by Jo Beverley
“Long enough. There’s a few hours before dusk.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Let’s hope they don’t intend to feed us.”
Amazingly, that summoned a laugh from her, and she felt lighter. “Should I undress?” Imogen asked, hands already at her girdle.
“No. If we are interrupted, the last thing we want is for you to be naked.” Then he added, “Perhaps the tunic.”
She slipped it off, still well covered by her kirtle and shift. “But . . .”
“We’ll manage, Ginger. This isn’t what I wanted for you, but it is all we can be sure of. For now,” he added. “Perhaps one day I can love you as I want.”
She knew he didn’t believe it.
She pondered the word love, but it was just a word to him, she decided, describing an act, not an emotion. Perhaps, in this situation, it was as well.
Love would weaken him.
She helped him off with his mail, and saw the wound had bled a little, but not too much. The other gashes looked healthy. He was so healthy it seemed impossible that he might die within the day. . . .
She put her hand on his chest, drinking in the living strength of him, feeling the beat of his heart. For this moment, they were alive and together, and they would celebrate it. “What should I do?”
He drew her to the back of the cave, some twenty feet from the entrance. “It’s as well I always planned this with you on top,” he said, as he subsided to the floor and pulled her on top of him.
Imogen sprawled there. “What? Why?”
“Why not?” he murmured lazily, and kissed her.
Everything disappeared: the damp, the gloom, the guards, the danger. There was just FitzRoger’s hard body beneath her, his arms around, and his mouth soft and welcoming beneath hers. She plundered him for sensation, tasting him, stretching him. When his mouth escaped to roam around her neck, she arched up and felt him hard beneath her hips.
“Now?” she gasped.
“Not yet, my hungry virago.”
He ripped the front of her kirtle.
Imogen gasped.
Then, under her astonished gaze, he slid down her loose shift so her breasts were exposed, held up by the bands of cloth. Her nipples were rosy and already standing proud.
“More precious than any treasure,” he said softly, and drew her body down. His mouth was hot, and for a moment, gentle. Then he sucked hard. Imogen cried out and clutched at him.
“Hush,” he said, half laughing. “You’re a noisy bed partner, but if you make too much noise they’ll want to come and watch.”
She didn’t think that was a joke either.
“What’s going on in there?” called one of the guards, his black shadow blocking out the trace of sunshine.
“We’re talking,” said FitzRoger a bit unsteadily. “Is that a crime?”
“You, woman,” the guard growled. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” said Imogen, stifling a giggle.
“Then keep talking. I don’t want him slitting your throat when I’m on guard.”
“What?” Imogen exclaimed as the guard retreated.
“You heard the man,” said FitzRoger, and she could swear he was amused. “Keep talking or he’ll be back to check that you’re alive.”
“Lord save me,” she muttered. Her mind was blank to all but his body, and his mouth tormenting her. “I can’t do this!”
“I have great faith in you. You can do anything.” His tongue teased the tip of her breast in a way that sent shivers through her.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said desperately, “that we could have colors on the walls in the hall.”
FitzRoger laughed softly and his mouth settled on her breast again.
“Pink, perhaps, or yellow. Something bright . . . Oh, Sweet Heaven. . . . Flowers! At Cleeve too.”
“Over my dead body,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the other breast.
“Hangings!” Imogen said desperately. “We had. . . . Oh, my. . . . We had silk ones from Florence, you know.”
His skillful teasing of her breasts fractured thought. “They were . . . FitzRoger! They were . . . They were . . .” A wave of intense pleasure finally rendered her speechless.
“Silken treasures,” he prompted, easing her away a little. “Very beautiful, like you.”
“Very beautiful,” she repeated weakly, and sought him in the shadows. “Like you.”
Humor crinkled his eyes. “If your Florentine hangings were only as beautiful as I, Imogen, you were cheated.” He moved her gently to straddle his thighs, pushing up her skirts in a stroke of his strong, callused hands.
“You are beautiful—”
But his fingers had found her most sensitive flesh and she melted into dizzy silence.
“Keep talking, Ginger.”
She gulped. “You’re enjoying this!” she hissed.
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
A shuddering spasm passed through her. “You’re mad. . . . Wine!” she said loudly. “We need wine! Lots of wine!”
“Lots and lots of wine. And honey. Up on your hands and knees for me, sweet honey.”
She rose up so his mouth could reach her breasts while his hand stroked between her thighs.
“What else do we need?” he asked between licks. “Herbs, spices? You’re very spicy. Fruits? Melons come to mind. And oranges. Oranges from Spain. You taste sweeter than the sweetest orange. . . .”
“I love oranges,” she gasped. “So juicy. FitzRoger, I need to kiss you.”
“Not yet,” he replied, and teethed her.
Imogen just managed to swallow the cry of pleasure. “I can’t not cry out when you do things like that!” she protested. “It’s not fair.” Her hips were moving against him. She was aching deep inside.
“Oranges,” he prompted as his fingers slid toward the ache.
“They’re . . . Oh!” She sucked in an enormous breath. “Don’t! Don’t stop! They’re orange!”
“They’re orange,” he agreed as breathlessly as she. “And you’re juicy. Now it’s time, Ginger.”
“Thank the Lord.”
“And you’re going to do it.”
“What?”
“In case you still have any problems about this.” He unfastened his linen drawers to expose his erection. “Take me into you.”
Imogen looked at it wide-eyed. It seemed rather larger than she remembered, and rather larger than she could comfortably contain.
But an ache inside said otherwise.
She put her hands around him and the heat startled her.
The movement she caused startled her too, as did his sucked in breath.
She hesitated. There was a big problem here.
She hated to admit it, but she whispered, “I don’t even know where it goes.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You don’t know your own body?” He took her right hand and placed it between her thighs. “Slide your fingers back. You’ll find the place.”
She slid her fingers back through what felt like cream, and paused. “Oh, it feels almost as sweet as when you touch me there!”
“Remember that if I’m away.”
One of Father Wulfgan’s more mysterious warnings finally made sense. “But that’s a terrible sin!”
“But one you’re least likely to be caught at. Come on, Ginger.”
She heard the urgency in his voice and could feel the tension in his body between her legs. It was echoed in the need that thrummed in her. She moved her fingers farther and her body told her she had found the need he could fulfill.
“Found it?” he asked unsteadily.
“Yes.”
“Now take me, and put me there.”
Imogen put her hand around him to guide him. Her hand was slick now from her own juices and slid against his rigid heat, so she moved it around him. She felt the quiver her touch caused, and looked at him in wonder. Even in the gloom she could see his hot need.
She could do this to him, and she delighted in it. She e
xplored him with her hand, gently, and then, remembering Wulfgan again, impulsively ducked and licked up the length of him.
His whole body heaved beneath her, almost throwing her off.
“Imogen!” he gasped. “Another time, yes?”
“But you like that?” she asked, grinning.
“Yes, I like that.” It sounded as if his teeth were gritted. “But take me into you. Make me your husband, Ginger.”
She laughed shakily at that and rose up to guide him into the place that hummed in readiness. As soon as he began to fill her she gasped at the tightness.
“You’d better say something,” he whispered.
“I want this,” she said quite clearly, wanting to tell the world. “You can’t know how much I want this.”
“Oh yes I can,” he muttered, causing her to laugh again.
“You are rather big, though,” she said as she eased carefully down. “Are all men . . . ? Oh.” She froze.
“It’s for you to do, Imogen.”
There was pain. Real pain. She could feel the barrier and it was going to hurt to go any farther.
She pushed down gently and the pain grew, so she stopped.
“I don’t know . . .” she said anxiously. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be like this, this time. . . .”
He reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. “Would you rather I do it?”
It became a test. “No. I can do it, but cover my mouth. I’m afraid I’m going to cry out.”
“Bite me,” he said, and put his hand edgewise between her teeth.
Imogen set her teeth against his flesh and reared up a bit to push down. The pain blossomed, but she kept pushing. The pain just got worse, but she wouldn’t stop even though there were tears running down her face. She pushed and pushed even though she thought she could not bear any more pain. Then with a small explosion of agony, the pressure broke and left only a burning soreness.
She tasted blood and realized she had bit him. She hastily released his hand. He sucked it. “That certainly hurt me as much as it hurt you,” he said almost soberly. “You must have had one of the toughest hymens in Christendom. No wonder you made such a fuss before.”
Imogen was just sitting, full to bursting with him, rather sore, and miserable. She felt a kind of triumph, though, that she’d gone through with it, and knew that if she’d been under him, it would have been worse. She’d have screamed and blamed him. “It’s not like that for everyone?”
“I don’t think so. Is it very bad?” His voice was controlled, but Imogen could tell it was hard for him to just be lying there. She could imagine from last night, from the pleasure without the pain, how he felt.
“I’m all right,” she lied bravely, moving, trying to adjust to the pressure inside and the soreness that remained. “What now?”
He pushed up so he was sitting against the wall and brought her legs behind him. The pressure eased a bit.
He began to touch her again, and kiss her, to suck at her and pleasure her, even as his hips rocked gently. She could sense the awesome control in him, the tension, and she almost wanted to beg him to do it, to release that pressure before he exploded.
And yet she feared it. Feared more pain.
Tears ran again.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, touching her cheek. “We’d better talk again anyway.”
“I’m not doing this right, am I?”
“You’re doing wonderfully, but we’re going to have to finish it. Try to come with me, dear heart.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but he began to move her hips around him. At first she tensed from the soreness, but then it eased a little and she saw what she was doing to him.
She moved on her own despite the discomfort, watching him, loving him, wanting to give him this in case there was no tomorrow.
He closed his eyes and stretched back, but his hand found her, and touched her again so she shuddered around him.
“Christ’s wounds,” he muttered, and pressed harder.
They were supposed to be talking, but she couldn’t. She could scream, though. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t. That would bring the guard in for sure. She thrust her own knuckles in her mouth and moved faster, watching his every reaction.
He was gasping, his head moving restlessly.
Was it wrong for her to rejoice that here, at this moment, he was not in control at all?
He clutched at her and thrust up into her.
His eyes opened and she was sucked into them, lost in them. She felt his seed burst deep inside her and choked onto her knuckles.
Then he relaxed to stillness, and she settled against him. She knew what he had meant the night before. She was left unsatisfied, but she had loved giving him that pleasure.
Then he pulled out of her, and rolled her onto her back in the dirt. His mouth caught her cries as his hand carried her forward and into a madness of her own. She shattered, more violently than last night, shattered to the point of agony and destruction, beyond the point intent would take a sane person. She was left weak, trembling, and dazed in his arms.
“Oy, you in there! I told you to keep talking.”
“Oh, shut up!” shouted Imogen. “I’ll scream if he tries to kill me, all right?”
“You need a fist in your mouth,” grumbled the guard back, but he left them alone.
FitzRoger was helpless with silent laughter beside her. Imogen thumped his chest. “What’s so funny?”
“At this moment, everything.” He gathered her into an embrace more tender than she could ever have imagined. “I can at last die happy.”
That brought her back to reality. “Well I’d rather not,” she said, pulling out of his embrace severely. “It seems to me you are falling apart, FitzRoger.”
“Am I?” he said, sitting up and hugging his knees. He was tousled and still happy. She hardly recognized him.
“Will it always be like this?” she asked.
“I hope not. I want to make love to you slowly and gently, in peace and security. If we sacrifice a little of the wild pleasure for it, I’ll be content.”
Imogen looked down at her tattered skirt. For the first time she wondered what she looked like, but it didn’t seem important. “Do you mean that?”
“You think I want to love you always in a damp cave in peril of our lives?”
She looked up. “Do you mean love?”
He sobered. “Ah,” he sighed. “Imogen, I don’t know. If such a thing exists, it is not familiar to me. You are very precious to me. I will guard you with my life.”
“You’d have married me if I’d been a hag,” she accused again.
“Yes.”
“You’d have guarded me with your life.”
“Yes.”
“You’d have consummated the marriage.”
“Yes. But probably rather sooner.”
Imogen gazed into his eyes and crawled into his arms. “I’m getting scared again.”
He held her. “Try not to. It doesn’t do any good.”
She shook her head against his chest. “We have to make plans.”
“Do you have any plans?”
“Yes.” She moved back purposefully. “We’re going to go through the passageways . . .” Then she remembered what this meant to him. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoed. “I’m trying hard not to think about that.”
“It doesn’t do any good to be scared,” she repeated back at him mischievously.
“I could probably take my mind off it quite well by beating you.” But there was warmth in his eyes and he wasn’t denying his frailty.
“The guard would think you were murdering me.”
“But when he found I was just blistering your skin, he’d cheer me on. You heard him. He doesn’t approve of saucy women.”
Another gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Oh, stop it. I don’t want to laugh just now.”
“I want to make you laugh.” But then he sighed. “Go on, then. What plan have you come up with
, my virago?”
“Warbrick doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll never fit into the passageways.”
“True,” he said with interest. “Will he trust any of his men in without him? Yes, because there’ll only be the one way out for them.”
“So, we’ll have a better chance.”
He shook his head. “He’ll keep me with him as warranty of your good behavior. On the whole, I’m grateful.”
“You can’t be!”
He met her eyes. “The fear, Imogen, is overwhelming. Death seems light by comparison.”
“But you went in after Renald. . . .”
“Yes, and it’s probably the bravest thing I ever did. As it was I made a short distance on my feet, then crawled, shouting until they came back for me.”
Imogen just stared at him. She would never have believed he would open himself to her like this. She couldn’t think what to say, so just placed her hand over his.
“I wanted, desperately, to crawl out again,” he said, “but I think they thought I’d fall down the cliff. Which was probably true. Renald did the kindest thing, and knocked me out. They didn’t dare leave me in case I came around, so they carried me and I still have some bruises to show for it. I came around before the end but managed not to go mad by keeping my eyes shut and telling myself I was in a large bright hall. As soon as I was out, I was vilely sick.”
“I know,” she said gently. “Some of the servants saw you.”
Amazingly, he flushed. “I’m surprised I have any credit left.”
“They just thought you’d eaten something bad.”
“And you?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“Am I supposed to think less of you?”
He pulled her closer and kissed her. “I am very fortunate in my wife. Now, listen to my plan.”
“Yes?”
“Warbrick will have to divide his forces. You will presumably lead the way for the men who go into the passages to get the treasure, and he’ll send his more experienced and trusted minions. If you can persuade them to do without a light, or if you can kill the light, you should be able to slip away from them in those passageways. I presume you can find your way in the dark?”
“But . . .” Then Imogen decided not to mention rats. If he could go into the passageways—certain terror—she could risk rats. “Yes I can. But you’ll still be in Warbrick’s clutches.”