Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  He cursed softly and came over to stand by the bed. From Imogen’s perspective he looked tall and formidable, but she knew the stirring within her was desire, not fear. Surely it would be all right here, now.

  “Why the sudden desperation?” he asked. “I assure you, I’m not going to disown you.”

  “Of course not,” she said acidly. “I’m the Treasure of Carrisford.”

  “Precisely. So?”

  She looked down at the sheet and found she’d knotted it in her fingers. No wonder he wasn’t impressed by her willingness. “The oath,” she muttered. “I can’t confess because I would have to tell the truth. I can’t . . . I’d hoped the abbot would have some advice, but he’s not here. . . .”

  He leaned down to rescue the sheet and smooth it out. Imogen looked at his shadowed face, wishing she could read his thoughts, wondering what he was going to do, ferreting about in herself, trying to sense what her unreliable body and mind would do if he did take her up on her invitation.

  He captured her hands and wove his fingers through hers. After a moment he spread her hands so she was vulnerable before him. Nerves jumped all through her body, but it wasn’t really fear, and she hoped he knew that.

  Slowly he leaned down, pushing her hands back until they were on either side of her head and he was settling over her, the coarse sheet and blanket between them. His eyes were intensely watchful.

  Imogen made herself relax and meet his eyes. Then his hands loosed hers and threaded sweetly into her hair. The warm weight of him pressed against her whole body in a most comforting manner. “Perhaps a little love-play without fear would help,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Imogen’s lips tingled from the nearness of his, only inches away.

  “I’ve made a promise we won’t indulge in carnal union here, and I won’t break it. But there are many things other than carnal union.”

  “Are there?” A tremor of excitement ran through her. He was going to kiss her, and there was no fear of the darker side in that.

  His lips settled onto hers gently, teasingly. He played but refused to deepen it until she grabbed his head and pulled him down to her, kissing him fiercely. The sweet taste of him seemed something she had known all her life, and his shape on her fitted perfectly. It felt so right, so good, and she couldn’t believe that this time it would not work for them. At this moment, she couldn’t imagine rejecting him. Perhaps he could be brought to break his word. . . .

  He pulled back. “Remember,” he said softly, “we are absolutely not going to consummate our marriage here.”

  “I . . . I think I could.”

  “Even so, we will not. Remember that.”

  Then he was between the blankets, side by side with her on the narrow bed. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her again. His hands played on her back, and so she did the same. One of his hands wandered up to find the delicious sensitivity of her nape, and so she copied it. His hair, she realized for the first time, was very silky, despite the curls which suggest a rougher texture. Just rubbing it between her fingers was delight.

  He had bathed, for there was no longer a stink of blood, but instead a delicate aroma of the herbs in his rinsing water. Beneath that was a spicy scent that she already recognized as his, and which seemed able to fever her all on its own.

  His mouth wandered from her lips to her neck and she instinctively stretched back to grant him access, staring at the beamed ceiling as she floated on warm sensuality. His lips ventured onto her chest, tracing the neckline of her shift. A tiny spark of anxiety flared, but she stamped it.

  It wasn’t going to happen anyway. He’d given his word.

  As if he sensed that fragment of tension, his hand soothed her, and he said, “Don’t forget, even if you plead and beg, I’m not taking your virginity here.”

  That brought a gurgle of laughter from her and he blew softly against her face, smiling.

  The hand that had been stroking her side slid up to stroke her breast, sending a shudder through her. She tested it carefully in her mind and decided it wasn’t fear. Growing bolder in her mind, she tentatively sought those terrible dark fears. They weren’t there, not even as distant clouds.

  Was it possible that just knowing he wouldn’t do it could keep them away? Perhaps if he promised, and then . . . But it was because she believed in his promises that it was working. . . .

  He eased back her shift and his lips tugged softly at her nipple.

  “Oh, why is that so sweet?” she whispered.

  “God’s holy plan?”

  “Don’t say such things!” But she didn’t want him to stop, not at all.

  “Time to talk about Father Wulfgan’s warnings, Imogen,” he said against her tingling flesh. “Let’s get them out in the open. What does he say is so evil?”

  “I don’t want to . . .”

  “Tell me, Imogen.” His tongue touched her softly.

  “What you’re doing,” she gasped. “That is evil. And tongue-kissing.” Once started, she let it all run out like a flood. “And hands almost anywhere. Anything but . . . you know. Putting it in me. And that’s only permissible because it is necessary to make more souls for God.”

  He sighed. “The man is mad, you know.”

  Imogen thought about it. “I think he is too,” she said at last, reluctantly, for it felt like heresy. “Yesterday, when he was talking to me, he seemed to be trying to force me tell him all we had done. He seemed . . . It sounds silly, but I thought he was growing . . . excited. Do you know what I mean?”

  He eased away from her breast to look at her. “Yes. I suspected he might be like that. So, wife of mine, are you willing to let me tongue-kiss you, and touch you everywhere with hands and mouth, and pleasure you?”

  Years of exhortations are not easily erased, but Imogen nodded.

  “Remember,” he said, “we are not going to indulge in carnal union, but I can give you pleasure if you will let me. This is not a duty or a penance. If you don’t like it, or if you become frightened again, tell me. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Imogen, though she was determined not to stop him. “What are you going to do if you’re not going to . . . ?”

  “This,” he said, and returned his attention to her right breast. He eased over a little so his fingers could play with her left.

  Imogen shivered with pleasure. “What should I do?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just tell me if I hurt you, or if you don’t like it.” His teeth gently abraded the top of her nipple and her body startled her by arching like a bow.

  “Good,” he murmured, reassuring her. “I like you to stretch and move for me. But remember, I’m not going to enter you, not even with my fingers.”

  “Fingers?” she gasped.

  “Don’t you remember? Devil hunting.”

  Imogen had her eyes shut, but she sensed he was looking at her and opened them. He was deliberately bringing back memories of their wedding night. Watching her reaction.

  “It’s all right, I think,” she said, wanting to beg him to carry on with what he had been doing.

  He slid up to kiss her lips and she opened her mouth willingly to him. His shirt brushed against her tender nipples and she moved herself to intensify the sensation. A tremor passed through her.

  He laughed softly into her mouth, then drew back. “Oh, my sweet wanton, you’ll be the death of me.”

  She was guilt-stricken. “I’m sorry.”

  He silenced her briefly with his lips. “Don’t be. I want to do this. I want to drive you wild with pleasure and watch you.”

  “But won’t that be breaking our word?”

  “I only promised we wouldn’t have carnal union.”

  Imogen hadn’t been aware that she had opened her legs until his thigh slid between them to press against an ache there. She gripped him with her own thighs, then gazed at him, confused.

  He read her aright. “Nothing we do here is wrong, Imogen. Nothing you do could possibly be stupid or wrong. Just show m
e how you feel.”

  She gripped his thigh more tightly with hers and drew his head down for a kiss. She thought she heard him groan. His hands traveled her. She shivered when one traced the underside of her raised thigh and brushed along the edge of her buttocks. Then it traveled over to the front and in a move, replaced his thigh between her legs.

  She tensed for a moment, gripping more in defense than desire, and he stayed perfectly still, waiting. Imogen could feel her flesh there pulse with the need to be touched, but it almost felt too sensitive for any kind of contact.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “I’m just going to stroke you, very gently. I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  She surrendered warily. “It seems a strange place to be stroking someone.”

  His hand gently stroked, then circled, flirting with a place of exquisite sensitivity. “But perhaps not,” said Imogen, and released her resistance.

  She closed her eyes so as to sink deeper into the heated sensations he was summoning. When his mouth returned to her breasts, she sucked in a deep breath. “Angels of heaven, aid me,” she whispered. “This is most peculiar.” A moment later she added, “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.”

  She wasn’t even holding him. She had spread her arms and was gripping the edges of the bed as if her life depended on it. “Should I hold you?” she gasped.

  “It’s all right.”

  The pressure of his hand became slowly stronger and she lifted to it, stretching to it. She dimly heard an encouraging murmur and that liberated her to move, to writhe.

  Teeth. He’d said something once about biting . . . She felt his teeth press at her nipple. “You’re biting me!”

  He stopped.

  “It . . . I didn’t mind.”

  He laughed and she felt his teeth again.

  “I never would have believed this,” she muttered. Then: “I don’t know what to do.” Her heart was pounding so that she could hear nothing but that thunder, and yet she heard his voice softly in the distance.

  “That’s it, Ginger. Let it happen. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

  “What? Tell me what to do!” Her protests turned into a cry, and he caught it in his mouth. She kissed him desperately, wondering if she could survive this, begging into his mouth for release.

  It came.

  It was as well he still covered her mouth with his, for she screamed as her body convulsed. He moved to press her down even as his hand continued its circling. Her body fought him and that battle seemed to cause an explosion of ecstasy.

  He was still touching her, but swansdown soft. His weight was still on her, but unconfining now. His mouth slowly released hers, and Imogen sucked in an enormous breath through bruised lips.

  “Sweet heaven,” she said softly, and stared at him.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” His expression was enigmatic, but she thought, she hoped, that there was warmth in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

  A part of him moved against her hip and she realized he was hard and ready for a woman. Guilt invaded her delight. “But shouldn’t it have been like that for you, too?”

  “Sometimes. Not every time. I’m not feeling deprived. Well,” he said dryly, “not very much.” He drew her lazily to lie on his chest.

  “Can’t I do the same for you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s not possible?”

  “It’s not appropriate.”

  He was relaxed and yet his tone was austere again. She tangled a finger in the open neck of his shirt. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

  “It’s fair. I enjoyed doing that to you.”

  “Then wouldn’t I enjoy doing it to you?”

  He pulled her up so they were eye to eye. “No, Imogen.”

  “No, I wouldn’t enjoy it?”

  “Just no.”

  Since he was taking her weight, she rested her elbows on his chest and put her chin in her hands. “Not even if I pout?”

  “Pout? I’m supposed to be moved by a pout?” There was a distinct glimmer of amusement in his eyes that looked like a victory banner to Imogen.

  “Cry then,” she said. “Not even if I cry?”

  “If you ever use tears to sway me, I’ll rosy your behind.” Despite the words, his expression was no threat to her posterior.

  Imogen was aware of a glowing happiness almost as wonderful as that passion he had summoned. She was glimpsing the warm, relaxed side again, the one few people ever saw.

  What would it be like when he abandoned all barriers and joined her in rapture? She wanted that, more than rapture of her own. She knew what he had meant when he said he had enjoyed watching her pleasure. She would enjoy watching his if she knew how to achieve it.

  She realized with frustration that Father Wulfgan’s warnings had not included enough about wicked things a woman could do to a man.

  There was that business of the mouth . . . No, surely not.

  She became aware of his hardness beneath her hips and moved, but gently. Such hard, engorged flesh must be very tender and she was afraid of hurting him. He caught his breath and seized her hips.

  “No, Imogen.”

  She studied his face and didn’t think it was pain she saw there. Despite his hold she managed tiny little movements.

  He swatted her behind quite stingingly, rolled her off, and escaped from the bed.

  Imogen sat up grinning, perfectly aware that her shift was off her breasts. “Aren’t you going to share the bed?”

  “I said I’d sleep on the floor. I’m supposed to defend the monks against your outbursts of ungovernable lust, and it looks as if it could be a mighty battle.”

  There was no hint of a smile on his face when he blew out the candle, but Imogen laughed as she slid down under the blankets. She had tasted the power of her womanhood when it was unencumbered by guilt and fear, and it was delicious.

  Silence fell, and she gently explored her body beneath the sheet. It felt the same, and she supposed it was. She was still a virgin after all. But it was not the same. It was awakened. It was hungry. She really didn’t feel there would be a problem with consummation the next time they tried.

  That sweet ecstasy had nothing to do with the rape she had witnessed.

  “I wish you’d done that before,” she said into the dark.

  “I tried, as I remember.”

  “It would have helped if you hadn’t gone on about devils.”

  “It seemed an amusing device at the time. I underestimated Wulfgan’s effect on your mind.”

  “I had been raised to view him as a saint. Not a comfortable person. A thorny conscience, but right.” Some doubts lingered, and she knew they were in her voice.

  “And yet your father begat three bastard children. I’m sure Wulfgan didn’t approve.”

  Imogen sighed and her hands touched her newly alive body wonderingly. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “Imogen,” said FitzRoger into the dark. “I think your father, like many loving fathers, was uneasy at the thought of his daughter in a man’s bed. Father Wulfgan was part of his defense, along with the sort of men he put forward for you. Older men that he knew would wait.”

  “You have waited,” she said softly.

  “But not for much longer. You want me now, don’t you?”

  Her hand found the hot moistness he had touched, and she moved restlessly. “Yes.”

  “Then tomorrow night we will put an end to the beginning.”

  Imogen wanted to beg him to do it now, when it was right and her body still hummed with need, but he was a man of his word, and he had given his word.

  Tomorrow she would truly be his.

  Chapter 15

  For the first time in her life, Imogen was awoken with a kiss, but FitzRoger was already in his armor and completely the commander, not the lover.

  Imogen eyed him as she dressed. The night almost seemed a dream. But the memories of it would never leave her, for they changed everything. The h
orror of Janine and Warbrick was set apart in her mind—not forgotten, but apart along with death, disease, and war.

  A man’s body close to hers, FitzRoger’s body close to hers, his touch, her needs, were something else entirely, and they lingered like the taste of honey on her lips and in her mind. Nor could she view these matters as evil. Spoken of crudely they could disgust, but shared with trust and care they were surely of the angels, not the devil.

  The state she was in was not a state of sin.

  FitzRoger had given her—generously, carefully—that explosion of the senses. Her body and mind were still sensitized, even to the cool water with which she washed, and the sliding touch of her own clothing.

  And sensitized to him.

  Even now, after sleep and the passage of hours, the lightest brush of his hand brought back quivering memories. The smell that was his alone lingered in the sheets and melted her. Now she knew why newly married people were so strange and were given time apart. They were adrift in this powerful new sensuality and unable to cope with everyday matters.

  Was he?

  As Imogen pulled on her stockings, she slid a look at him.

  She sighed. Of course he wasn’t.

  He was completely unaffected, and his mind was doubtless entirely taken up with practical concerns. As if to prove it, he looked over at her impatiently. Then his gaze stopped and lingered for one revealing, heated moment on her leg.

  Imogen’s breathing caught and she lowered her head to hide a smile. She took rather longer than she needed to put on her stockings.

  She remembered knowing, last night, that it was not easy for him to give her pleasure and take none for himself. Perhaps, behind the mask, he too was drowning in sensual torment. Her legs felt none too steady as she rose to join him by the door.

  He stood aside so she could pass through.

  Then he moved.

  His mailed hand pinned her to the door jamb at the neck with precise control—not roughly, but not gently either.

  He kissed her, and that too lacked control in its heat and its force.

  A jolt of longing shot through Imogen and it came from him. He jerked his head back, eyes closed, as if shocked by his own actions. His very stillness spoke of need far deeper than she could understand.