by Jo Beverley
Imogen was grateful. The only thing that could make this day worse was if she threw up.
She seemed to be the only person present not in the highest spirits.
In the face of the best food and wine, all the men ate heartily and drank deeply. Perhaps FitzRoger would get drunk. She took to watching the goblet she shared with him, but it sat untouched through most of the meal.
Eventually the food was gone and there was only drinking left. There seemed to be an endless supply of good wine.
All from Cleeve.
The noise—drums, pipes, shouts, laughter—seemed to fill her head to bursting.
FitzRoger touched Imogen’s hand to gain her attention. “I think it’s time we completed this business,” he said, as if he could think of a hundred more interesting things to do. “The king has graciously insisted that we use the principal chamber, the one that was your father’s. Your woman awaits you there. Don’t be afraid. Only the king and a few others need witness the bedding.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking Father Wulfgan to bless the nuptial bed, is there?”
“You should not laugh at him,” she said angrily to hide the tight hand of panic squeezing her gut. “He is right. Lust is the work of the devil. He told me a newly married couple should abstain for three days to prove that they are in control of the flesh.”
To her surprise he kissed her hand. “It won’t be as bad as you think, Imogen. I promise you.”
“You won’t hurt me?” she whispered, hoping against hope for reassurance.
He placed a finger gently over her lips. “Hush. We’ll talk later. Go up.”
Chapter 10
Imogen rose to her feet. They gave her little pain, she discovered, perhaps because her mind was so frantic over other problems. As she walked to the stairs, there were some whistles and shouted comments, suddenly hushed. She glanced back, but Tyron FitzRoger was impassive. She knew, however, that with a look he had silenced both his own men and the king’s.
She found her father’s room subtly altered. She had known FitzRoger had taken it for his own, but she hadn’t been prepared. His chests and hangings had replaced those familiar to her. Even though her father’s possessions had doubtless been stolen or destroyed by Warbrick, she resented this invasion.
Her father’s great bed was the same, however, except that it was now strewn with rose petals. Martha was there, grinning as if this were a joyous event.
Imogen wondered if she was going to disgrace herself after all by fainting onto those rose-strewn sheets. She really did feel very strange. He’d been right again. She should have eaten. This weakness doubtless came of too much rich wine on an empty stomach.
“Come you in, my lady, and let’s ready you,” said Martha cheerfully. The woman had taken some of the plentiful wine, that much was clear. In no time at all, Imogen found herself stripped naked, her hair combed out again to lie like silk all around her. Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered.
“There now,” said Martha. “You mustn’t catch cold.” She tenderly wrapped a blue wool cloak around Imogen. “You just sit down here and I’ll go give the sign you’re ready. What a shame you’ve no family to see you wed, my lady, but never you mind. You’ve found a good man to hold you fast.”
Imogen shivered again.
All too soon the room was invaded by FitzRoger, the king, Renald, and a stranger—one of the king’s men. “The Lord Jarrold,” the king told her as FitzRoger stripped.
Soon he was naked before her. Imogen hadn’t thought she would look, but her eyes took on a will of their own, wandering over his sun-darkened body.
She was surprised at how beautiful it appeared, for it really was not. There were plenty of scars, but they seemed to enhance rather than detract. He was broad in the shoulders and slender of flank, but contoured everywhere with hard muscle without a gentling layer of fat. She could see now how he could be so strong without great bulk.
She met his eyes and saw he was giving her time to look at him, to learn him.
She lowered her eyes and told herself that she had merely been admiring his attributes as a warrior in her service. That was, after all, why she had married him.
She heard laughter and glanced up. Under her horrified eyes, the unalarming softness between his legs began to swell and reach.
“By the sepulcher, your body knows its job,” declared Henry jovially. “And no wonder, with such a morsel ready for it.”
Martha whipped off Imogen’s cloak. She instinctively covered herself with her hands.
“Perfect in every way,” declared the king. “Into bed with you both and at it! Make me fine soldiers for England.”
Despite the cover it offered, Imogen had to be pushed into the bed by Martha. FitzRoger slid into bed from the other side and, under the covers, held her down with an iron-hard arm.
With a few more jovial comments, the king, the lords, and Martha left.
As soon as they were alone, FitzRoger let Imogen go.
She didn’t try to escape. There was no refuge available and her fears were irrational. Fighting them, and determined not to make an undignified scene, she lay still on her back, opened her legs wide, shut her eyes tight, and waited.
Nothing happened. When she could bear the waiting no longer, she opened her eyes a crack and saw him lying on his side, head supported on his hand, watching her.
“Am I doing it wrong?” she asked anxiously. “What should I do?”
“What exactly are you doing?” he queried.
She felt her face flame. “You know.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently. “If I know, sweeting, why not let me take charge?”
“Because you always take charge,” she said in despair.
“Only when I know what I’m doing,” he pointed out with a touch of humor.
“You always think you know what you’re doing,” she retorted. “Very well, since you know what you’re doing, just do it. And I hope I get with child because then we won’t have to do it again for a year or so.”
“Oh,” he said as he slipped an arm around her, “it will be at least a couple of months before we know whether my seed has taken root. We’ll have to keep trying until we’re sure.”
Imogen found herself plastered up against his iron-hard body with that thing poking at her. Panic flooded her again, and she pushed away with all her might. “No! I won’t! I can’t!”
He released her and her own push almost flung her off the bed. “What are you afraid of?” he asked with a frown. “Or why are you so afraid? Everybody does this, and most people find some pleasure in it.”
Pleasure! “No, I won’t,” she said again, wriggling right to the edge of the bed.
He sighed. “Can’t you trust me a little, Imogen?”
“No,” she said baldly.
His lips tightened. “If you are a flower, Imogen of Carrisford, the best I can imagine is a thistle. Can I at least expect you to do as you’re told?”
“Oh, you have me all nicely terrified,” she said nastily. “I wouldn’t dare disobey the master.”
“Good,” he said. He gripped her arm and dragged her into the middle of the bed, then moved so he was half on top of her. When she pushed at him, he said, “Stop that.”
She did.
“Good again. Now lie still.”
Trembling at the look in his eyes, she did so, and opened her legs. “Close your legs,” he said quietly. “I don’t like you lying there like a sacrificial offering. Try to relax.”
“Relax!” she repeated incredulously, but got no response.
His callused hand moved onto her body near the hip and began to travel. It was a firm touch. A stroke. It moved over her belly and up her ribs to her shoulder. She couldn’t imagine what the purpose of it was but had to admit that it was pleasant. She even liked the slight abrasion of his hand’s roughness against her delicate skin.
“You’re not a thistle,” he said softly. “Your skin is like rose petals. . . .”
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He moved away from her a little so that he could stroke parts of her as yet untouched, parts never before touched by a man. He ran his hand up her thigh, his thumb brushing the curls there before moving up to circle her belly.
She squirmed. “What are you doing?”
“Gentling you.” The sun was almost down, but there was enough light left to show her his fine-drawn impassive features. He did not look lustful, but as if he concentrated on things other than the physical. This was not what she had expected at all.
“Gentling me?”
He glanced at her with a flash of humor. “Like a high-strung filly.”
“I am not a horse,” she muttered, but even so she could feel herself grow soft and warm as that hand roamed over her skin.
“That’s good.” His hand brushed over her right breast, then her left. “Father Wulfgan would definitely not approve.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Stop that! He said that was one of the worst sins, to let a man touch me there!”
With a twist he captured both her hands in his and held them over her head. “Did he warn you about this?” His mouth came down to her nipple and covered it.
Imogen screamed at full pitch. He let go of her wrists and her breast and clapped a hand over her mouth. “For the Lord’s sake!”
She looked up over his hand and saw amusement and exasperation. He was infuriating. When he relaxed his clasp she bit him.
He flung himself out of the bed. “I don’t believe this,” he said, shaking his sore hand. “I’m beginning to think we’ll have to do it your way after all.”
Imogen looked at him, fixated by the phallus sticking straight out in front. Just like Warbrick. “No,” she said, and scuttled as far away as the bed would allow. “I want to go to a cloister.”
He looked at her coldly. “Don’t be such a coward.”
“The marriage isn’t consummated,” she said desperately. “It can be annulled. You have no right to keep me from being a Bride of Christ. Father Wulfgan says—”
He pointed a finger at her. “Say one more word about that priest and he dies.”
She gasped.
He came back to the bed and covered himself, put out a long arm, and pulled her against him again. She wriggled to try to escape, but she might as well have tried to escape iron bands. That thing pressed against her thigh like an oaken staff. She pushed back mightily and made no impression at all.
He blew softly against her ear and his voice was warm as he said, “Unless, of course, you want to list all the things he says will send us to hell so I can demonstrate? I suspect I’ve acquired the best informed virgin in England.”
She could never break free and so she stopped trying. “You’re a heretic,” she protested weakly. “You make fun of a living saint . . .”
He turned her and pressed her flat on the bed on her stomach, hand hard in her lower back. When she didn’t struggle, his hand started to wander again, this time over her back. It was magic. Father Wulfgan had not said anything about a hand on the back. Imogen allowed herself to relax and enjoy it.
“Your body is God’s own creation,” he said softly as his hand explored her spine. “And a fine piece of work it is.”
“The flesh should be mortified,” she breathed.
“I’ll whip you if you insist on it.”
She chuckled. “As if I would.”
“Good. I wouldn’t enjoy marking this satiny smoothness. . . .” His hand was tracing the curve of her buttocks.
Imogen wriggled, her breath catching.
“What interests me,” FitzRoger murmured against her ear, so his warm breath tickled it and made her squirm even more, “is where the good father learned just how evil carnality can be.”
Imogen was aware of melting, of bones grown soft and muscles grown weak. “He always says he was once a wicked man,” she breathed.
“His replacement will be pure from birth,” he promised.
Imogen’s bones and muscles regained their strength. She pushed up to look him in the eye. “He’s my priest and he stays, FitzRoger. I rule Carrisford.”
“Under my advice,” he reminded her, pushing her down again. “I’m not having that man here.”
She pushed up again, but before she could give him her opinion of that, he flipped her over and covered her lips with his own. His leg held her down and one hand wove in her hair so she couldn’t escape.
She resolutely kept her teeth and lips tightly closed.
After a while he moved very slightly back. “Open them.”
She shook her head.
“I think we’re back to you doing as you’re told, Imogen,” he warned.
“You are—” His lips met hers, soft and gentle, and she found she didn’t want to fight him over this. She enjoyed his kisses, and kisses couldn’t be so very wicked. When his tongue ran quickly along her inner lip, she shivered with the remembered fire.
When he pushed farther to touch his tongue to hers, she jerked back, remembering more of Father Wulfgan’s warnings. If a man put his tongue in a woman’s mouth, it triggered a poison, and the woman died. . . .
FitzRoger would not let her escape, though. She fought him, but his tongue invaded her mouth. . . .
No poison burst forward to kill her.
Imogen surrendered to the magical sensation. Just perhaps Father Wulfgan was mistaken about a few things. After all, as FitzRoger said, how would a living saint know?
She felt him relax in response to her surrender. He turned her head this way and that, their tongues meeting in his mouth and hers. She tasted the moist warmth of him and was lost.
Imogen only slowly began to notice that he was rubbing their bodies together at the hip as if he wanted to get at her. It was coming, then, was it? Well, she knew it had to. This kissing was all very well, but it couldn’t put off the other forever. He was trying to give her something sweet, like honey to help the medicine down. She remembered her words: “You do nothing but hurt me.” He’d admitted it would be that way tonight.
She reminded herself it wasn’t his fault. She’d never thought God had been very fair to Eve and her daughters, but God was God.
Was it time to open her legs yet?
The long kiss ended and Imogen braced for the onslaught, but his head moved down in one long lick to her breast.
Oh no. What a penance she’d have to do! She grabbed his hair.
“Let go.”
No one could deny that tone of command. Her hands fell limp onto his shoulders. “It’s not my fault, God,” she muttered, and heard what sounded like a groan.
Then his tongue circled her nipple. It felt most strange. Next it flicked at her nipple and she shivered.
“That is a sin,” she whispered.
“No it isn’t,” he said with such authority that she didn’t dare protest again.
Shivery feelings were swirling around her body. His mouth moved to her other breast. It settled on it, warm and wet, and he began to suckle like a baby. The most extraordinary sensation shot through her and her whole body tensed. She gripped his hair again, but not to pull him away.
Imogen took in a great shuddering breath. An ache was growing within her, bringing a fever to her mind. Her hips moved of themselves and she clutched more desperately at him.
He kept sucking and nibbling as his hand wandered, dizzying her. Her hips heaved as if possessed. Her whole body was hot, writhing, and twitching.
“I’m tormented by devils!” she cried.
He looked up, eyes dark and bright. “And you know how we have to drive them out, don’t you, sweeting?” His hand slid between her thighs, which opened wide at his touch. Imogen instinctively closed them, but he was already within.
“Truly?” she gasped. She stared at him as her hope of salvation. “I can’t bear this.”
“They’ll torment you forever unless we do. Now it’s time to open your legs.”
She obeyed and his fingers moved against her. She whimpered.
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nbsp; “Do you feel a pain here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, but hesitantly, for she wasn’t sure it was exactly a pain, but whatever it was was getting worse.
She stared at him. His eyes were darkened, his cheeks flushed with color. He looked warm and soft again, and the change she saw in him seemed to make the devils in her dance more wildly.
His fingers slid up within her a little, rotating. “And here?” he whispered.
Imogen closed her eyes and it was as if she could see inside herself to a swirling pit of demons, cavorting and jabbing at her with fiery brands. Something cramped beyond where his fingers moved. “Higher,” she gasped.
“That’s why I’m equipped to go higher, Imogen. To rid you of your devils.”
Oh, now it all made sense. She thrust up urgently against his hand. He moved it against the throbbing ache, but the torment just intensified. Instinct, not duty, drove her to stretch herself wider to him. “Do it then,” she gasped. “I’m going to die!”
“No you’re not,” he said huskily. “Your paladin is going to save you.”
He was between her legs and she felt that hardness against her ache. “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”
“Yes,” he said, as breathlessly as she. “You’re a hard woman to save from the devils, Imogen of Carrisford.”
The devils were spreading throughout her body. She clutched him. “Hurry!” she cried out. “Hurry!” She felt him begin to fill her, stretching her. The tightness was astonishing and came close to pain, but it was promising relief from the greater torment. “So good,” she muttered. “So good.”
“Yes,” he groaned and kissed her. With his mouth hot and soft over hers he breathed, “My flower, my treasure, my ultimate pleasure. . . .”
That shocked her eyes open. “Pleasure!” It was as if Wulfgan himself loomed over the bed. “No!” she shrieked, and pushed against him with all her might. “Think of our children!”
His jaw clenched and his eyes shot green fire. “Wulfgan is dead,” he promised grimly, and pushed into her.
Pain, excruciating pain, struck. God’s judgment!
Imogen kicked and squirmed. “You’re a devil yourself! Sweet Savior, help me!”