by Jaide Fox
She did not regret it. She had given her word and she had honored it. Moreover, the fact that it had been such a wondrous experience had completely changed her outlook over the marriage the king had decreed. She had been so revolted over the marriage bed she had thought it must always be that way and she had dreaded having to take another man to husband. Now that she knew it could different, she at least had some hope that she would be able to endure another husband.
Unfortunately, that thought summoned Nightshade to her mind and, try as she might, she could not make herself believe that the man the king chose for her would even begin to compare favorably. He might well be worse than William had been.
Dismay filled her at that thought--not just the possibility that the man might be a vicious brute, but the realization that she had not even met the man and already found herself deeply reluctant--held little belief that he could possibly compare favorably with Nightshade.
Perhaps Nightshade had not truly given her something wonderful at all. Mayhap he had only succeeded in ruining any hope she might have had of finding acceptance, if not contentment in her marriage.
Chapter Seven
The snow falling past her chamber window perfectly suited Bronwyn’s mood. The king’s man, Sir Horace Fitzhugh, had blown into Raventhorne with the first blizzard of the year and the snow had not ceased to fall since his arrival a fortnight earlier. It had only alternated between a light to heavy fall until drifts were piled several feet high along the castle walls and still growing.
Her misery was complete, she thought dolefully.
Restlessness had chaffed at her the moment the snow began to fall and the knowledge sank in to her that she was thoroughly and completely trapped within the castle walls. Truthfully, she rarely went out in any case. And she had already discovered when she had tried excursions outside to take the air that she could not outstrip the gloom that overshadowed her days, but the snow had so curtailed her activities that she had little to occupy her hands and mind.
Grimacing, she acknowledged that that was not completely true. Her mind was fully occupied, but with thoughts of Nightshade, which she would have liked to avoid.
Guilt plagued her, not the remorse she supposed she should have felt, but rather the distress that she was to blame for Nightshade’s hopelessness. She did not know what she might have done differently--save to go to her death willingly--but his despair tore at her.
I have tossed my only hope of redemption from these castle walls to save a pitiful scrap of humanity that means nothing to me.
What hope had William represented, she wondered?
The only answer that presented itself to her was the fact that his death brought an end to his bloodline. William, himself, could not have had a hand in ‘damning’ Nightshade, for he was no sorcerer. But William’s great uncle, Gaelzeroth had reputedly been one of the most powerful in the land. He would certainly have had the power to bespell Nightshade.
How, though, did the two connect?
Unless Nightshade had believed that another powerful sorcerer would arise someday from Gaelzeroth’s line, one who could break the spell?
She thought that must be it, but even if it was, the knowledge was of no use. William was dead--dead because he had tried to kill her and Nightshade had felt compelled to save her and protect her.
The night he had come to her, she had felt that she knew why. She was certain he had taken a fancy to her. She supposed she had thought it was merely lust then, but she had come to believe that it was more than that. He had taught her passion in that one night they had spent together, lavished her with his own passion, but there had been far more to it than animalistic coupling. He had not simply fallen upon her and slaked his needs. He had loved her. He had made her feel beautiful and desirable, yes, but more than that, cherished.
That was what had made filled her with joy, the sense that she had shared herself with someone who cared for her. Perhaps he was skilled enough that he would have made her feel that way anyhow, but the yearning that had begun to eat away at her resolve to forget him was not merely a hunger for an appetite he had spawned.
She missed him. She missed the sense of being cherished and protected that she had felt in his arms as much, or more, than she missed the fire that he had stirred in her senses. And each day, she missed it more.
Her stomach churned at the thought, and she leaned her forehead upon the cool glass of her chamber window, fighting again the urge to call him to her. Every day, it seemed, it became harder to refrain from calling out to him instead of easier.
She had begun to fantasize that she would somehow discover the way to free him from his curse and that he would then be able to come to her openly, take her to wife.
It was absurd. As certain as she was that he had been bespelled by Gaelzeroth, he had lost more than the humanity he had once had. He had lost all that he had had. He might never have been more than a lowly soldier, but even if he had, in truth, been the valiant knight that she believed he was, he was now landless and powerless and the king would not allow her to wed a man with nothing. She was heir to both her father’s holdings and now William’s. The king would want an alliance that would benefit him.
She would still free him from his tormented existence if she could, only for his sake and to make right what she had inadvertently deprived him of, but she did not even know what had transpired.
Gaelzeroth had fallen to his own evil long ago, before the memory of anyone living, and nothing remained but the tales woven about him--many of which were probably exaggerated and some of which were probably completely untrue. According to legend he had been betrayed by his wife, a young woman he had forced to wed him, a witch whom he believed he might breed an even more powerful sorcerer upon. She had outwitted him, though, conspired with his enemies to weaken him so that they could destroy him.
No one knew what had become of her afterward. She had simply vanished and all that Gaelzeroth had taken had passed to the son of his cousin--the son his cousin because Gaelzeroth himself had slain his brother.
Was there some significance to the fact that Nightshade had been cursed to guard this keep and not one of the others Gaelzeroth had taken? She thought there must be. Perhaps Nightshade had been the captain of the guard and that was why Gaelzeroth had thought it would be amusing to make him guard the Keep for eternity?
It seemed in keeping with the things that Gaelzeroth had done.
And yet she could not see how that would help her to help Nightshade even if it were true.
Pushing away from the window, Bronwyn paced for some time and finally settled on a stool before the hearth, staring into the flames.
She had sent her maids away regardless of Marta’s warning. There had been a time when she had welcomed their presence, but now it only chaffed her more to feel their eyes upon her, to sense the speculation churning in their minds.
Mostly, though, she had sent them away because, deep down, she hoped that Nightshade would ignore her demand that he not seek her out again. She had wanted him to brush aside her qualms and force her to take him as her lover so that she could enjoy his caresses without guilt.
It had begun to seem unlikely that that would happen, though. It had begun to seem that either she had been completely wrong about his feelings for her, or he was bound by the sense of honor that he had lived by when he was a man.
She covered her face with her hands. She did not want to live the remainder of her days with only that one moment of beauty to warm her memories--to haunt her. If she could do nothing to change her fate, or Nightshade’s, why was it wrong to take what happiness there was to be had? Who would it hurt save her when she was torn from his arms and forced to wed another man?
It was pride that restrained her, not a sense of decorum or honor. She would gladly have thrown both to the wind but for her pride. She needed him to come to her to reassure her that he cared for her because that was far more important than the passion, however glorious it had been. If she call
ed him, she would never know whether he had come because he yearned for her as she did him, or merely because he had been summoned.
Irritated by her thoughts but unwilling to seek her bed in case Nightshade sought her out, she rose from the stool and began to pace her room again.
He startled her. She had no idea how long she had paced the floor while he watched in silence, for he moved as no mortal man did. A jolt went through her when she turned to find him watching her near the window where she had stood so long.
A heady mixture of longing and gladness filled her, but also wariness.
Had she summoned him, she wondered in sudden embarrassment? Had she called to him aloud as she had stood by the window, fighting the urge to do so? “I did not,” she said emphatically, vocally answering the question in her own mind.
He tilted his head curiously, but his eyes narrowed. “Did not, what?”
Embarrassment colored her cheeks. It stirred her irritation to the surface. “You gave me your word that you would not … ask more of me!” she said accusingly.
Anger hardened his features. He closed the distance that separated them, catching her upper arms in a hard grip. “That I would plague you no more for your favors?” he growled angrily.
The blood rushed from her face and then back again with a vengeance. “I did not say that!”
“That is what you meant, but I made no such vow!”
Disconcerted, Bronwyn searched her mind but, in truth, she could not recall anything that had been said between them that night. She was not even certain that she had found the nerve to demand that he agree to her terms before she allowed him to bed her, only that she had meant to do so. Instead of responding with the lie that teased at her tongue, she took a different tact. “The king’s man is here,” she hissed. “You must go! You can not be found here for I am promised by the king’s decree to another.”
He released his grip on her arms but before she could feel any relief, he fisted one hand in her hair and caught her waist with the other, jerking her hips tightly against his as he dragged her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “I do not give a gods bedamned what the king has decreed and less about the king’s man even now drinking himself into a stupor in the hall below!” he snarled. “You are mine! You did not endure my touch! You did not ‘give selflessly’ to repay a debt. You wanted me!”
Bronwyn reddened. “You bespelled me!” she accused.
Something gleamed in his eyes beyond the anger--amusement, satisfaction. “You bespelled me!” he countered.
“I did not! I do not have the power to cast spells!”
“Aye, you do,” he said in a hoarse growl, dragging her upward as he bent his head to take her lips beneath his in a kiss that was fiercely possessive.
The fight went out of Bronwyn the moment she felt the moist adhesion of his mouth upon hers. She had wanted this, wanted him, to the point of desperation. A sigh of surrender escaped her as she parted her lips for him, strained to move closer.
She had not really believed that it could possibly feel as wonderful as she had remembered, but she felt as if she would swoon with pleasure as his taste, and scent, and heat produced a storm of riotous sensations within her.
He was breathing raggedly when he broke the kiss and Bronwyn could not seem to catch her breath at all, sagged limply in his hold as her knees buckled, refusing to hold her up. Supporting her with one arm, he jerked at the tie of gown, grasping the neck and dragging it from her shoulders when he had released the closure. Dropping to his knees, he opened his mouth over one breast, sucking it so hard the muscles low in her belly clenched in a hard, painful knot and moisture flooded her woman’s place. She caught his head to steady herself, trying to lock her wobbly knees as he tugged and teased the sensitive tip until she lost herself completely in the fiery sensations crashing through her in breath stealing waves.
His arms tightened around her, supporting her as he released one nipple and moved to the other, dragging at her nightrail until it puddled at her ankles. She had no inkling of his intensions as he ceased to tease her nipples and wove a path downward, kissing and sucking at her quivering flesh until he reached her mound. The hot, wet flick of his tongue along her cleft dragged a sharp cry from her. The fingers she had curled into his hair to balance herself tightened as her knees gave way.
He caught her, rising and lifting her into his arms in the same movement. Carrying her to the bed, he dropped her onto the mattress and caught her legs beneath her knees, shoving them upward until her sex was bared to his hungry gaze. Embarrassment filled her but before she could form a protest, he lowered his head and covered her femininity with his mouth. Her hips came up off the bed seemingly of their own accord at the hard current that shot through her, crushing the breath from her lungs, sending her mind reeling toward a dark abyss.
Finding that she could not reach him, she dug fingers like claws into the bedclothes, fighting to drag in panting breaths as he sought and found one spot of such tenderness that nearly unbearable pleasure inundated her. Feverish, mindless, she babbled his name like a litany in a harsh, broken whisper, beseeching him to stop one moment and never to stop in the next.
To her everlasting gratitude, he did not stop. He tugged and teased the nub of flesh until it felt as if her heart would collapse, stroking his tongue along her sensitive cleft from the nub to the mouth of her sex. Feeling her body coiling toward release, she began to beg him to stop once more, to fill her with his flesh. He hesitated, seemed to debate the matter and finally surged upward. Shoving the thick rounded head of his cock into the mouth of her sex, he caught her knees and dragged her toward the edge of the bed, toward him.
Her flesh closed around his in a stranglehold that thwarted his entry. Slipping an arm beneath her hips, he grasped her arm with his other hand and hauled her upright. As confused as she was, Bronwyn was as desperate for his possession as he was to thrust inside of her. She locked her legs around his hips as he brought her upright, looping her arms around his neck to support herself as he caught her hips and bore down on them, sheathing himself within her by agonizing inches. She bit down lightly on the ropy connective tissue between his neck and shoulder as he finally possessed her completely, grinding his hips against her cleft as if he wanted to climb inside of her. The abrasion of his flesh against her sensitive flesh breached the last of her defenses. She emitted a low groan as exquisite pleasure burst inside of her, trembling with the intensity of it. The milking motions of her contractions sent him over the edge, as well. Clutching her tightly, he pumped his seed into her in short, swift strokes, staggering slightly with the force of his own climax and finally collapsing onto the bed with her still clutched tightly against him.
They lay still, entwined, gasping for breath, unable even to move for many moments. Finally, still holding her to him, Nightshade struggled further onto the bed and loosened his hold on her.
Sated, glorying in the warm afterglow, Bronwyn made no attempt either to gather her wits or to gather herself to move away. Instead, once she had recovered some presence of mind, she snuggled closer to his body, resting her hand lightly on his massive chest. He lifted a hand with obvious effort and dropped it to her head, which was nestled on his shoulder, stroking her hair. “I did not hurt you, sweeting?” he asked gruffly after a moment.
From out of no where the urge to weep swept over her, filling her eyes with tears and overflowing.
Chapter Eight
Bronwyn sniffed, struggling to stem the scalding tears and failed. He had called her sweeting! He had just made her feel the most wonderful thing in the world, loved her body almost worshipfully, and now he was worried that he had hurt her?
She made a snuffling sound as she fought the urge to break down and squall like an infant, realizing abruptly that it was the sense of hopeless that filled her at his words that had broken the dam. He cared for her and she had fallen desperately in love with him and there was no hope for them! None!
Feeling the hot tears seepin
g from her eyes, he sat up abruptly, grasping her jaw and tilting her face up to his gaze. “No,” she answered him finally through lips that struggled awkwardly with the effort of forming even that word.
He released her abruptly, surging from the bed. She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with her hands, but they only filled again, blurring her vision as she tried to look at him. The look on his face when she finally brought his image into focus was truly terrible. “You did not hurt me,” she said shakily.
His face, already drained of color, went perfectly blank. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Why do you weep, then?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
She didn’t want to tell him. What would it change to tell him? Would he even believe her? She scarcely believed it herself, and yet she had only to look at him to feel, deep in her soul, that he had touched her as no other ever had. He cared for her. He had thrown away his only chance of breaking the curse upon him because he could not bear to see her hurt. He had lavished her with his passion and given her wondrous pleasure in return.