by Anne Stuart
He felt the fight leave her body, the acceptance wash over her, followed by a new tension when he lifted his body off hers and stripped off the rest of his clothes.
She was right. There would be pain for her the first time, but she seemed untroubled by the notion. She was damp from her own desire and from his mouth, and she writhed when he touched her, his fingers testing her.
She was small and tight and virginal, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He nudged her legs apart, resting in the cradle of her thighs, and told himself he didn’t care, he’d simply thrust into her and claim his release.
For some reason he wanted to kiss her ear. She had perfect ears, small, delicate. He nibbled one soft lobe and felt her shiver.
He pushed into her, slowly, knowing he was hurting her. Her breath came in shaken little pants, yet she arched off the bed to meet the slow, steady thrust of his hips. Her arms were tight around his sweat-slippery back, clinging to him, and the little choking sounds she was making were ones of desire as well as pain.
He said what he never thought he’d say. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The words were torn from him in an agonized gasp as he tried to control the powerful urges of his body. His muscles were clenched in iron will, his forehead was beaded with sweat, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stand the torment.
“It’s all right,” she said in a whisper. “I’m your wife. Your destiny. Take me.” And she arched up against him, seeking him.
He lost control. For the first time in his life, a woman overpowered him. He thrust against her, breaking through the frail barrier of her maidenhead, sinking deep into the glorious tightness of her. She cried out then, a small, soft sound, and he kissed her, his mouth covering her face, drinking her tears, tasting her soft mouth.
And then he noticed she was still clinging to him. Instead of turning cold, she was holding him tightly, and if her desire had faded with the pain, it hadn’t vanished entirely.
He was at her mercy, yet there was one way he could still salvage his pride. He reached between their bodies and touched her, hearing her choked gasp with male satisfaction.
He began to move then, thrusting slowly deep inside her, determined not to lose all control until she’d grown used to it. He half-expected a protest, but she was beyond speech, melting in his arms, meeting him in the eternal advance and retreat of desire.
And then he could no longer protect her. Red-hot passion ripped away the last of his epic self-control, and he surged into her, again and again. He barely heard her choked gasp, the tiny scream of fulfillment he’d managed to wring from her. And then he followed, thrusting into her tightly welcoming body, giving her his essence, his soul, his love.
Giving her his son.
Elspeth lay on her back in the soft bed, Alistair spread-eagled over her. His long black hair was entwined with her silver-blonde strands. His arms and legs were wrapped around hers. His body still rested within hers.
The soft breeze dried the tears on her face. She hadn’t even realized she’d cried. Her breathing was taking forever to return to normal, and her heart was still racing, shuddering inside her.
Was it a witch’s curse? Or was it an act of God? It didn’t matter. She lay in her husband’s arms, and was content.
It couldn’t be true. Surely she wasn’t content to lie beneath a dangerous madman. She was deliriously, wildly happy, alive for the first time in her life. It made no difference if he was everything they said he was. She must be fully as mad as he was purported to be. She loved him.
Destiny, he’d called it. A prophecy. She was too pragmatic to believe in such things. Too pragmatic to believe in falling in love with a dangerous man who happened to be her husband.
But practicality didn’t alter things. She loved him. And she would let nothing short of death tear her from his arms. Until he grew tired of her.
He would, of course. Helva and Gilles had been more than happy to tell her stories about his legendary appetite for women and debauchery. An untutored nun would soon lose all appeal to a man of his sophisticated tastes, and while she’d been willing to do anything he wanted, she doubted he’d have the inclination to teach her more. For all she knew, this last hour might be all she’d ever have of him.
The memory, and something else. The old woman had told him there’d be a son from this night’s work. Elspeth had no doubt about that whatsoever. Whether it made sense or not, she knew. She carried his seed, his child, within her.
She heard a guttural, unromantic sound, and she turned her face from the moonlit sky to stare at him. He was asleep, obviously sated. She must have pleased him, at least a little bit. How could something that was so astonishing, so cataclysmic, be mundane for him?
Of course, he’d done this a thousand times before. And suddenly Elspeth, who considered herself relatively meek and charitable, wanted to scratch the eyes from every woman who’d ever lay beneath him. Starting with that brazen hussy who had been clinging to his arm when she first saw him.
How had the prophecy gone? White and black they shall combine. They’d certainly done that, in marriage and then in the flesh. Pure as snow, as blood-red wine. Not so pure any more. It had gone on with something about death and destruction, fire and thunder and rebirth.
His head lay on her shoulder. He looked like a boy, innocent, unsullied. Not the creature of legendary rages and awesome excesses. Simply a man. Her man.
For however long he chose to keep her. And when he dismissed her she’d have little choice but to take her leave, go back to the haven of the Sisters of the Everlasting Martyr, or wherever else he chose to send her. And she’d go meekly.
Like hell she would! She’d been brought up to be dutiful; in this life she had little choice. When she’d proven too willful, too intelligent for her father’s peace of mind, he’d simply shipped her off to the convent.
She wasn’t going to be dismissed again. She wouldn’t relinquish Alistair Darcourt without a fight. While she’d taunted him with it, she had never actually believed him capable of killing her. After last night, it would be the only way he’d be able to be rid of her.
His destiny, his prophecy, his curse. She was his. And she wasn’t going to let him go.
The room was filled will the faint gray light of approaching dawn. Elspeth shivered, trying to burrow deeper into the soft furs, only to find them ripped ceremoniously from her.
Her husband towered over her, dark, distant, clothed once more in black. “Get dressed,” he said in a lazy tone that she didn’t quite believe. “It’s time to go back to the keep.”
She reached for the covers, but he jerked them out of her way. She had to content herself with wrapping her arms around her body. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said in a husky, practical voice. “You ripped it off me last night.”
He looked momentarily daunted. He wheeled around, disappearing into the outer room, and a moment later he was back, a blood-red dress over his arm. He tossed it on the bed, barely glancing at her. “It’ll be too big for you,” he said. “It must have belonged to my mother in her wild youth. It will have to do.”
Still Elspeth didn’t move. She hadn’t expected tenderness or affection. Being brought back to the keep was almost more than she’d hoped for. But that didn’t mean she didn’t still long for something else.
“Are you witless?” he demanded, deliberately trying to goad her. “Was the shock of last night too much for your delicate sensibilities? You’d best get used to it. I’m far from through with you.”
She couldn’t help it. A smile wreathed her face. “Good,” she said flatly, reaching for the dress, which lay across her bare feet.
His hand caught hers, hauling her naked body up against his. He threaded one hand through her thick hair, holding her face still as he pressed her up against his rich velvet clothes. “You’ve heard the stories, Elspeth of Gaveland. Only half of them are true. But that’s enough. I’m the son of the devil, in spirit if not in fact, and running away from me was proba
bly the wisest thing you ever did. You just didn’t run far enough.”
“Should I run now?”
“I’d find you,” he said flatly. “You’ll never get away.” And he pressed his mouth against her, a hard, possessive kiss.
She endured it patiently, waiting. And to be sure, his mouth softened, coaxing, teasing, nibbling at her lips, and his tongue danced across the soft contours of her mouth, seducing with an unexpected tenderness.
Then he thrust her away from him, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing. “I think you’re the witch,” he said in a cold, bleak voice. “Get dressed, or I’ll haul you back to the keep naked.”
She picked up the dress, holding it against her, waiting for him to leave. “Is there any water? I need to wash.” He didn’t answer as he strode from the room, from the cottage, leaving her alone. She climbed off the bed, feeling stiff and sore, only to find an earthenware bowl of herb-scented water on the rude table by the wall. A soft dry cloth lay beside it, and when she touched it she realized the water had been warmed for her.
She washed and dressed as swiftly as she could, marveling at her sense of well-being. The dress was long enough, but built for a more voluptuous frame, and it had a tendency to fall off her narrow shoulders and expose far too much of her chest. Not that there was much to expose, she thought with deliberate self-mockery. She was hardly endowed with the necessary curves to delight a man.
But the odd thing was, she felt as if she were. She felt voluptuous, sensuous. ripely sexual. Her extremely bad-tempered husband would probably laugh if he knew what she was thinking.
When she stepped out into the main room, he was lounging in the doorway, staring at her with a brooding expression on his dark face. “There’s tea for you. Drink it swiftly, and we’ll be on our way.”
She glanced at the small bowl on the table, the steam drifting upward. “Where’s your mother?”
“Somewhere on the other side of Dunstan Woods, I suspect. Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to thank her for warming the water for me. And for brewing the tea. But you must have done it.”
He obviously didn’t like it that she’d taken notice. “Anything to speed you along,” he snapped. “I need to get back to the castle. I’m not certain I trust De Lancey.”
“But he’s your cousin,” she said, shocked. “Your closest friend! Your second in command.”
“Exactly,” he said dryly. “Drink your tea.”
She took the small bowl in her hands, noting that they trembled slightly, and brought the hot brew to her lips. It smelled sweet and savory, and sudden doubts assailed her. She set it back down again without touching it.
His mockery was back in full force. “Afraid I’m going to poison you, Elspeth? It wouldn’t be very practical me, and I am a very practical man. What would we do with your body? If I want you dead, you’ll know it. It’s simply an herbal brew to strengthen your blood and ease your discomfort.”
“You reassure me,” she said with a faint mockery of her own, ignoring the blush that rose to her as she reached for the tea and took a small, delicate sip. It warmed its way down her throat, spreading more well-being through her body.
“Of course, I could be lying to you,” he said casually, stepping into the small room. “It could be a love philtre. Just to keep you pliant and amenable, I could have had my mother brew you a potion that would convince you that you were in love with me.”
“There’s no need for a potion.”
She might as well have hit him. His indrawn breath was sharp and pained, and then silence filled the room. She drained the tea, set the bowl back down on the rough wooden table, and met his golden eyes. Fearlessly, she told herself.
And then he was prepared to fight back. “You’re too easy, Elspeth of Gaveland. One night with me between your legs and you’re ready to believe you’ve found true love. You’re in for a rude awakening.”
She pushed her long hair from her face. “You mean you’re not always so tender and romantic?” she teased gently. “I’m doomed to be disillusioned?”
“Don’t!” he said, and there was real pain in his voice.
Elspeth’s teasing faded. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me care for you. It will come to a bad end.” And without another word he strode from the cottage, leaving her to follow after him as best she could.
She sat behind him on the gelding, her arms around his waist, feeling the warm skin beneath the thin black shirt. She rested her head against his broad back, closing her eyes and listening to the sound of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart as they rode through the woods.
It was further into the day than she would have thought when they finally emerged from the darkness of the virgin forest. The sun was already past noon, and the sky was bright blue, marred only by thick white clouds that presaged a harsh storm to follow on the blessing of hot summer air.
She could feel the eyes watching as they rode back into the castle yard, but no one said a word. The air was almost unnaturally silent, broken only by the sound of the animals, the chickens running loose, the whinny of a horse, the squeal of a pig.
Elspeth wanted to keep her face buried against Alistair’s back, but her pride had always been a source of difficulty for her, and for the time being, she was the lady of the castle. She lifted her head, looking about her, hoping to convey a mixture of friendliness and self-assurance, neither of which she was feeling.
It happened so quickly, it was over almost before it began. The people of Huntingdon were still and silent in the presence of their lord, but the children were not quite so wise. A filthy, towheaded child streaked out of an outbuilding, shrieking with laughter, unaware of the tension in the courtyard. He raced directly in front of Alistair’s gray gelding, and Elspeth tightened her grip, turning her face against his back, horrified at the collision of beast and child.
It took amazing reflexes to avert it. It took considerable strength to make the horse rear from the child, to bring him down again out of harm’s reach. It took a certain amount of caring for the unknown child even to make the effort.
Alistair stood up in the saddle, and she released her stranglehold around his waist, letting out her pent-up breath when she realized the danger was past. Alistair had averted certain tragedy. “Whose brat is this?” he bellowed.
The child had fallen in the dust, and with tears rolling down his filthy face, he was crying, almost as loudly as the sheriff was shouting. No one moved to comfort the child, everyone too terrified of their lord and master to move.
Elspeth didn’t hesitate. She slid off the back of the restless horse and scooped the child into her arms as she struggled to keep the overlarge dress decently around her. Alistair cursed as he wheeled the horse away from them, and then he jumped off the back of the gelding, arrogantly certain that someone would take control of his horse.
He came up beside Elspeth as she held the weeping child, not touching her. “I asked a question!” he thundered. “I expect an answer.”
In return came Elspeth’s voice, loud and clear. “Stop it, my lord. You’re scaring the child.”
The shocked silence was deafening. The assembled inhabitants of Huntingdon Keep watched with horror, expecting to see their new lady struck down.
There was no reading the expression in Alistair’s golden eyes. For all she knew, he would do exactly as his people feared he might. But she wouldn’t let him hurt the child. She tightened her grip, and the filthy little mite shrieked in protest.
“You might show a bit more gratitude to your lady,” Alistair told the boy in a deceptively mild voice. He took the struggling child from Elspeth’s grip, and she was too shocked to try to hold on.
The child looked up at the sheriff in fascination. “Devil,” he observed pleasantly, and began to howl again.
Alistair set him carefully on the hard ground, and as the child raced off on chubby little legs, he gave him a good swift smack on his bottom. And then he caught Elspeth’s arm in
his, a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary, but she decided she’d let it pass this time. “Come along,” he said beneath his breath, giving her a jerk.
She stumbled after him, plastering a calm expression on her face. He was in a fury, that was certain, but then she was growing used to his furies. As she struggled to keep up with him she stumbled over the dress, almost falling.
He caught her expertly when she hadn’t even thought he was aware of her. He scooped her effortlessly up in his arms, striding into the keep as his body vibrated with tension.
Gilles De Lancey was awaiting them, a welcoming smile on his handsome face, a guarded look in his perfect blue eyes. “We wondered where you were, cousin,” he said pleasantly.
Alistair fixed him with a cool stare. “Were you unable to discharge your duties during my absence, De Lancey? You could be replaced.”
De Lancey flushed. “Everything is in good heart, my lord sheriff. I was simply concerned…”
“That touches me, Gilles,” Alistair said, shifting Elspeth in his arms. “And I do know how to reward loyalty.” He started through the hallway, his arms too tight around her.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “My rooms are in the north tower.”
“Your rooms are wherever I say they are. If you try my patience any longer, they’ll be in the dungeon.”
“Yes, my lord sheriff,” she said meekly.
He cursed her under his breath. “Between you and De Lancey I’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
“And were you looking for peace, my lord?”
The hallway was deserted. Deliberately, Elspeth knew. Though De Lancey wouldn’t be far away; he’d be silent, watching, spying.
Alistair let Elspeth down, her body sliding against his, her bare feet cool on the stone floor. “If I am,” he said, “then doubtless I married the wrong nun. You’ll sleep with me, wench. Until I tire of you.”
“Or I of you.”
He caught her chin in his strong hand, and his fury blazed. “Don’t push me too far, Elspeth. You’re mine, and what is mine, I keep.”