

He
caught up the green, holding it near her face. "Aye, your instincts are
right." He sent her a swift grin. "In this as in other important
matters."

He
handed the material back to the servant. "Start with this... and that
saffron wool there. And the scarlet. They please me. Use the pattern you cut
from her gown. Your mistress can choose from among the rest tomorrow. Go
now."

Jocelyn
watched in amazement as the women collected their burdens and left. The door
closed, quiet descended. She stared at her husband. "I keep expecting you
to vanish on a puff of smoke."

"I'm
no spirit, madam, evil or otherwise."

"I
don't think it would matter to me even if you were."

They
stared at each other, then he reached out and caught her chin. "If you
keep looking at me like that, my lady de Langley, we are never going to get out
of this room."

"I
believe I might like that."

He
grinned, his beautiful eyes narrowing as he bent and took her mouth for a slow
kiss. "I hope you like my bedchamber equally as much. I have many desires,
madam, but they do
not
include sleeping alone. Most especially not with
you under the same roof. I hope you won't mind moving."

Jocelyn
smiled. She had been hoping he would ask her to share his bedchamber but hadn't
dared ask. "I didn't want to presume. How was I to know you were
interested? You didn't even come to talk with me last night."

"So
that's all the thanks I get for being a gentleman." Robert sat back and
shook his head. "I couldn't help thinking you might not appreciate losing
your maidenhead in the midst of a camp of avidly listening men-at-arms. You
were not exactly quiet this afternoon, you know."

He
grinned as Jocelyn's eyes widened, as a quick flush stained her throat and
flamed across her cheek bones. It was delightful to tease her. "Don't
worry," he added, doing his best not to laugh. "I doubt anyone much
past the great hall heard us here this afternoon."

"Robert,
you... you are joking?"

"Yes."

Her
eyes flashed once, and then she twisted, grabbing up her pillow and thrashing
him across the face and chest with it once, twice, and then a third time before
he could stop laughing and collect himself.

With
the third hit, he was reaching for her, but she was already backing across the
bed, holding that ridiculous blanket to her chest, her expression hovering
between laughter and horror, as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd done.

He
made a swift, sprawling grab across the bed, but his wife was cat-quick. He
found only air.

He
caught a glimpse of her bare body as she slid from the bed, jerking up the
cloak they had discarded during their earlier lovemaking and wrapping it around
herself. He watched, amused, beginning to feel something besides amusement as
well, as she glanced uncertainly toward the door. This was a side of his wife
he'd not seen before, this playful, spontaneous creature who was far more
entrancing than she would ever suspect.

"That's
not going to save you, you know," he drawled. "I wonder what
punishment I should exact for the crime of striking your husband. I've several
extremely
creative ideas."

"You
don't... fight fair," she said breathlessly, her huge eyes gone even
wider.

"I
fight to win, Jocelyn. Always. Remember it."

He
watched her inch toward the door, waited until she had almost reached it. Then
in a flash, he was off the bed and around it, catching her as she got the door
open and was halfway through.

She
shrieked once and began to laugh as he caught her about the waist, swinging her
easily off her feet and dragging her back through the doorway. He grinned and
winked at the wide-eyed maidservant just entering the outer chamber, kicking
the door shut, shoving his wife, struggling and laughing, against the panel.

He
held her there with the weight of his body, sliding his hands up her narrow
ribcage to capture and caress her soft breasts. He felt her shudder against
him, saw desire flame to life in those slanting, green-gold eyes. His body
quickened in response and he studied his wife with a strange kind of awe.

Had
he searched the world over, been able to pick from all the women in the land,
this would have been the one, the woman who most nearly pleased him, who matched
him in all things.

He
kissed the bare expanse of her shoulder, bent his head and began to nuzzle her
breasts. How had he gotten so lucky after all these years of hell?

Jocelyn
tried to squirm out from under him, still laughing, though her laughter had
gone a bit breathless. "Robert... stop!" She pushed at his shoulders.
"We're going to be late getting downstairs."

She
pushed at him again, and he caught her hands, trapping them against the door.

"Robert,
I-I...
oh!"

Her
breathing was becoming unsteady, her chest rising and falling unevenly against
his face. Her hands strained against his and he released them, cupping her
satiny hips against him instead.

Her
fingers settled against his shoulders, began to knead the back of his neck, to
feather restlessly, helplessly, through his hair. "Robert... we do need to
get dressed and go down. There'll be... talk."

That
stopped him. He lifted his head with a wide, incredulous grin. "Jocelyn,
my sweet, if you don't know it, we are already moving into the area of legend
in the talk below stairs. The least we can do is make it truth."

She
was staring at him in such dismay, it was impossible not to laugh. He scooped
her up over his shoulder, one hand riding her bare backside as he crossed the
floor. "You did call me a legend once in this very room, though I doubt
you had
this
in mind. As I distinctly recall, however, I
did!"