“Aye, my lady.” Joseph nodded and turned.
“And Joseph?”
He stopped and turned around. “Aye, my lady?”
“Make certain the floor does not show, eh?” She smiled.
“As you wish, my lady.” The corners of his mouth tipped up. They both knew the servants had fought as best they could against this Norman.
The Norman stood up. “I shall leave you to your work, my lady.” He picked up her hand, and turning it palm up, he bestowed a kiss to the center. Heat tingled up her arm and her nipples tightened.
“Until this eve, my lady wife.” And he smiled, then turned and strode out of the hall.
Anora swallowed, rubbing her palm against her skirt. Best she put the events still to come from her mind, and she headed for the kitchens and Merton.
But though she directed the servants, the evening to come with the Norman would not be banished from her mind. Nor would the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
Chapter Eight
“A bleak picture, is it not, my lord?”
Gaspar FitzGillen glanced around the charred remains of the village of Whitshire. “I’m sick unto death of living amid this squalor.”
“You should command the villein to remove the rubble and rebuild.”
“Ha.” Gaspar kneed his mount to a quicker pace, anxious to leave the village behind. “What villein?”
“Ah, you’ve a point there. ’Twas poorly done to kill them or run them off, eh?”
Gaspar turned in his saddle and pinned his captain with a fierce glare. “Do you question the actions of your betters?” Gaspar sucked in a breath. “’Twas necessary to control the heathens.” He was furious at the need to justify his actions. ’Twas bad enough King William had commented on Gaspar’s methods, he did not need one of his soldiers doing the same—no matter that the man had been with him for ten years.
“As you say, my lord.”
“And the supplies?”
“Are being gathered and stored at your direction, my lord.”
“Good. Good. Now if only we can find more villein to do the work.” Gaspar brought his horse to a canter, his companion following behind.
They rode for a while and Gaspar turned off into the forest. Mayhap he could trade the smells of the village for that of the forest.
He followed a worn animal path for some time, allowing the soothing scent of pine and song of the birds to relax him.
Slowly the survivors of Whitshire were returning. Why just yesterday a woman and her young son had come to him, begging a position in his household. She was a comely woman, for a Saxon, and he’d taken her in. Mayhap she could clear away the debris, cleanse the keep of the smell of charred wood and comfort her lord. The thought of getting the woman in his bed made him harden.
“Who is that?” The soldier came abreast of Gaspar, drawing his attention to a man just off the path, a distance in front of them.
Gaspar peered through the trees, spotting a thin, dirty man plucking berries from a bush.“You there?” Gaspar called out.
The man’s head snapped around, the berries falling from his stained fingers, his eyes wide with surprise. “Aye?” Caution filled the stranger’s voice.
Gaspar rode to him. “What do you on my land?”
The man pulled his cap from his head and twisted it nervously in his hands. “I’m looking for work, my lord.”
Gaspar looked into the man’s narrow face. “Are you now? And from whence have you come?”
“North, my lord.”
“Hmm. What is your trade?”
“My lord, I’m a man of many trades.”
Gaspar glanced at his companion. “What think you?”
In a quiet voice he replied, “’Tis a body, my lord, alive and in need.”
Gaspar nodded.“Your name?”
“Arlis, my lord.”
“Well, then Arlis of the North, get you to Whitshire and make yourself useful.”
* * * * *
Rosard gazed around the hall, noting the fresh rushes, inhaling the mixture of herbs and well-roasted meat.“The keep is most pleasant this eve, my lady.” He turned and met Anora’s surprised gaze. “I commend you on your housewifely duties.” Color climbed her cheeks and she reached for the cup of mead they shared.
“Thank you, my lord.”
A servant arrived to clear the remains of the meal.
“Who is the dark-haired girl beside Gyfton?”
His son had positioned himself beside the girl and danced attendance on her throughout the meal.
She followed his gaze. “’Tis Liselle, my lord.” She smiled. “But I fear young Gyfton will find her immune to his ways.”
“Oh?”
Anora turned to him. “Aye. She was pursued by one such as he for four years before she agreed to marry him.” Sadness filled her eyes. “But he died in the fighting before they could wed.” She cleared her throat and turned her gaze back to Gyfton. “Is not that your blacksmith on the other side?”
“Aye, that it is.” Rosard grinned as the young girl turned her back on Gyfton, giving her attention to Etienne.
“I fear Liselle prefers your blacksmith, my lord.”
Rosard laughed. “’Twill do my son good to find a woman resistant to his charms.”
“You would not punish her for such?”
Rosard turned to Anora. “Do you think me so petty?”
“The Normans have done far worse with less provocation.”
Rosard held his hand up. “Cease, my lady. Have done with your anger.” He glanced around the hall. “Look there?” He nodded to a table of Saxons. “They have food, cottages for shelter and a lord strong enough to protect them.” He turned back to her. “Have I not proven that I am a fair man? That I know the value of human life? Not all Normans care so little for those they have conquered.”
Her gaze went flat and Rosard sighed. He was sick of conflict and longed for a peaceful home and the warmth of his own hearth. He shook his head. ’Twas a foolish wish when he’d taken a fiery Saxon to wife.
He gazed at Anora’s profile. Her small, narrow nose flared gently at the nostrils. Her chin was strong for a woman, her neck long and elegant. But it was her lips that held his attention now…soft, full and pink. In but a short time, he would taste them and more. His loins tightened. God’s knees, he was no randy buck, but a man of mature years, why did he respond so readily to her?
He forced his attention from her mouth, and skimmed over her delicately arched brows to the wimple covering her hair. He had seen her just one time with her hair uncovered and knew its length reached beyond her hip. But would it curl around his fingers or slip through his hands when unbound?
She must have felt his gaze for she turned and looked at him. “My lord?”
“’Tis time, my lady.”
Her eyes widened and a blush stole up her cheeks. She glanced down at her hands clenched in her lap.
Rosard stood, helping her to her feet. “I must have a word with the guard first, then I will join you in my chambers.”
She only nodded and Rosard watched her leave the table and glide to the stairs.
He entered the hall a short time later, just as people settled their pallets for the night. He took the candle one of his men offered. Climbing the stairs to his sleeping chamber, he forced himself to take even, natural steps, fighting the urge to take them two at a time at a dead run. ’Twould not do to let all see his eagerness to consummate this marriage.
Striding down the hall, he stopped before the chamber door and took a deep, calming breath. He was no callow youth about to experience his first time with a woman. The thought brought a smile to his lips.
Nay, he was not, but tonight he felt like it. He opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
A beam of moonlight streamed through the window, glinting golden off her unbound hair, the ends of which fluttered around her thighs at a slight breeze that swirled into the room. The lone candle flickered in Rosard’s hand, cas
ting shadows over pale, feminine curves.
He moved to the candles around the room, lighting one and then another, creating a circle of light around her. She stood before him, bare of clothing, only the gossamer veil of her hair covering her nakedness. As she took a deep breath, the veil parted and a curl curved around a womanly breast as if to caress and support it. Flexing his fingers, he could almost feel the lush weight of it. He pulled his gaze from the creamy, ivory skin to her eyes. He wanted to rush headlong into this loving, but something, mayhap ’twas the anxious look that dulled her moss green eyes, urged him to go slowly. He stretched his hand out, palm up, in invitation.
She stood there, still as a statue, one hand flattened over her stomach, the other clench at her side, her attention fixed on his hand. Her chest expanded on an indrawn breath and she raised her chin and met his gaze. He read the fear darkening her eyes and wondered what thoughts raced in her mind.
Surely she was not afraid of this night. Unless her husband had been heavy handed in bed.
Anora stood there, wondering why her stomach fluttered in anxious anticipation. Why was she afraid? She was no untouched maiden. And the anticipation? As a widow, she was long since used to the machinations between husband and wife. ’Twas not what she was used to feeling in such a case. Still, she pondered the feelings the man before her evoked. Mayhap it was a way to put her mind from the coming ordeal. For ordeal it would be…had always been.
He extended his hand to her. His square palm showed years of use in the pale calluses at the base of his long, thick fingers. Stealing herself for the voracious look she knew would be reflected in his cold blue eyes, she forced her gaze to meet his.
Shock vibrated down her spine. A kindly warmth lit his eyes, no hint of animal lust resided there. Confusion cluttered her mind. Who was this Norman she took to husband? Was there something wrong with him? Did he perhaps prefer young boys? The thought sickened her until she recalled his two grown sons, one of whom opposed this union.
“Come, my lady.” His deep, melodic voice intruded on her thoughts.
“I would that we could forego this, sir.” Her words came out in a shaky whisper.
He arched an eyebrow, and she feared her tongue would cause her more pain. Would she never learn to curb it?
“And I would that we get on with it, madam.” Lowering his hand, he turned to the bed, and began removing his clothing. She kept her eyes averted, but heard the rustle of cloth and the chink of metal as his belt fell to the floor.
“’Tis time, wife.”
She could run, but ’twould only serve to anger him and put off the inevitable. ’Twas no use in getting a beating and then having to suffer the indignities of the marital bed. Anora took a deep breath and walked as one condemned to the high bed.
Climbing in, she pulled the linens up beneath her chin and felt the bed dip with his weight as he lay down beside her.
The woman beside him was stiff as a corpse, Rosard thought. What manner of man had her husband been? Shifting to his side, he faced her, gently brushing her hair from her face, revealing her small, shell-shaped ear and the long column of her neck. She jerked at his touch, but her eyes remained closed.
“Shh.” Allowing only his lips to touch her, he rained small butterfly kisses along the outer edges of her ear, nipping gently at the lobe. Her chest rose as she inhaled a shaky breath.
Ah, she isn’t immune to me as she would like. His mouth turned up in a small smile of satisfaction.
His lips left her ear, traveling along her jaw and dipping down to her neck. He turned his head slightly, and let his gaze traveled down her linens covering her body. Her hands were clenched in the bedding, the knuckles white. Still she resisted.
Loving the challenge, he resumed his assault on her senses.
His lips were firm and warm, the skin smooth. She tried to hold herself rigid, but her body refused to cooperate and strained toward him. But the only contact made was with his mouth.
What was the man doing? Why was he torturing her like this? His warm breath feathered against her cheek. She stifled the urge to squirm when his lips lightly grazed her neck. Did he lay siege to her body and senses as he had to her castle? How was she to fight this then? She tried to count the stores of candles. It had worked with Edmund. Actually, she had accomplished quite a lot during those sessions of wifely duty.
Her breath hitched in her throat as his tongue lightly grazed her lips. She gripped the linens tighter, resisting the urge to thread her fingers through his hair…to press the kiss deeper.
What was she thinking?
He moved his head, and his mustache tickled her upper lip. All thoughts of candles fled her mind as he changed the kiss into a deeper, more sensual and demanding assault.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, nudging them apart to gain entrance to her mouth. A moan rumbled in her throat, and her body sank into the heat generated by his lips and the nearness of his body.
His hand skimmed the underside of her breast and her eyes sprang open. When had his hand dove beneath the linens? Why would he not just grab her as Edmund had done, pull her beneath him and be done with it?
Turning her head, her gaze collided with his heavy-lidded regard. While the look was familiar, the tilt of his head and the sensual smile that curved his lips were new to her.
“Have done with it.”
His hand stilled at her words. “’Tis not something to be rushed.” His chest vibrated against her arm as he spoke. “Pleasure should be savored.”
“I will find no pleasure in this.” Liar, her mind screamed, but she resolutely ignored it.
“Ah, ’tis a challenge you issue me, then?” Her stomach tightened as he palmed her breast, and her nipple pebbled against his hand.
“I…I don’t…” Her thoughts scattered, and she tensed as he shoved the linens aside and his lips replaced his hand. His tongue swirled around the tip before he gently suckled, turning her blood to molten lava. “Ah.” Her groan escaped on a shaky breath. His hand moved to caress her other breast. Her chest arched toward his touch, and she was powerless to fight it.
He looked into her eyes. “You don’t find pleasure in this?” His tongue flicked against her nipple. “Mayhap lower?” His voice was rough, his touch was tender as his hand left her breast and brushed the skin below her navel, circling ever closer to the melting center of her being. Warmth flowed through her, carrying her resistance to her center where it melded with desire and pooled, the level rising as his lips returned to her breast.
She sucked in a breath as his hand brushed the triangle of curls at the juncture of her thighs, leaving behind a trail of liquid heat. His finger made light contact with the sensitive nub hidden within her folds and she jerked.
He returned to that spot, applying more pressure as he moved his finger back and forth. Waves of hot sensation exploded over her and she gasped. His mouth abandoned her breast for her lips.
The bed shifted slightly, and she felt the throbbing heat of his excitement press against her thigh. She fought the urge to turn toward it, to feel it press against her, demanding entry to her core. His breath fanned her face, his lips descending to hers, ever slowly. As his mouth claimed hers, his scent filled her head, a musky smell of skin and hair and mint.
His shimmery touches were not enough. She craved the full, solid contact of his body against hers. Where had these cravings come from? Never before had she felt this way, wanting both the light touch of the seducer and the manly feel of his hard body.
A moan rattle low in her throat, igniting an answering growl from him.
In one swift move, he rolled to his back, pulling his wife’s length atop him. His hands smoothed the skin of her back, dipping down lower to ride the crest of her bottom. He welcomed her slight weight and reveled in the contact of his hard body against her softer one.
He shifted beneath her until her heated thighs surrounded his manhood, allowing the intimate friction of their bodies to fire her passion. Another moan bur
st from her lips, and he captured it with his mouth. Her hips pressed insistently against him, rotating in an ancient rhythm. Her breath puffed against his opened mouth, filling him with the tang of the wine she’d consumed at dinner.
Her actions fed the fire building in his blood. With the need to bury himself in her heat, he moved her to a sitting position atop him. He caressed her breast with one hand, while the other sought the sensitive spot between her thighs.
Her head lolled back.
She rubbed against him, her moist heat bringing him perilously close to the edge. The muscles of her thighs flexed. “Please. Please.”
Her whispered plea destroyed his control. He urged her up, positioning himself at her moist entrance. Her head shot up, her gaze pinned him and her mouth formed a surprised ‘O.’
“’Tis your ride, wife.” The words croaked from his throat. His jaw clenched as he fought to control the urge to push her hips down forcefully upon his straining member. He sensed she needed to control this joining. Naught had been in her control for a very long time. He could give her this…he hoped.
Confusion knitted her brow. She shifted, and his throbbing need slid inside her heated folds.
He groaned. She was so tight, he feared he would hurt her.
Again, he turned his attention to the sensitive nub, massaging it and watching the play of passion on her face. Her head dipped forward and a curtain of golden hair swept down over her shoulders. His stomach muscles tightened with the tickling contact of her hair.
Her breathing came in uneven gasps.
He didn’t know if he pulled her down on him, or if she pushed herself down, but suddenly he was buried deep within her warmth.
Her womb contracted and his control shattered as they both found release.
She crumpled bonelessly upon his chest, her thudding heartbeat matching his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, a smile lifting his lips.
She fought her passion, but he would devote this eve and every other to exploring her loving depths and firing the desire she tried to deny. For though he could not call his feelings love, he recognized his need for the closeness of a woman…this woman.
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