by Shay Savage
He shook his head sharply and looked back to the fire.
“It is difficult,” he finally said.
Though I was sure his words were meant to calm me, the effect was the opposite. Did he think I wished him to be different with me as if I were truly a princess? Did he think I would attempt to impose whatever will I had on him?
“I do not expect you to change your ways,” I told him.
“I know you don’t,” Branford responded. “But I’ll not subject you to the way I have always been. Not here. Not when we are alone. You will still see it outside of these rooms—there is no way to avoid that.”
He glanced at me for a moment, and his eyes and voice softened.
“You are so…innocent. You are completely naïve of all the things I have been inundated with since my childhood. I don’t think I have ever known anyone quite like you.”
“I will learn,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll learn to read, and I’ll learn anything else—”
“That is not what I meant!” Branford yelled suddenly, and I cringed. He pushed back from the mantle and rubbed one hand over his face. He mumbled a curse and collected himself before turning back to me. For a moment, he looked into my eyes, and then he took a step forward and dropped down in front of my chair, his hands reaching out to caress my face. “Your innocence is part of your beauty. It is what I…what I like about you. It is what draws me to you. I’m only afraid you will lose it when you are exposed to the life I have placed before you.”
Branford turned his head and stared over my shoulder with a faraway look.
“When I saw you…right after Sunniva left…and you were”—his eyes closed for a moment, and I could see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat—“you were on the floor. You were crying and afraid, and I knew it was all because of me. And then you…”
He stopped again, drew in a quick breath, and then all his words came out at once.
“You asked me not to kill you, and it felt like someone had just stabbed me in the gut. It was not what I had envisioned—not what I wanted. I wanted you to…I hoped we would...”
Branford sighed and leaned back. His gaze met mine again. He touched my cheek with his fingers and then ran them over my shoulder and down my arm.
“My birth parents met twice before they were wed,” he told me. “The Monroe family had no male heir, and the Sterlings had both Camden and my father—twin boys. Camden was always destined to be king since he was born half an hour before my father, but it had much potential for causing strife as they grew into adulthood. It was decided when they were both quite young that Branford the Third would become lord over Sterling as Camden became King of Silverhelm.”
“They were wed young, but my father did not move to Sterling until a few years later. Eventually, they learned to care for each other even though their marriage was arranged. Camden and Sunniva had never even met before their wedding day, but they too have found more than just a political union.”
“Ida and Parnell are very much in love,” Branford said. “I swear they fell in love with each other before they could even walk. I remember him crawling over to her as a toddler and bringing her toys to play with. Parnell will be the Lord of Sawyer when his father passes, and Ida will take on his titles. I was the only one without an obvious match, it seemed.”
“When I first began to think of choosing a wife, and Camden was trying to coerce me into willingly taking Whitney’s hand, I found myself watching them—Camden and Sunniva—and wondering how it could have happened.”
“How what could have happened?” I finally asked when he didn’t elaborate.
“They learned to care for each other,” Branford said. “They knew nothing of each other before they were wed, but now…now they love each other very much.”
My breath caught in my throat as I tried to understand exactly what my husband was saying. There was a part of me—likely the same part of every young woman who ever dreamed of a prince taking her away on his horse—that wanted to believe he was saying what it sounded like he was saying. Could he truly want more from our marriage than just someone he could trust to share his rooms and his bed? Unbidden, I remembered his words from the other night—“I want you to care for me.” I had assumed he meant to care for his needs, but as the words echoed through my memory, I found myself wondering if he hadn’t meant something else entirely.
He reached out and brushed a fallen tear from my face.
“Please, don’t be upset,” Branford said. He traced over my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “This is supposed to be our wedding night renewed, and I’ve ruined it yet again. I don’t want you to cry. I apologize for being so quick to anger, and I will try to be better with you. You allowed me to try to make amends by starting our marriage over the other night. Pray, will you also allow me to start this night again?”
I responded with a nod, for if he was willing to forget what I had done, I was certainly not averse to beginning yet again. He stood and took my hand, pulling me to my feet and then switching places with me. When I was again settled in his lap, he smiled sadly.
“I think I am blessed,” he said.
“Blessed?”
“To have chosen a woman with such patience, if that’s what it is. Your willingness to forgive may be the only way I have a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
Branford focused on my eyes, and for the first time, he looked strangely unsure of himself.
“A chance of”—he paused and took a breath before continuing—“a chance maybe you can forgive me for what I did.”
“I do,” I whispered.
Branford blinked a couple of times before he cupped my cheek and kissed me softly. He traced over the skin of my cheek, then down my neck until his hand rested on my shoulder—right at the edge where the fabric of my dress met my skin.
“You look so tired,” Branford said as he scanned my face.
“Somewhat,” I admitted.
“Perhaps we should sleep.”
I was unsure if it was a question or a statement, but the idea that he might postpone this night again was appalling to me.
“No, please!” I cried as I sat up straighter in his lap. “I don't want to wait.”
“If you're tired...”
“Please, don't wait any longer. Please.”
“Why?” Branford’s eyebrows knitted together as he gazed at me intently.
“I can't bear the uncertainty,” I said, “the doubt.”
“What doubt?”
“If you decide you don't like it when you take me, you could decide you don't wish to keep me.”
“Why would you think such a thing?” Branford shook his head slowly. “I’ve told you, you will remain my wife.”
“It is what you said to Sir Parnell,” I replied. “You could take me in front of witnesses and then say I was, um...that I wasn't any good at it.”
I heard a curse escape his lips, and I closed my eyes, awaiting his anger.
“Do you remember what I said afterwards?” His voice was cool and calm. I opened my eyes and looked at him, searching for the ire, but I saw only veiled sadness.
“No,” I admitted.
“I said I would not do that even then.” He took my chin in his hand. “I certainly wouldn't do that now.”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Do you not believe me?” he asked.
“I want to,” I said quietly, “but I know you…you want to…I don’t want you to have to wait any more. I want to…be yours.”
“It does not matter,” Branford said as his lips brushed over mine. “If I take you tonight, tomorrow night, next week, or next month, you are already mine. I will never let you go.”
“What if…what if you find me lacking?”
For a moment, he stared at me with his eyes narrowed in confusion. His head shook slightly.
“Impossible,” he whispered. With his fingers wrapped in my hair, he pulled me to him, kissing me deeply and moaning against my mou
th. He moved his hands down my arms and lifted my hands to his shoulders. I gripped the hard muscles under his shirt and opened my mouth when I felt his tongue touch my lips.
“You are mine, Alexandra.” His eyes took on that dark, intense color, and his mouth covered my lips again. He pulled back after a moment and touched his forehead to mine. “I do want you…so much. I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want you.”
He kissed me again, and his lips made a line up the side of my jaw and to my ear. His warm breath coated my skin, and I felt the tip of his tongue slide over the shell of my ear.
“And I saw your eyes this afternoon, my wife,” he whispered low. “I saw the way they shone when you looked at me and when your hand wrapped around me. You wanted me then—I could see it. When my fingers were inside you, you wanted to feel more there, didn’t you? Tell me…”
He leaned back and his eyes danced with excitement. I turned away, unable to look him in the eye, for my face was probably already as red as an apple, but I couldn’t ignore the question, so I told him yes.
“So unless you have any further questions,” Branford said, his voice soft, “I’m going to take you to bed now.”
And that is when my heart really began to pound.
Chapter 4—Finally Consummate
With a brush of his lips against my forehead, Branford rose effortlessly with me still cradled in his arms and carried me to our bed. He sat me down on the edge, kissing me gently on the lips before bringing a group of candles over and setting them on the nightstand. He closed the shutters and tossed two more logs on the fire before returning to the side of the bed. He reached out and touched my hair with the ends of his fingers.
His gaze was so intense, I had to look away. I didn’t understand why he would look upon me with such an expression of desire. I possessed no great beauty as I had been told by Princess Whitney on many occasions. Such elegance and glamor were reserved for women of noble blood.
“I do not know exactly what she said to you,” he said, “but she was lying. You are beautiful.”
My eyes widened as he spoke the words. How could he know what I was thinking? I looked down and bit my lip, knowing I was undoubtedly red in the face again and having no idea how to respond to him. Princess Whitney had always made it clear to me I was nothing but plain and that I should consider it a blessing. Since none of the knights would ever want me, I would not end up as Shelly had—used and worthless.
Branford’s fingers brushed under my chin, and he tilted my head up to look at him.
“You are,” he whispered.
“Should I not put on my nightdress?” I asked, wanting to divert his thoughts from this topic. My stomach already felt like it was rife with dancing jesters.
“I don’t think there would be much point in the act, my wife,” Branford said with a sly grin. “I could help you out of the dress you are wearing now, if you like.”
He bent at the knees to bring himself down to my eye level. With his fingertips poised on the edge of my jaw, he tilted his head to one side and looked at me.
“You are truly magnificent to look upon, my wife,” he said quietly. “I have never learned the flowery words of bards, but the vision of you today in the meadow—with your soft, beautiful skin in the sunlight—was such a glorious sight, I might have to learn some of those words so I can express myself adequately.”
I felt heat climb back into my cheeks, and Branford brushed his thumb over my cheekbone.
“Lovely,” he whispered as he stood up again. I watched him moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue, and I looked down at the floor. I heard him take a deep breath, which he let out slowly before speaking again. “You are sure you want this, Alexandra? I will not turn you away if you wish to wait.”
Looking up into his bright green eyes, I knew he meant what he said. I thought about what we were about to do and wondered if I was ready for this. I remembered that every time he had touched me—save that one, horrible moment when he dragged me from the dining room—he had been gentle. Indeed, his hands had brought forth feelings in my body I did not know I could even experience. Twice he had made me feel such wonders, and now that I knew what the sensations he craved for himself were, I regretted that he had not felt them when I did. I wanted to feel like that again, and I wanted Branford to feel the same way. He said he would only feel that way when he was inside of me, and even though thoughts of Shelly still lingered in my head, Branford was not Sir Remy. He hadn’t forced me when I was not ready, and he was clearly not going to force me now.
“You can tell me no, Alexandra,” he said quietly. “I will not be angry with you. I want to wait until you want me, too.”
I stood up slowly, and Branford took a step back from me. When I looked up to his eyes, I could see his apprehension and uncertainty and found it ironic. The idea that he, the deflowerer of a dozen princesses, would feel nervous with me seemed ridiculous. I reclaimed the space between us, stepping close to him and rising up on my toes as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I watched him run his tongue quickly over his lips again before I reached up high enough to kiss him.
His lips were soft and warm against mine, and he moved them slowly, molding them around my mouth and sucking my lower lip gently between his. I turned my head to the side, kissing him from another angle as I felt his hand wrap around my back and hold me close to his body. The fingers of his other hand cupped my face for a moment before he released me.
“I do want you,” I said as blood rose to my cheeks. With his hand, he brushed under the edge of my jaw, tilting my face back up to his. His eyes were wide, and he glanced rapidly between mine, seeking confirmation that I meant what I said. I nodded and tried to hold his gaze, but his eyes were so intense, so beautiful, I found it hard to keep looking at them. My heart was still pounding in my chest, making it difficult to breathe deeply as he kept his eyes focused on mine until he nodded almost imperceptibly, perhaps satisfied with what he saw.
“Thank you, God,” Branford mumbled as his hands reached into my hair and his mouth descended on me again. I felt his tongue pressing against my lips, and I opened my mouth to him. As he touched and tasted me with his tongue, he slid his hands down my sides to my waist and pulled my body closer to his. I could feel him—hard, long, and wanting—pushed firmly against my stomach. I gasped into his mouth, and he pulled back from me. “I have wanted you so much. It has been so difficult to hold back, but I want you to want this. I need you to want me.”
“I do,” I repeated. “I want to be yours…truly yours.”
He dropped his hands from my face and slowly reached up to his neck, releasing the ties around the top of his shirt and slowly bringing it over his head. He dropped it to his feet without ceremony, and I looked upon his bare chest. My hand twitched, wanting to touch him but still unsure. He saw my hesitancy, took my hand in his, and placed it over his heart. I could feel it beating rapidly, matching the pace of my own. He released my hand, and I let myself feel his skin, running my fingers over the lines surrounding the strong muscles of his chest and shoulders. The outlines danced in the pale candlelight, and I let my finger trace the shadows I found there. His skin shuddered under my touch, and I looked up to find him smiling at me.
As my hands touched his chest and stomach, he reached over to unlace the top of my dress, leisurely pulling the laces from their holes until it was loose around me. He gripped the edge of my skirts and pulled the whole thing over my head, leaving me completely bare except for my lower undergarment. The dress joined his shirt on the floor, and he lowered himself down to the ground, looking up at me as he lifted each of my feet to remove my shoes as I held his shoulders for balance. His hands traveled up the outside of my legs, reaching the top of the undergarment and then pulling it slowly down. I stepped out of it and stood bare before him.
“So beautiful,” he whispered as his eyes moved over me. He stood again, kissed my mouth, and then loosened his trousers to let them drop around his ankles. I allowed myself the br
iefest of glances downward, seeing how his body was responding to my nakedness and feeling strangely proud that I could evoke such a response from him. Again I wondered how something so large could fit inside of me and felt my breath catch in my throat at the thought. He touched my jaw again before he bent down to remove his boots, and then he kicked everything off to the side. He took my hands in his and guided me backwards to the bed.
He lay me on my back, my head resting on the pile of pillows at the top of the bed, and crawled over me. He placed his mouth on my shoulder, making a trail of light kisses from there to my neck as his hands moved up my sides. I felt his thumbs brush the sides of my breasts and felt his hardness pressing against my thigh.
He cupped my breasts with both hands, lifting them higher as he looked down at them hungrily. He captured first one and then the other with his mouth. I gasped at the sensation as he sucked my nipples between his lips, running his warm tongue over them. He released them, kissed the top of both mounds before finding my lips with his. He kissed me over and over, his tongue running along mine until I was gasping for air and the strange sensation—the feeling of wanting to be touched—began to build between my legs. I shifted under him, and he smiled down at me.
“Do you want my touch?” he asked playfully. He caressed my skin, running his fingers from my breast to my stomach, then around my hip, and down the outside of my leg. He watched his hand as he ran it over the top of my knee and then slowly up the inside of my thigh, pushing my legs apart so he could reach me. I felt the brush of his long fingers over my most sensitive flesh. They slid against my folds, parting them and stroking slowly and deliberately as I groaned softly into my own hand. Branford shook his head and took my hand away from my mouth, placing it next to my head.
“I want to hear you,” he whispered into my ear as he moved my hand above my head. “The sounds you make are so beautiful, and they make me hunger for you.”
I was glad I wasn’t looking into his eyes when I thought about what he meant and felt his stiffened flesh rub against my thigh again. He found my opening with his fingers, teasing it briefly before pushing inside just a little ways. He found the swollen nub at the top with his thumb and began to slowly push against it. With his other hand, he pushed against the inside of my thigh, effectively placing me on display for him as he looked down. He looked for only a moment before turning his gaze to focus on my face. He examined me briefly until he seemed to be distracted by the sight of my breasts and turned his attention toward them—first with his free hand and then with his mouth. I grasped his shoulder and he looked up, his eyes sparkling.