by Brenda Joyce
“How long have you been with William?”
They lay entwined together in the middle of the bed, Ceidre’s face resting against his shoulder, his hand drifting in her hair. “A dozen years.”
She looked up. “But how is that possible? Are you an old man?”
He smiled slightly. “I am almost twenty-nine. I joined William when I was seventeen. Why?”
“I know nothing about you.”
He smiled genuinely now. “You know more than all other women.” His eyes glinted. He wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled her head back, turning her face up to his. “You know how to please me.”
She blushed. “I imagine you are easy enough to please.”
“Release is easy, yes,” he agreed, “But that is not the kind of pleasure I am talking about.”
She smiled and nuzzled her face against his chest.
He stared down at her. This second time they had loved passionately, fiercely, for hours, yet he did not feel sated—there was an urgency still within him, not as intense, but distinct nonetheless. He wasn’t sure it was entirely physical either, but if not, then what was it? He wondered if Ceidre really understood what he meant—that she had taken him to heights of ecstasy so high they were unbearable, and now, lying here in his arms, she was bringing him equal pleasure, although completely different, soothing and calm and replete, except for that elusive niggling sense of urgency he could not shake. Never had he experienced this last kind of pleasure before. When had he, in fact, ever dallied abed with a woman after fucking? The answer was an unqualified never.
He wanted to tell her all this, but did not know how.
“Is your brother as big as you are?”
“What!”
She looked up innocently, saw his expression and grinned. “Do not be lewd! I meant is he as tall, as broad of shoulder—is he as fine of face?”
“What is this interest in my brother?” He was absurdly pleased with her compliments, and his tone was rough to hide this. “How do you even know I have a brother?”
“I have my witch’s ways.” She smiled; he smiled. “Is he not here in England?”
“Yes, in the south, and if you must know, he is almost as tall, but slimmer. Height runs in my family, but not the breadth. I do not know where I got these shoulders from. Mayhap some Viking ancestor.”
“Your shoulders are very fine,” she said, touching one. “Will you ever go back to Normandy?”
“There is nothing for me there.”
“But do you not have family there? Parents? Other brothers, sisters, cousins?”
He smiled. “Yes, of course. Ceidre,” he explained patiently, “I am the fourth and youngest son. I followed William to Normandy for the promise of my own land, a patrimony for my sons. You understand the way of the world. There was nothing for me in Normandy, and there is still nothing for me there. My life is here now. Aelfgar is my life.”
She looked at him, rising up. “’Tis not fair,” she said, eyes flashing.
“I do not want to fight.”
She instantly softened. “Nor do I.”
He looked at her breasts. “Your tits are magnificent, do you know that?”
“So I have been told.”
He had been caressing one, now he froze. “Who in hell told you such?”
She laughed. “I wanted to see your reaction. No one, my lord.”
“Guy does not tell you how beautiful you are?”
Ceidre hesitated. She looked away, thinking frantically, trying to decide if she should tell him the truth.
“Ceidre?” There was a hint of warning in his tone. She gazed at him. “Guy has never seen my breasts, my lord.”
He stared. “I do not believe this—he beds you in the dark or with your clothes on?” Rolfe sat up. There was distinct jealousy in his tone.
“He does not bed me.”
“What are you saying?” he demanded.
“He has never touched me. He is afraid of me because I am a witch and does not wish to consort with the devil’s own. He is my husband, yes, but he takes his pleasure elsewhere. We have an understanding and it suits us both.”
Rolfe could not believe it; he gripped her shoulders. “’Tis the truth?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“He has not bedded you, not once?”
“No.”
He hauled her up against him, kissing her with hard, brutal passion. She resisted his onslaught instinctively, hands pressed against his shoulders, whimpering when he drove her roughly against the wall. He instantly lessened the pressure, his mouth becoming gentle, soft.
“Do not fight me,” he said hoarsely. “You are mine, Ceidre, mine.”
As he kissed her she could feel him controlling a fierce, brutal passion, she could feel it in the shaking of his big body. And the contradiction, the tenderness, the sensual stroking of his mouth, when he was so desperately ready, brought something forth in Ceidre, something shimmering and bright, more than just an answering passion. She clung to him, returning his kisses. He had already spread her thighs, and now he thrust abruptly into her. She was wet and ready, fueled by his explosive need. Moments later they cried out, one after the other, in the throes of hot, heady pleasure.
He held her tightly afterward. “You are mine, Ceidre, do you understand?”
She looked at him. She saw the ruthless, uncompromising look upon his face; his gaze was brilliantly hard, like diamonds. “Do you understand?”
She was frightened by his tone. “I am still Guy’s wife.”
“No one will touch you,” he said. “I will take care of Guy.” His gaze was piercing. “I am truly warning you, Ceidre; ’tis good you are afraid. If a man touches you, I will slice off his hands with my sword—do you understand?”
She nodded, breathless and trembling. “And if another fucks you, I will kill him with my own hand—while you watch. Do you understand?” “Yes.”
“Good.” He smiled a hard smile. “I do not share what belongs to me, and from this day forward you are mine.”
She, was appalled, she was also exhilarated. Unthinking, she touched his cheek gently. The hard brilliant look in his eyes—the look of a ruthless conqueror —began to soften. “I do not want another, my lord,” she said.
The melting in his gaze was rapid. “You speak the truth?”
“I swear it.”
There was no hardness left in his regard, none at all. His smile was unrestrained. “You unman me, Ceidre.”
“You are not unmanned to feel happy, my lord.”
“No? What is happiness? A commander has no place in his life for such emotions.”
“Wrongly said, my lord.” She touched his cheek again, cupping his face. “A man has room for all emotions.”
“A man who caters to all humors ceases to be a man, Ceidre. He cannot function as he should.”
“You are happy with me, yet you function well.” She smiled lasciviously. “More than well—superlatively.”
He laughed, a warm, rich, bold sound that shook her with surprise. “’Tis not that kind of functioning I am talking about, and you know it.” His arm, which was holding her, squeezed her in what was almost a hug.
“Oh, my lord, ’tis good to hear you laugh,” Ceidre breathed, hugging him back, hard.
His mirth died as he gazed at her. “I have never laughed with a woman before,” he said.
She smiled impishly. “No? I am most flattered. Mayhap I can make you laugh again?”
His mouth quirked. “There are other humors I would rather feel.”
She snorted. “Of course, if I catered to you as you would, there is only one humor you would cherish, only one you would have me feel, and it is hanging there between your legs.”
“You may feel that humor anytime, Ceidre, even now.” He pulled her hand toward his belly, she jerked it away.
“That humor does not need more humoring this night.”
“But you said you would humor me.” He was grinning.
“I
am humoring you, fool. And here is more humor.” She grinned and quickly tickled him under his arms.
With exaggerated annoyance, he slapped her hands away. She laughed and dove for his ribs. He caught her wrists, holding them triumphantly. “You cannot win!” But he was smiling.
“I think I already have, my lord,” Ceidre said.
Rolfe paused in the doorway of the stable, trying to peer into the darkness within. He held up a lamp and saw her. Ceidre sat upon a bale of hay, her hair loose and streaming to her hips, waiting for him. He smiled.
She smiled back.
He came forward, aware of the need to rush. He urgently enveloped her in his arms; she protested. “My lord, you will set us ablaze!”
He laughed ruefully and went outside to douse the oil lamp. He returned, impatience overwhelming, yet because he could not see, his steps were measured. She called out to him, like a siren, guiding him to her, luring him on. He crushed her to him, seeking her mouth fiercely, possessively, demanding a response. She gave it with equal fervor. It was a long time later before they came up for air.
“It feels as if we have not seen each other for days,” Ceidre managed, stroking her hand down his neck.
“From dawn to dusk is long enough,” Rolfe said roughly. “I cannot wait another moment, Ceidre.” Holding her buttocks and anchoring her, he pressed himself crudely against her groin.
“Nor can I,” she returned, running her hands over his arousal boldly.
Their mating was quick and fierce, there in the straw, and afterward they lay panting, curled up together. Rolfe began undressing her. “I want to feel you naked against me.”
“Yes,” she murmured, helping him to remove her garments. She snuggled against him.
“Guy leaves for Dumstanbrough tomorrow,” Rolfe told her. “To build his keep and see to his demesne. I have given him a fortnight’s leave.”
“I know, I saw him, he told me.”
“What else did he say?” Rolfe asked.
“Nothing.”
“He did not query your whereabouts last night?”
“No,” she said hesitantly. “I feel guilty, my lord, even though I know he was himself with Lettie.”
“When he returns,” Rolfe said, stroking his arm, “I will take care of this situation, I promise you.”
Ceidre wanted to ask how, but was afraid to know what he intended. And indeed, what could he do? He might ask Guy to agree to seek to annul their marriage, or he might ask him to maintain their relations as chastely as they were. He certainly would not divorce his own wife and marry her. When Ceidre realized the direction her thoughts had taken, she was stunned. She certainly would never agree to marry the Norman, even if they were both free. He was the enemy! He might arouse her passions, but she was only his mistress to aid her brothers—and she must not forget it for a second. “Did”—she paused—“did Alice remark upon last night? Did she know we were together?”
“I do not know,” Rolfe said. “Alice is confined to her chamber for what she did to you, Ceidre. I am sorely tried by her malicious will. I have warned her to cease her rude maneuverings and plottings. Hopefully she realized I am being very lenient.”
“You do this for me?” Ceidre breathed.
“Who else?” he said gruffly. “She almost killed you!”
“But—but you confined her before I came to your bed last night.”
“Her treatment of you had nothing to do with our relationship, and my punishment of her was independent as well.” He smiled into her hair. “Now ’twould be worse, for I have marked you mine in my mind and my heart, and I am possessive and territorial, Ceidre. Anyone who harms you now harms me.”
“I do not want Alice to know I have become your mistress,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Do you think I am so crude as to toss it in her face?” He stiffened.
“She will find out,” Ceidre said miserably. “Although no one saw me leave this morning, eventually what we do will become common knowledge. Secrets cannot be kept on a manor.”
“It matters not. I am lord here, and no one will dare speak out against you for fear of my wrath.” Suddenly he smiled. “Only you dare to oppose me, Ceidre.”
“Witches are not afraid of mere mortals.” She sniffed.
He laughed, a loud roar.
“Hush,” she cried, clapping her hand on his mouth. “You will bring the whole world down upon us!”
“Witch,” he said affectionately, still chuckling. “The whole world is asleep, there is no one to hear us, no one but the mice and the horses, that is.”
“Is that what pressed against my thigh a moment ago? I thought it was you, but it was suspiciously small.”
He grinned again, rolling onto his back and pulling her astride him “If ’twas small, you know it could not have been me.” He placed her hand on his rising member.
“Arrogant,” she breathed. “Your lance is not so huge.”
“Huge enough to make you beg for mercy, weep with pleasure, and cry my name!”
“Did I do those things, my lord?”
“Each and every one,” he said smugly.
“And you think ’twas because of this?” She grabbed him.
The smug tone disappeared. He gasped. “I know—I know ’twas because of this.”
“Conceited too,” she said, sliding her palm down his length.
“You are speaking about,” he managed, “your lord. Have you … no respect?”
Ceidre slid down his body and rubbed his penis between her breasts and against her nipples. Rolfe gasped. “Is this respectful enough for you, my lord?” There was smugness in her own breathy tone.
“You learn overly fast, witch,” he said, flipping her and impaling her in one movement. “Now who is in control?”
“You.” She gasped as he moved with tremendous restraint over her. “You.”
Rolfe was distracted.
He sat his gray in the field, knowing Beltain questioned him, yet his gaze followed Ceidre as she moved down the path and then veered off it, into the orchard. It was the next day, after noon. Where was the wench going?
“My lord, shall we commence?” Beltain repeated.
“Yes, yes,” Rolfe said impatiently. Ceidre had disappeared from his view among the trees and thigh-high grass. “You are in charge,” he told Beltain, then spurred his destrier into a canter, toward the orchard.
Once inside, he reined in, looking around. Ceidre was nowhere to be seen. What is she up to? He wondered, not with suspicion, with curiosity. There was no sign of her, yet he knew she had to be there. He urged his mount forward, his gaze roaming left and right repeatedly. “Ceidre?”
No answer.
He felt a touch of worry then. The woman could not just vanish. A terrible thought occurred. Had she purposefully hidden herself, mayhap to meet with a spy? Or had she tripped and fallen, hitting her head? His tone was sharper. “Ceidre? Ceidre!”
No answer. He urged his mount into a faster walk, almost nearing the end of the orchard. He could see the forest across the road. Unless she had been running, she could not have crossed the orchard and disappeared into the forest so quickly. Maybe she had started to run once she had escaped common view. He felt a dread. If she was up to no good …
A laugh sounded.
It was soft and fairylike and it was hers, he would know that musical, magical sound anywhere. Relief swept him. And with it, something else. He whipped his head around. “Ceidre? God’s blood, wench, are you playing a game? Where are you?”
Another fey laugh, and then something hit his head, smack in the middle. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t quite tickle either; it was an apple. Amazed, he jerked his gaze up to the treetop above him.
Ceidre smiled down at him. “Have you followed me, my lord?” she asked serenely.
She was a breathtaking vision of honey and gold up in that tree, and for a moment he couldn’t answer. He feigned annoyance. “What are you doing up there, Ceidre?”
“Pickin
g apples, of course,” she said sweetly. “Would you care for another?” Before he could answer, she tossed one at him. He ducked, so it missed his shoulder in the nick of time.
Incredulous, he stared at her. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Picking apples,” she insisted, grinning. “Why have you followed me?”
“Why do you think, siren?” he muttered. “You lead, I follow!”
She laughed, pleased with his remark.
“Do not let it go to your head, and do not throw another apple at mine!”
“All right,” she agreed.
He eyed one bare calf, exposed because her skirts were tangled around her. “Come down here,” he said, softly now.
She raised a brow. “But I am not finished.”
“Come down here,” he repeated, his tone sensually coaxing.
“If you want me, you will have to come up and get me,” she called, and she shimmied higher into the tree.
“Are you mad?” he said. “That tree cannot hold up weight!”
“If you want me,” she said, and she gave him an utterly bold, provocative look, one that held his gaze then raked him thoroughly, “then you will have to come and get me, my lord!”
His breath caught at such seduction. Then, smiling with purpose, he reached up and hoisted himself into the tree. It groaned and swayed beneath his weight. The branch he was on cracked. Undeterred, he moved higher, reaching for her pretty little ankle. She eluded him deftly and, with the speed of a squirrel, shimmied down past him, dropping easily the last bit of the way to the ground. She was laughing at his amazement, and she paused beneath him, hands on her hips. “You look silly in that tree, my lord, and it is about to break in two!”
She took off at a run just as he jumped to the ground. He darted after her. He lunged for her; she dodged, a tree between them. He reached right, she dodged left, he reached left, she dodged right, all the while laughing. Rolfe was grinning. He feinted left and waited for her to go right. She did, and he caught her with a cry of triumph.
“Put me down,” she cried as he lifted her high in his arms and spun her in the air.
“But you like heights,” he said innocently. “Is this not high enough for you?”