Tempt Me With Kisses (15 page)

Tonight. In this very bed…

She nervously rearranged the ties at the bodice of her shift. She studied the effect, then loosened them a little and pulled her bodice down a bit more, until her cleavage was visible. She was no beauty, but her body wasn’t without merit.

Maybe she should be naked. That would probably surprise and distract him.

Once more she cursed the day she had met Iain MacLachlann and wished she really was coming to Caradoc with no past follies to darken her desire, free and unencumbered, a virgin to the nuptial bed.

For a moment, dismay and shame clouded her thoughts and feelings. She could imagine Iain standing before her, mocking her for a fool if she thought she could forget him and trick Caradoc into believing she was a virgin.

At that vision, energy and determination shot through her. She could forget Iain and what he had done, how he had made her feel used and stupid.

He had been so triumphant the morning after he seduced her—so proud of himself, so sure of his worth, so confident he had completely conquered her and that her money would soon be his. He had spoken of what he intended to do with her dowry as bluntly as if she were his steward keeping track of his coin. She had known then, fully and completely, that he had never wanted her for herself alone. He had wanted her money, and by seducing her, he was sure he had it.

She had not let him defeat her. She had left him and found another, more worthy man to marry, and she would do everything in her power to make certain Caradoc of Llanstephan never knew of her past, or regretted marrying her, despite his people’s objections.

Father Rhodri had both looked and sounded as if he were condemning them to eternal damnation when he blessed both their union and the simple gold band she now sported on her left hand. Cordelia had fidgeted as if standing on hellish coals, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if Ganore had shouted denunciations all the way through.

Mercifully—or perhaps in view of Caradoc’s fiercely determined expression—nobody had said a thing. Not before, not during, not after. Indeed, it had been one of the grimmer marriage ceremonies Fiona had ever experienced, until her Bordeaux wine began to flow. Then had come the laughter and the merriment and the singing, from everybody except Cordelia and Ganore, and Father Rhodri, who had not even stayed to eat.

Footsteps. Coming toward this chamber.

Caradoc!

Her heart started to pound and her hands felt clammy. She chewed her lip and slid lower beneath the coverings.

The door to the chamber opened. The lover of her girlish dreams stood there, illuminated by the spluttering rushlight in his hand, while the sound of men singing came louder through the open door.

The dull light flickered on Caradoc’s face, across the planes and angles, reminding her once more—as if she needed it—that the boy was a boy no longer, but a man in his prime.

So different from Iain, in so many ways. So wonderfully, excitingly different.

She would make Caradoc glad she had come. She would make him happy that she had offered him her body as well as her bounty, and in doing so, she would cleanse even the intimate memories of Iain from her mind, as they had been banished from her heart the moment he raised his head and smiled his smug, satisfied smile that had nothing of love in it at all.

Caradoc did not enter. As her heartbeat quickened and abated, then quickened again, he simply waited there, until she began to wonder if he was drunk or expecting her to say something.

Finally, before she could guess what might be the appropriate thing to say, he came into the room and closed the door. His steps were firm and steady, so she knew he was not drunk. Indeed, she realized he was as sober as she, and that was
very
sober.

He crossed the room and set the light on the windowsill.

He hesitated again, looking out the window, but she didn’t get the impression he was looking at or for anything specific.

Why, he seemed … shy!

By the saints, after his previous behavior, shy would have been the last word she would have used to describe Caradoc of Llanstephan.

The worst of her anxiety dissipated like smoke in the open air. “I feared you were going to stay below and sing all night.”

“No.”

He seemed so like a lad both dreading and hoping for a girl’s first kiss, she took pity on him and threw back the coverlet. She rose and went to him, wrapping her arms about his waist and laying her head against his broad, muscular back, the wool warm against her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”

He was so tense! It was tempting to tell him to relax, that she was not a timid girl who did not know full well what was about to happen.

She dare not, but she could tell him something of her feelings. “I didn’t come here just because you were the only poor nobleman in Britain, Caradoc. I had very pleasant memories of you.”

She crept around him, her arms still holding him, until she was between him and the window. She tilted her head and smiled. “Don’t you want to kiss your bride?”

He didn’t answer with words. He gathered her into his powerful arms and kissed her. Gently. Tenderly. Wonderfully, his mouth sliding over hers, teasing her senses, arousing her passion. Desire, pent-up and eager, pushed against the edges of her control, urging her to lose herself in his arms.

Not yet, for her mind persisted in comparing him to her first lover, who was the loser in that contest.

Until Caradoc shifted, holding her tighter, his mouth claiming hers with sure purpose and blatant desire, and at last the memory of Iain’s kisses and his touch upon her skin sank and departed, drowned and destroyed by Caradoc’s lips and hands and passionate attention.

Delicious trills of sensation skittered about her body, settling at last where a new throbbing began. This felt so good, so right, she shivered with the delight of it and leaned into him, relaxing into his embrace, giving herself to him, and all but begging him to take her then and there.

“You are cold.” He let go and she almost whimpered with frustration. “Get into bed.”

That was not why she shivered, and she wanted nothing more than to caress his strong arms and warrior’s body, to tell him how he aroused her. But she was an actor tonight, and so must act as if this was all new and unexpected, which was not going to be nearly as difficult as she had feared. With him, it was as if she had only sipped before, but now was going to drink deep.

She watched him disrobe. Surely a bride watching the groom was not strange. Besides, he was so attractive, she could not bring herself to look away as his body was revealed in the light of the candle and rush.

He was simply magnificent. His shoulders were broad, his chest and back muscled, his waist lean. He bore no scars of battle or injuries. His long hair brushed his naked shoulders as he ran his hand through it in a gesture that seemed at once self-conscious and natural before he bent down to tug off his boots.

“Why is your hair so long?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“I like it that way,” he answered, his voice muffled as his second boot fell upon the floor.

He turned away to remove his breeches, again giving her the impression he was shy, and suddenly she wanted to giggle with delight.

That urge passed when he faced the bed. Shy? She had thought him shy? If he had been, that had certainly fled.

This time,
she
looked away, abashed by the glory of his naked body.

He went to blow out the rushlight and the candle, enveloping them in a welcome, intimate darkness.

She shifted when he lifted the covers, letting in a brief blast of cool air as he slid beneath them. He did not immediately embrace her. “In truth, I seldom think about my hair and nobody except Dafydd dares to tell the lord of Llanstephan that he is as shaggy as a sheep before shearing. I will have it trimmed tomorrow.”

His voice came from the darkness as if he were a spirit. She vaguely remembered a legend about Cupid, the god of love, who had come to his wife invisible. It was not difficult to imagine Caradoc as the god of love. For years he had been the god of her daydreams.

“No, not if you do that for my sake,” she answered. “I like it.”

It made him different from Iain in one more way, and she would have all the reminders she could of the disparity between them.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” It was more a sigh than a word.

“Come to your husband, Fiona,” he whispered as he ran his fingertips down her bare arm.

Her whole body started to quiver like a drawn bowstring as she turned toward him.

“I promise I will be as gentle as I can,” he murmured as he put his arm around her.

He was mistaken about that, too, for she trembled not with fear, but with anticipation, excited even beyond the expectations that had burst into life the moment she saw him approaching her in the hall the day she had arrived.

His warm breath stirred her hair brushing her cheek just before his mouth took hers as if asking for permission, not demanding his rights or in fierce and boastful conquest. She gladly gave him that permission, returning his kiss with the passion he called forth from deep within her.

She tried not to be too eager at first, but she could not hold back. She leaned against him, feeling the length of his body against hers, the only barrier the thin silk of her shift, and gave herself up to his soul-stirring and amazing kisses.

With a low moan of pleasure, she let him part her lips with his tongue, masterful and yet still gentle. His tongue slid inside her mouth, making their kiss yet more intimate.

She ran her fingers through his thick dark hair and pulled him even closer, as if she would consume him with her yearning. Still kissing, he laid her on her back and began to loosen the tie of her shift.

Thinking of his pleasure, she slowly lowered her hands, letting them drift and brush and caress his chest, her fingertips grazing the hairs, then discovering his nipples.

He stilled.

“Should I not touch you there?”

“I like it,” he murmured as the tie came undone and he nuzzled her garment lower with his chin. “Very much.”

Gripping his arms, she raised herself and flicked her tongue where her fingers had been at play. He threw back his head, and groan rumbled from his throat.

“You like that, too?” she whispered.

“Aye. So will you.”

He pushed her back and swiftly bent to kiss the valley between her breasts. As he leaned his weight on one arm, he pleasured one breast with his gentle touch while he licked and kissed the other, sending torrents of excitement through her along taut lines of wondrous tension.

His hand left her breast and traveled lower, then lower still.

He must be more excited than I
. With that thought on the fringe of her consciousness, she reached for him. She, too, let her hand move lower, then lower still.

By the saints! She snatched her hand away. He was … not like Iain, and for the first time since she had seen the heartless triumph in Iain’s eyes, she was glad she was not a virgin; otherwise, she probably would have been terrified to think of what Caradoc was going to do with his magnificent body.

“It will not hurt much if you let me prepare you,” he said, his voice low and tender as he raised his head and looked at her, his hand still making its leisurely progress over her body. “I will not force you until you are ready.”

Again, he misunderstood, but once more, she was not about to tell him that, or why. “What of you? Do you not need to be prepared?”

“I am already prepared.
Very
prepared.”

His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shift and began to slowly push it upward, baring her to his fingers. “You have lovely legs, Fiona.”

She let herself enjoy the exquisite sensations that built and built the higher his hand went. “How do you know?”

His hand returned to her ankle. “By this,” he said, circling her ankle with his fingers. “Slender and supple.” His hand slid along the curve of her calf. “And this.” Past her knee. “Not too bony.” To her thigh. “Wonderful,” he breathed.

She could not prevent a wiggle as his fingertips moved between her thighs. Prepared? She was more than prepared.

But it was too soon yet. He was still thinking too much of her. “What of you, my lord? Have you not fine legs, too?”

She had to sit up a bit to reach his ankle. “Firm and strong.” She trailed her hand up his calf. “Excellent muscle.” Past his knee. “Not bony, either.” To his thigh. “More excellent muscle.” He sighed as she moved her hand again to encircle him.

Pleased, she stroked him, then used her tongue to pleasure his nipples, tentatively at first, so that he did not suspect she had some experience in these matters.

After what seemed a very brief time, he pulled her to him, then rolled so that she was beneath him, her shift bunched about her waist.

“I thought your kisses were marvels,” he muttered as he settled himself between her legs.

His mouth swooped down upon hers, hot and passionate. She tried to think, to maintain some level of awareness that would enable her to control this, but it was impossible. In an instant, she was lost on an ocean of sensation, guided only by his lips and his touch as he kissed and caressed and stroked.

Making her ready. Aye, and more. Desperate. Demanding. Anxious. Needy. She moaned and sighed and whimpered as he stoked the fires of her passion, until she was ready to beg him to take her and end the exquisite torture.

She didn’t have to ask, for he sensed it.

She felt him prepare to enter her and from the desire-drenched core of her mind came a warning that this was the moment when she must take the most care.

A moment that should have been wonderful, spoiled by that thought, and her own foolishness.

He hesitated again, as if trying to read her thoughts, her feelings.

Should she make the first move now, or leave that to him?

Him. He must be the experienced one here.

She ran her hands over his chest, touching, teasing, inflaming him more, wanting him to be so immersed in arousal he paid only slight heed to her as she waited, waited, waited for his thrust. His face twisted with the hunger, and at last he entered her.