Alinor gaped at him, but sat up to face him angrily. "You accuse me of deceit?"
"For whom ‘do you not care’? Me? Or your precious Jean-Pierre?" he growled, catching her upper arms in a bruising grip and dragging her to him.
Alinor was still gaping at him in dismay when his mouth came down to cover hers in an angry, possessive kiss that threw her into instant turmoil.
Chapter Six
Shamefully, her body reacted with gladness and pleasure to his touch, though her mind screamed that it was for punishment only, that he meant to wound, not caress—and still a moan of pleasure escaped her. She clutched his tunic as weakness washed through her, parting her lips even as his mouth opened over hers, welcoming his plundering caress as he explored her mouth thoroughly, aggressively with his tongue. His taste and scent washed through her in a pleasurable tide that laid waste to the last bastions of her pride, sending heat and expectancy pounding through her body, making her femininity feel hot and achy for his possession. She could not think at all beyond the thrill that raced through her veins, the breathless anticipation that invaded her.
He broke the kiss almost before he’d begun, thrusting her away from him as roughly as he’d pulled her to him. Still clutching his tunic for support, Alinor opened her eyes with an effort, keeping her expression carefully neutral as she looked up at him, but she could not steady her thundering heartbeat. She could not seem to catch her breath. She wanted him. She wanted him to show her what he’d given her only a taste of before.
Grasping her hands, he pulled them free, his expression hard, unyielding, though his gaze was hot, tumultuous. For several moments he seemed to wage battle within himself. In the next, he pushed her down onto the pillows and followed her, crushing her beneath his weight as he thrust a hand roughly down the neck of her gown, squeezing her breast almost painfully. With his other hand, he jerked her gown up to her waist. Alinor gasped, arching her back as he covered the peak of one breast with the hot moisture of his mouth, flicking her nipple with tongue. The muscles in her belly clenched as his other hand skimmed it, then cupped the mound of her femininity. She drew her knee up to allow easier access, begging for his touch. When he slipped on finger through the petals of flesh of her femininity, she was wet for him. Gasping at the bolt of pleasure that went through her as he pushed his finger inside of her, she grasped his shoulders, digging her fingers into his flesh.
Her reaction seemed to catch him off guard. He lifted his head, hesitated for a fraction of a second and then it was as if a dam broke upon his restraint. His mouth and hands were everywhere at once, stroking her, suckling, teasing, tasting. On a mindless tide of exquisite sensation, Alinor returned each caress with one of her own, tearing at the lacing of his tunic until she could feel the hard flesh of his chest against her cheek, taste the saltiness and feel the smoothness of his skin on her tongue.
He growled, low in his chest as she nipped at him with her teeth, pulled away long enough to snatch his tunic off over his head and then tossed it aside and descended upon her again, closing his mouth over hers. Alinor arched up to meet him, brushing her breasts against his chest, relishing the sensation of bare skin against bare skin, so caught up in the feel of his body on hers and his tongue as it stroked and caressed her own that she was barely aware of her restless movements against him. When he withdrew his tongue to break the kiss, she followed him, dancing her tongue along his, tasting him, learning his mouth as he had hers, exploring his body with her hands.
A groan rumbled from his throat and he pushed her thighs apart, insinuating one knee between them and then the other until he was nestled between her thighs. Alinor arched her hips, rubbing her femininity against the hard bulge in his breeches when he removed his hand, kneading that tiny bud of flesh hidden in the petals of her femininity that so desired contact with him that she could think of nothing beyond the escalating throbs of pleasure emanating from it with each thrust of her hips.
She was gasping for breath when he broke the kiss at last, near to sobbing with need, helping and hindering at once as he struggled with the lacings of his breeches and she fought to grasp his heated flesh in her hand. When he freed his cock at last from his breeches, she arched her hips, grinding her femininity against its length, desperate to feel him inside of her.
He ground his teeth, shaking with the effort to control himself as he grasped his cock in one hand and finally aligned it with her body, nudging, thrusting, then finally parting her flesh, sinking slowly through the passage that contracted around his distended flesh, grasping him tightly and impeding his progress.
Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she rocked her hips upward to meet his downward thrust, moaning dizzily as she felt him sink to her core and slowly withdraw until only the rounded head of his cock remained inside her. Pleasurable tremors began inside her belly with his full possession, building in intensity each time he withdrew and thrust again, sinking deeply inside her.
She felt a growing tension inside of her, knew her body was struggling to reach a threshold of sensation. Focusing every part of her being on reaching that undefined goal, she moved with him, countered each caressing stroke of his cock along the exquisitely sensitive recesses of her body ... and still it eluded her, remained just beyond her grasp as she struggled toward it, digging her heels into the mattress to meet each jarring plunge of his cock. She felt it within her reach when he stiffened, went still for several heartbeats and then began to thrust hard and fast. A thrill went through her, the knowledge that he had found pleasure in her body as she had his and that quiver of excitement sent her over the edge onto a plane of such wondrous rapture she cried out, unable to hold it inside of her, floating downward finally into a near oblivion of supreme, boneless bliss.
Wulfgar lay limply upon her for many moments, his breath harsh. Finally, he gathered himself and moved away, sitting on the edge of the bed for some time. Slowly, as she stared at his back, Alinor’s contentment ebbed and a sense of foreboding replaced it.
He seemed so aloof, as if he was determined to distance himself from her both emotionally as well as physically.
Finally, without a word, he rose and adjusted his clothing, donned his tunic once more, tightening the lacings in sharp, jerky motions that told her his anger had not completely abated. Not once did he so much as glance in her direction and Alinor felt a resurgence of her own anger, and guilt. It had been a mistake, she realized now, to give herself with such abandon. He could only think the worst of her. It made no difference at all that she had been a maiden when he had taken her. He must think she had the heart and soul of a whore to have so thoroughly enjoyed their coupling.
Shivering as the chill of the room skated across her sweat dampened skin, she pulled the covers up and turned away from him as she saw him turn to leave. He paused for many moments at the door, studying her, she sensed, and finally left.
When he had gone, she lay for many minutes fighting the urge to weep, trying to understand how something that had felt so wonderful—something she knew they had shared, could have ended so coldly.
She had had little enough experience in the arts of flirtation and courtship. They were far from court, where such things were practiced almost to an art form, and she had only been to court once before in her life. There had been no true courtship—in fact very little conversation—between her and the men who had petitioned her father for her hand. Perhaps, if her father had not settled upon Jean-Pierre, she would have had the opportunity to begin to understand the workings of a man’s mind better, but he had and she had been very glad that she had not had to endure much of Jean-Pierre’s brand of courtship.
In truth, until she had met Wulfgar, it had never occurred to her to have an interest in trying to win the attention or admiration of a man at all. She had known she would have no choice in the selection of a husband and had not met one who interested her more than another. Now that it mattered, she had no idea of what she might have done wrong.
He had been ang
ry about Jean-Pierre. She understood that much, and also that he thought—must think—that she was somehow trying to dupe him—toying with him, perhaps? She couldn’t quite see, however, what he thought she had to gain by it beyond trying to protect herself.
Mayhap that was it? He realized that she had been careful, most of the time anyway, not to arouse his wrath? In the beginning she had only thought that if she was too much trouble, he might begin to wonder if she was really worth ransoming—might decide to simply unburden himself. She had had no clear plan, however. She had only wanted to survive, had hoped that she would not be returned too swiftly to Jean-Pierre.
It occurred to her after a while to wonder if, perhaps, he was angry because he had not wanted to desire her and he did. She examined that thought for some time, trying to decide whether it was merely wishful thinking, or if it had merit.
Perhaps he thought of it as some sort of betrayal of the woman he had loved?
That did not fit, however, unless he cared for her, or thought he might come to care for her. Men eased themselves on any female handy. She knew that much at least, for she had heard the maids complain of it endlessly—sometimes angrily. He would not feel that he was betraying Freda if he were merely easing his needs upon her.
A seed of hope sprang from that thought, one she was almost afraid to feed, but it occurred to her finally that she could not quell it once it sprang into her mind. If there was any chance at all that he thought coupling with her might lead to a growing fondness, then it was certainly worth the effort of enticing him into her bed. If he became fond of her, perhaps he would decide her suggestion had merit and would wed her and take her home!
She discovered the following day, however, that he had deprived her of any opportunity of putting her plan into motion, for, by the time she had nerved herself to ask for him of the maids, he had already gone to meet Jean-Pierre.
* * * *
Wulfgar found as he rode west and south that he could not dismiss Alinor’s remarks from his mind. He hated Jean-Pierre with a rage that had blinded him to anything beyond the need for revenge. In all the time that he had plotted his revenge he was well aware that he could not so much as conjure the man’s name in his mind and still think clearly. He knew nothing at all about his enemy. In truth, he had not made an effort to learn him as a man, only to follow his movements, looking, always, for the perfect opportunity to exact his revenge.
He could not bring Freda back or ease her suffering. He could not regain the lands the new king had settled upon his man, Jean-Pierre. He could only plot to give Jean-Pierre a taste of the suffering he, himself, had endured before he ended his life.
He could not fathom why it was that it had not occurred to him that he could not make Jean-Pierre suffer over the loss of his bride unless Jean-Pierre loved Alinor as he had loved Freda. A love match was a rare thing among the upper class. He had not expected that his own would be such, but he had been smitten the moment he had set eyes upon his future wife, had barely been able to contain himself until the knot was firmly tied. They had not even been wed a se’nnight when he had been called to meet the Norman invasion. He had not seen her alive again.
When he had learned that the Norman had sent for his betrothed, he had not been able to see beyond the fact that it so closely mirrored his own situation that it was as if the gods had handed him his means of revenge. Perhaps that was why had had looked no further?
He did not trust the Norman female. He could think of no reason why he should and many why he should not. He had been both surprised and relieved when he had found that she gave him no trouble at all, either when he took her, or later when he had had to stay on the move to stay ahead of Jean-Pierre. At first he had thought she was just too frightened to try anything. Finally, he had decided that it was simply her manner of ensuring her survival—to the point that she almost had not survived at all. He hadn’t realized until he had reached his uncle’s home that he had pushed her so far beyond her endurance that she was nigh death. If they had not arrived when they had, she most likely would have died, for she had slept straight through three days not even rousing to full consciousness when the maids had shaken her to force food and water down her.
He frowned at that thought, wondering if it was possible he had gotten her with child—he knew it was possible, but was it likely? There had been dried blood on her clothing when the maids removed them. He had assumed it was from her monthly cycle, or perhaps even from breaching her maidenhead—surely if she had miscarried there would have been more blood?
He shook the thought. Either way, it made no difference now—except that it heaped more guilt upon his head when he was already carrying so much it felt like a great boulder upon his shoulders. It made very little difference that he had not intended to cause her harm. He had done so, and possibly killed his own child in the process.
He tried to shrug it off. He had lived with so much guilt for so long that it was like a throbbing tooth—never far from his mind, but he had no choice but to gone on with his life, hoping he would eventually find something he could do that would bring surcease from the pain.
Which brought him back to the question of whether or not he could trust the word of a known enemy. Finally, he decided that it could do no harm to use caution and reconnoiter the area before he went to meet Jean-Pierre.
Chapter Seven
She had been allowed the freedom of the manor house and the immediate area around it, but Alinor had been left in no doubt that she was a prisoner, for she was always under watch. They had not been kindly or friendly, but then neither had they been abusive.
None spoke to her. She had no idea whether it was simply because they did not know her language or if it was a precaution because she was a prisoner. She listened carefully to everything that they said, however, and managed to pick up a word here and there, though she could not be completely certain of the meaning.
The day Wulfgar had left, an old crone had come into her room with several maids, who had proceeded to hold her down so that the horrible old crone could poke and probe at her. At first, she had been so mortified she had not been able even to imagine what reason might lie behind it, but it had dawned upon her finally that the old woman was undoubtedly a midwife, sent to verify her lie.
Wulfgar had been gone a week and half of another before a rider was spotted, and Alinor had spent the better part of a week wondering what was to become of her, certain that Wulfgar would not return at all. When a guard came to report sighting a rider, however, everyone began to gather in the yard to watch his approach. Alinor was not sure what the messenger had related until that moment, but the gathering was enough in itself to alert her to the fact that someone was approaching.
She recognized him the moment he came into view and her heart leapt in her throat—She was relieved, she told herself, that he had come back because, surely now, she would find out what was to become of her.
He sat stiffly in the saddle, as if he was holding himself erect with an effort. Noticing, Alinor began to move toward him. Someone—one of the maids set to watch her—caught her arm, preventing her unconscious urge to go to him. She turned to the woman. "He is wounded."
The woman merely looked at her blankly.
Alinor turned to look at Wulfgar again just as he swayed in the saddle.
"He is hurt!" she repeated angrily, jerking her arm free and running toward Wulfgar even as he began to slide off his horse. She caught him, but he was far too heavy for her even if he had not been barely conscious and she succeeded only in breaking his fall with her body. She hit the ground so hard she was too stunned to move--wondering for several moments if the horse had fallen upon her as well as Wulfgar. Before she could recover sufficiently to check him for signs of life, they were surrounded and Wulfgar lifted up and carried away. The maid who had tried to restrain Alinor, seized her wrist, yanked her to her feet and led her back to the manor.
She was not allowed to accompany Wulfgar. Instead, in spite of all she coul
d do to fight her way free, she was dragged to the room she had occupied since her arrival and locked in. She beat on the door for a while, demanding to be allowed to see him, but finally had to accept that they would continue to ignore her.
Days passed in an agony of worry. Alinor paced the room like a caged animal, going to the door whenever she heard footsteps and pressing her ear to it to see if she could hear anything that might give her a clue as to whether or not Wulfgar still lived. Near the end of the fourth day Alinor’s guard unlocked the door and summoned her.
Alinor looked the woman over doubtfully, not at all certain she wished to know what the woman had in mind. If she had retained any doubt of it before, however, she was quickly disabused of the notion that what she wanted was of any consequence at all. The maid simply marched across the room, seized her by one wrist and dragged her from the room. Leading her down the hallway to another room, she opened the door and shoved Alinor inside.
Alinor stared at the door in consternation for several moments after it was slammed behind her before she turned to survey the room. It was another bed chamber, she realized immediately, and although it was still full light outside, the shutters had been closed and lit candles surrounded the bed.
A priest stood beside the bed, examining her through narrowed, condemning eyes.
Alinor scarcely noticed him, however, for her gaze had been drawn to the figure in the bed.
He was so pale and drawn as to be almost unrecognizable, and his condition, the priest and the candles clicked together almost instantaneously and her mind shouted ‘last rites’. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror, felt as she had the day Wulfgar had fallen upon her, as if she had been body slammed against an immovable object and all the air crushed from her lungs. She couldn’t move. For several moments, she felt like she was going to faint and fall into a dead heap on the floor.
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