Tempt Me With Kisses (27 page)

His caresses grew more heated, and so did hers, until she tore at his clothes, greedy for the more intimate touch of flesh upon flesh, while her legs weakened with the strength of her yearning.

She was his, in love as well as law, and she would prove it.

With hungry eyes she led him to the nearest chair and pushed him down to sit. His tunic was already untied and exposed much of his chest, and his breeches were half undone. Her bodice gaped, her breasts available to his eager eyes and hands.

In the next moment, she was straddling him, guiding him inside where she was wet and waiting.

His breathing hoarse, his mouth pleasured her breasts as she rose and fell, while anxious murmurs slipped from her throat.

She kissed him again and again, paying no heed to the rough stubble of his beard. She wanted him, she needed him, and she would show him. Throwing back her head, wanton in her desire, she gripped his shoulders as she rocked against him.

Suddenly, he tensed, his arms tightening about her, the sinews of his neck taut as he gasped, and climaxed.

Pleased, she stilled, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“Fiona,” he murmured as his breathing returned to normal.

She raised her head and he brushed her braid back over her shoulder. She shifted, feeling him still inside her, and closed her eyes a moment to enjoy it.

“Fiona, you did not cry out.”

She opened her eyes, to find his steadfast gaze upon her, his eyes still dark with desire.

“You did not cry out,” he repeated, his eyes locked onto hers as he took her hips in his hands and gentle pulled her forward, then released her.

The sensation made her gasp.

Still watching her intently, he did it again. She could hardly breathe with the excitement of it. Again, he did it while he kissed her throat, then let his lips trail down her neck to her breasts. Still moving her, his tongue swirled around the hardened tip of her breast and he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

As he moved her and pleasured her breasts, she lost track of everything except the incredible sensations rippling through her. It was as if he knew every single thing that could and would excite her. Hot, anxious passion seared and burned and built, until her body tensed like a drawn bowstring.

Then the arrow was loosed.

Wave after wave of pleasure took her as she cried out, her back arching and her toes curling as the climax seized her.

When the throbbing gentled, she fell against him.

An intimate silence, warm and comfortable, surrounded them, and she floated there, blissfully happy.

Caradoc sighed raggedly, and whispered as he laid his head against her shoulder. “I have never had anyone champion me before, Fiona. Thank you.”

“I said no more than the truth, and no more than you deserve.” She, too, sighed as she looked at his beloved face. “I cannot understand the people here, Caradoc. Can they not see all that you do and how you worry? Why has no one ever chastised your sister or Ganore before? Granted the servants could not, but how could your parents—?”

“Ganore told me this morning that the man all the world believes was my father may not have been.”

She stared at him, shocked and incredulous.

But he believed it. She saw that in the tormented depths of his eyes.

“She said my mother was raped by a Norman before she married my father, and I am that man’s son.”

He was in such pain, such anguish! Anger at Ganore and her spiteful spirit reared up within Fiona, as hot and powerful as her passion had been moments before.

“Ganore was a hateful old woman full of malice. She just told you that to hurt you.” Her gaze searched his face. “And she did, didn’t she?”

“I don’t want to believe her.” With another deep sigh, he pulled Fiona close and buried his face against the curtain of her hair, as if he could not bear to look at her. “But I do. I even think a part of me hopes it was so. That would explain why I was never good enough for my father, and why my mother let Ganore treat me as she did. It would mean the fault or lack was not solely mine, as I have always thought.”

She took his face gently between her hands to ensure that he saw her face as she answered, firmly and without reservation. “Whoever your father was, you are Caradoc, lord of Llanstephan Fawr. Everything you have done, everything you do, everything about you, proclaims that.

“Even more important to me,” she said, her voice dropping to a tender whisper, “you are Caradoc, my beloved husband.
Nothing
can change that.”

The torment left his eyes, replaced with joy, and all the affection she had ever hoped to see in the eyes of the Dark Prince of the Lonely Tower. “And you are my beloved wife, Fiona, who came to me in my hour of need, and stayed to give me far more than relief from my worries. You have made me happier than I have been in my life.” He kissed her with the same wonderful joy and affection. “I am glad I shared this with you, Fiona. I would have no secrets between us.”

She embraced him tightly, closing her eyes as if to close out her shame.

Now is the time
, her heart commanded.
Tell him. Tell him about Iain. Have no secrets from this man who cherishes you as you have always dreamed
.

Yet the same strong pride that had refused to accept Iain after she learned his true nature, the same fierce self-respect that had led her to leave her home and seek a better happiness elsewhere, held her tongue. She could not confess to that stupidity and vanity, not when they were so close to what they had shared before, and more. She would not risk losing that because of what was in the past, and over with forever.

The sudden cry of the sentry at the gate made her start, as if her very thoughts had conjured a Scotsman at the gates.

“What is it?” she asked as she got shakily to her feet, all her hopes and desires suddenly as tenuous as the first thin tendril of a new plant.

“I don’t know.” With a scowl of displeasure, Caradoc quickly tied his breeches and went to look out the window.

“Not what,” he muttered as she waited, too full of dread to breathe. “Who.”

Not Iain. Please, God, not Iain!

Then she realized he looked more disgruntled than confused or angry or suspicious.

Despite that hopeful observation, she trembled as she went to join him. Looking out the window, she saw a troop of mounted men in the courtyard. One of them held a standard, and upon it a red and green banner fluttered in the breeze.

Not Iain. Oh, praise God, not Iain
. Weak with relief, she leaned against the sill and wondered how many more days, weeks or years must pass before that dread finally left her.

“Who is it?” she asked as her heartbeat returned to normal.

Caradoc turned to her with a grim frown. “Lord Rhys of Wales himself, in all his glory, and I do not think he comes to wish me joy upon my marriage.”

Chapter 13

W
ishing Lord Rhys far away—preferably on the other side of Wales—Caradoc sighed as he watched the arrogant and fiercely Welsh nobleman dismount.

Why did he have to come today, of all days? His household in upheaval, Ganore surely cursing him to the heavens with every step she took as she left, Cordelia upset … and his amazing, loving wife here beside him, having made the worst of this day disappear with her heartfelt words and the bliss of making love with her. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and take her to their bedchamber to love her again.

Unfortunately, Lord Rhys’s arrival rendered that impossible.

“I think I should go and fix my hair,” Fiona murmured, turning toward the door. “As a married woman, I should cover it.”

“You look lovely,” he said as he held her back and tucked a stray wisp of her marvelous hair behind her ear. “I would have you by my side to greet our important guest.”

Smiling wryly, he half-jokingly continued, “Besides, I may need you to remind me to keep my temper. I was annoyed when the rain interrupted the shearing. I am far more frustrated by Lord Rhys’s arrival.”

Although he saw trepidation in her brilliant eyes, she gave him an answering smile. “Very well.”

He held out his arm to escort her. “I don’t think Lord Rhys shares Ganore’s prejudice against red-haired women,” he said by way of encouragement, “and I suppose his arrival will give Cordelia something else to think about, at any rate.”

Fiona said no more as they left the solar and went down the steps toward the hall. No doubt her thoughts and emotions were as jumbled as his after all that had happened this day.

They entered the hall just as the tall, imposing Lord Rhys entered. Curious servants appeared at the entrance to the kitchen and unfamiliar soldiers followed the man inside.

It had been some years since Caradoc had been in Lord Rhys’s presence, but the man was little changed save that his hair was now iron gray. He still had the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a fit man used to riding and fighting, and from the shrewd intelligence of his face, only a fool would think age had dulled his wits.

“My Lord Rhys,” Caradoc called out as they approached him, “welcome again to Llanstephan Fawr.”

Beaming, Lord Rhys shrugged off his cloak. One of the soldiers behind caught it neatly before it fell onto the floor. “Caradoc!” he cried happily, striding toward them.

They clasped forearms, and Lord Rhys’s powerful grip also assured Caradoc that the older man was as healthy and vital as he had ever been. Then Lord Rhys took him by the shoulders and smiled.

At least, his lips smiled. His shrewd gaze looked far more searching than pleased. “It has been a long time, Caradoc of Llanstephan Fawr. I thought perhaps to see you at my
Eisteddfod
last summer.”

“I have not had the leisure to travel, my lord,” Caradoc replied evenly as he stepped back, trying not to show how much he resented the Welsh lord’s scrutiny, or his slightly condemning tone.

“And now you are wed, or so I have been told.”

“Yes, my lord, I am.” Caradoc proudly presented Fiona. “This is Fiona. My wife.”

Lord Rhys barely glanced at her. “I suppose you did not have the leisure to inform me of such important news, either,” he said, his tone suddenly cold.

Irritation, already simmering within him, began to boil again. However, the memory of Fiona’s words when they had quarreled over Sir Ralph held his tongue. She had been right to point out the larger implications of his actions then, and she would be right to do so now if he forgot.

And in his heart, the doubt that he did not have the right to rule here caged his temper.

“I bid you welcome to my home. Surely you can forgive him his lapse and understand that a bridegroom might take rather too much leisure,” Fiona spoke brightly, apparently not a whit disturbed by Lord Rhys’s rudeness, but Caradoc knew her better, and he could see the subtle signs of anger at the corners of her lips and lurking in the sparkle of her eyes.

Lord Rhys ran a measuring gaze over her, then addressed Caradoc, as if Fiona were one of the hounds in the hall and not a person capable of understanding him. “So, this is the Scot. I did not know she could speak Welsh. Had you thought to inform me of this marriage yourself, I might have.”

Caradoc’s hands balled into fists. He dearly wanted to strike the man for his rude insolence, until Fiona put her hand gently on his arm. She didn’t look at him, though. She kept her gaze on Lord Rhys and smiled still.

“I daresay there are many things about me you do not know, Lord Rhys,” she said with just the slightest hint of condemnation beneath the calm politeness. “Now that you are here, you can get to know me, and I shall get to know you, too. However, if you will excuse me, I must have refreshments prepared for you, and a chamber for your use, so I shall have to leave you. Is there anything you especially prefer for the evening meal, Lord Rhys? Fish, perhaps?”

“That would suit me well, my lady.”

“Excellent! I shall inform our cook at once.”

Still smiling, with her back straight and her head held high, she did not wait for Lord Rhys’s leave to go.

The Welsh nobleman looked rather stunned as he watched her head for the kitchen corridor, probably because few men and fewer women would ever dare address him in such a manner. Although she had said nothing rude or intemperate, she had made her displeasure obvious.

It was all Caradoc could do to keep from chuckling with proud satisfaction as he calmly gestured toward the chairs on the dais. “Will you sit, my lord?”

His noble guest regally inclined his head, then led the way as arrogantly as if this were his own home.

As he followed, it occurred to Caradoc that Ganore must already be gone, or she would be here. She thought Lord Rhys walked on water.

He also pondered Cordelia’s absence. Either she was sulking, in which case she might not come down until the evening meal, or she did not yet know Lord Rhys was come.

Once seated, Lord Rhys wasted no time with genial preamble. He fixed his eyes on Caradoc and said, “You should have consulted with me before you wed.”

Caradoc did not appreciate being treated without deference any more than Fiona did, especially in his own castle. Whatever the exact circumstances of his birth, he was no peasant or serf. Besides, as Fiona had so aptly pointed out, Lord Rhys had never come to his rescue, in any way. “What you mean is, you would rather I had sought your approval.”