Instead, he tried to content himself—for now—with ardent kisses and caresses, with words of endearment and encouragement, so that she would welcome his embrace.
“And here I was afraid you’d be reluctant,” he murmured as he broke their kiss to move his mouth along her skin and run his hands through the thick cascade of her hair.
Roslynn smiled, as seductive as Salome, before she suddenly pushed him away. For one horrible moment, he feared even the little they’d done so far had been too much for her—until she tugged down her sleeves and began to wiggle out of her gown.
He fought the urge to tear off his own clothes. She must take the lead, at least for tonight, so she could be sure he wouldn’t force her.
So rather than do what his lust demanded, he stayed still and watched as she stepped out of her gown and stood before him clad only in that thin, almost transparent shift, her skin golden in the candlelight. She looked like an angel—although her expression was more lustful and seductive than any angel’s could ever be.
When she reached for his belt and wordlessly began to unbuckle it, he nearly lost his rapidly fading self-control. His throat went dry and he couldn’t speak, not even to mumble.
She drew off his belt with excruciating leisure, setting it on the table beside her veil. Then she stepped forward and slowly raised his tunic up and over his head and laid it on the stool. She took her time undoing the laces at the neck of his linen shirt, but at last it, too, was off, so that he wore only his breeches and boots.
She looked away as if suddenly shy—and perhaps she was. Whatever desire was moving her now, perhaps she’d already been as bold as past experience would allow. Maybe now they should even stop, if going further would distress her, for no matter how aroused he was or how much he yearned to feel her body beneath his, he wouldn’t make love with her if she would be afraid.
But when she looked back at him, it wasn’t fear or even reluctance he saw.
It was…admiration. “You have the most magnificent body I’ve ever seen.”
He was so relieved, he burst out laughing, even as he blushed. “God save you, my lady, you’ll be turning my head with such compliments,” he said, while his appreciation for her compliment turned swiftly to passionate desire. “You’re as beautiful as a goddess, and I’m the luckiest man in Wales.”
She licked her full lips. “I believe I’m the luckiest woman.”
He needed no other encouragement. He swept her into his arms and carried her, as light as goose down, to the bed.
As she scrambled under the coverlet of blanchet, he tugged off his boots. Her back to him, he blew out the candle, removed his breeches, climbed in and lay beside her.
She made no move to turn toward him on the feather bed.
“Roslynn?” he softly inquired, laying a hand on her shoulder.
She rolled toward him, her expression almost impossible to see in the darkness. “I am willing.”
He heard the fear beneath the words and silently cursed Wimarc de Werre to the depths of hell for all eternity. That brute hadn’t just taken away her innocence, he’d robbed her of the pleasure of anticipation, too, and replaced it with fear and dread. Whatever the cause, however, her fear was real and he must act accordingly. “If you’d rather not, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
He’d done it often enough before.
“I do want you, Madoc,” she whispered, her voice small in the darkness, tears lurking on the edge, “but I can’t rid my mind of the memories and the fear they bring. They come unbidden, and I can’t prevent it.”
“Perhaps those memories can be replaced by what I do,” he said, hoping it could be so if he took his time, if he was tender and gentle and patient.
He gently moved her onto her back so that he could kiss her properly. He brushed her hair away from her cheeks and lightly slid his lips across her soft, pliant mouth, while his hand slid lightly down her naked arm, then up again.
It was no hardship, after all, to love her slowly, if that was what it took to make it enjoyable for her. He would gladly make love as if they had all the time in the world, and then some.
When she didn’t protest, his mouth moved to her neck and the throbbing, swift pulse there.
He could feel her relax and he slid her shift from her shoulder before nuzzling it lower, until her perfect breast was exposed to his lips and tongue.
AS MADOC KISSED and caressed her, the terrible memories began to recede and the worst of Roslynn’s fears melted away. Madoc wasn’t Wimarc. He was a gentle, considerate lover, of the sort she had dreamed of in her youth. He was what a husband should be like, a man who considered her needs, as well as his own.
And, oh, how glorious his passion was, as he kissed and caressed her and whispered soft Welsh words. She didn’t know what they meant, but she understood that they were compliments and encouragement, and she responded like a rosebud unfurling in the sun.
Yet despite her growing need and his zealous excitement, Madoc still didn’t hurry. He took time to lick and stroke, caress and fondle, to arouse her to such heights of anticipation, she thought she would go mad with frustration if he didn’t enter her. Even when she parted her legs and wrapped them around his slender waist, so that he was right where he ought to be, he paused to lave her breasts and tease her taut nipples.
“Oh, please, Madoc!” she pleaded, arching and writhing as the tension built and built. “Don’t make me wait any longer!”
“As you wish,” he murmured as, with an ease she would have thought impossible before, he slid inside her at last.
She clenched her teeth, waiting for that other pain…which did not come. “It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered, amazed and relieved.
“Because I made sure you were ready for me,” he said softly, his voice warm in the dark. “A difference it makes, you see.”
It certainly did.
“Nor should it hurt, or will it again.”
Believing him, she raised her hips and clenched her muscles, savoring the sensation of Madoc ap Gruffydd inside her.
That was the end of his patience—and hers.
As she gripped him and spoke encouraging words of her own, his thrusts quickened. His breathing grew ragged and hoarse, while her whole body tightened like fleece being twisted from a spindle into yarn.
Now she was tense not with the need to keep from crying out in pain lest it lead to blows and curses, but from an unfamiliar, increasing anticipation.
Until with a great groan, Madoc bucked and thrust deep and the tension within her snapped like a rope being cut. Panting, she clutched him tightly as wave after wave of release throbbed through her.
Never had she experienced anything so good. Never.
It was as if she were a virgin again, making love for the very first time.
She had made love for the very first time. Before, it had been…rutting. Or rather, her husband had rutted and she had been forced to endure it.
As her body relaxed, she uncoupled her legs and Madoc laid his head on her breasts. “By all the saints, that was…incredible,” he murmured.
“Incredible,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around him, happy he was still inside her.
She felt his lips turning up into a grin. “I thought it might be.”
“Is that why you agreed to marry me?”
“I confess it was one of the reasons.” He moved to lie beside her. “Did that never enter your mind when you were trying to decide?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but I only hoped it wouldn’t be too painful. I had no idea making love could be so wonderful.”
“It isn’t always. You have to be with the right person for you.”
“Am I the right person for you?”
“Indeed you are.” He raised himself on his elbow, his face barely visible in the darkness, but she could tell his expression was serious. “I didn’t just want you in my bed, Roslynn, although you are the most desirable woman I’ve ever met. Nor did I marry you only for your dowry, or because
John sent you and I am his ally. I didn’t choose you because it was time I took a wife, or because I think you’ll be an excellent chatelaine.”
He put his hand on her leg and moved it upward toward that other place still throbbing with excitement. “I married you because you are the most vibrant, spirited woman I’ve ever met. Because you stood in front of me as bold as Boedicea when you gave me your conditions. Because you had conditions, and I respect that. Because you’re intelligent and diplomatic, as well as beautiful. That is why I want you, Roslynn, in this bed, in my hall and in my life.”
Thrilled beyond measure by his softly spoken declaration, she didn’t know what to say.
Instead, she showed him. With enthusiastic delight, she began to arouse him with her lips and her fingers, her hands and her body, moving over him as sinuous as a wave, until she was atop him. His breathing ragged, his body responded as if they hadn’t just made love. She raised herself and, as he lay panting, eased him inside her. He groaned as she rocked and moved and shifted like a tree undulating in the breeze, doing all that she could to bring him to ecstasy. She leaned forward so that he could lick and suck her nipples, and run his tongue over her breasts, followed by his hands. Soon, he gripped her shoulders and arched, groaning loudly as he filled her once more with his seed, while she, too, felt that incredible rush of release.
Sweat-slicked and delighted, happy and content as she had never been, Roslynn bent down to kiss him lightly before she moved away.
He laughed with pleasure, the sound like the low rumble of thunder in the distance, before he caught her hand and held it. “Wonderful you are, fy rhosyn—my rose.”
His rose. “And you’re a fine man, Madoc ap Gruffydd.”
“Well now, that’s good to hear. I’d make love with you again for that, but I think you’ve completely worn me out.”
“Then we should sleep.”
“Aye. Come close to me, fy rhosyn, and let me keep you warm.”
Roslynn needed no other urging, and with Madoc’s warm, strong arms about her, she drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep of the sort she hadn’t known in months.
ROSLYNN WOKE when the dawn’s first light shone into their chamber. She turned away, hiding her face from it against the warm, naked body of her husband.
Her kind, gentle husband who had loved her with such amazing passion and tenderness.
“Who is this brownie who wakes me?” he muttered, his voice low and husky as he opened his eyes and smiled at her. “A very shapely sprite she is, unless I’m much mistaken.”
“Who is this young god beside me?” she replied, brushing a lock of his dark hair from his eyes. “Apollo? Mars? Zeus himself, perhaps?”
“No god, me, but a mortal man, although you, my beauty, would surely put Venus herself to shame.”
“I think your uncle isn’t the only flatterer in the family.”
“Who do you think taught me the art?” Madoc asked with a mischievous grin. “Although I can’t say I’ve ever had such inspiration before.”
She laughed as if she were a girl again. “You are going to make me vain, my lord.”
He frowned. “What is this ‘my lord’? Too formal for bed, Roslynn-fy-rhosyn.”
Roslynn-my-rose. Wimarc had only called her terrible things—but he was dead and gone and could never hurt or insult her again.
“I shall have to call you something special, too,” she said, kissing him lightly. “Not the Bear of Brecon. That’s far too fierce.”
“It’s only the Normans call me that. The Welsh call me…” He frowned. “No, I won’t tell you. It’s beneath my dignity.”
Now extremely curious, she said, “Your uncle is sure to tell me sooner or later.”
“Aye, you’re right.” He sighed. “Mumble-mouth.”
Were the Welsh deaf or that desperate for a nickname? “You haven’t mumbled at all since I’ve been here. You speak very clearly.”
Indeed, his voice was one of the most attractive she had ever heard, too.
Madoc ruefully shook his head. “It was different when I was a boy. A shy fellow I was, you see. I barely spoke in company—not that there was much chance to get a word in anyway, between Lloyd and my father and Trefor.” His fingertips lightly brushed her arm. “I’ve grown bolder since.”
“Indeed, you have. You’re very bold,” she chided, her voice serious, but her eyes revealing her enjoyment of his touch.
He began to stroke her arms and legs, her thighs and the warm, moist place between.
“How can I think of a nickname for you when you do that?” she asked, her voice low with growing desire.
“A problem, is it?”
“You know it is. Perhaps you don’t want me to call you anything but Madoc.”
“Just don’t call me Mumble-mouth and I’ll be happy.”
“I like your mouth. Especially your lips.”
“I’m glad,” he said, shifting lower so that his face was next to her thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing you what else I can do with my mouth.”
CHAPTER NINE
WIMARC HAD NEVER done anything like that with her.
All thoughts of nicknames—and anything else—fled as Roslynn learned what else Madoc ap Gruffydd could do with his lips and tongue.
“I didn’t…” she panted, shocked and delighted and amazed after she cried out in ecstasy just as she had the night before, her body thrumming with the same release. “I had no…”
“You liked it, though?” he asked, raising his head to look at her questioningly.
“Oh, yes.”
Wanting to pleasure Madoc as he had her, she thought of one thing Wimarc had never made her do, for reasons known only to himself, so it bore no taint of past humiliation.
She slid lower on the bed and took Madoc into her mouth.
Judging by his groans and the way the sinews of his neck tightened, he found this very enjoyable. She moved as she thought would most excite him, until she was too aroused herself to continue. She swiftly rolled over and guided him into her yearning body.
He didn’t hesitate or seem dismayed at the change of position. He made love to her with the same powerful thrusts, and soon she—scarcely believing it could be possible—once more felt that exhilarating tightening and release. As did he.
Afterward, he fell back beside her. “Sweet merciful heavens, you’re a wonder, you are.”
“I wanted to give you pleasure.”
“Oh, that you did, Roslynn-fy-rhosyn. That you did.”
She snuggled against him and traced the hairs on his chest with her fingertip. To think she had found such happiness here, in the wilds of Wales, and because the king had—
A cry of alarm sounded outside.
Naked, Madoc leaped from the bed and went to the window, where he called out to the guards running along the wall walk toward the gates. As she sat up, clutching the sheet to her naked breasts, she saw that rain fell in a steady stream, making all look gray.
After receiving an answer in Welsh, Madoc muttered something under his breath and hurried to tug on his breeches and boots before he grabbed his swordbelt.
“What is it?” Roslynn demanded. “What’s happening? Is it an attack?”
“Trefor’s too much of a coward for that,” Madoc grimly replied as he strode from the room.
HIS FEET PLANTED, arms akimbo, ignoring the fact that he wore only his breeches and boots despite the rain, Madoc glared at the short, stocky man in the yard standing before him with a bundle at his feet. Rhodri had been a foot soldier in Llanpowell until he’d chosen to leave with Trefor. Now he was second-in-command at Pontyrmwr.
Several of the men of Llanpowell, some still obviously the worse for wine, ale or braggot, waited warily nearby, their hands on the hilts of their swords. A few servants, likewise recovering from the celebrations, hovered near the entrances to the hall, the kitchen and the stables. Neither Ivor nor Uncle Lloyd nor—thank God—the Norman nobleman, were t
here.
If Trefor had attacked Llanpowell in force this morning, it could have gone very ill indeed. Instead, he’d apparently sent only Rhodri alone, with a white flag of truce tucked into his belt.
Grinning scornfully, his black hair and beard as tightly curled as fleece, Rhodri held out a rolled parchment sealed with wax.
“Trefor sent this with his wedding gift,” he said, nudging the bundle at his feet. “Good wishes for the bride and groom, no doubt.”
“I doubt,” Madoc muttered as he grabbed the scroll.
“Since my job’s done, I’ll be leaving,” Rhodri said. “I’m not wanting to linger in case I come down with whatever it is your men have, for a sorry, sickly lot they are.”
Madoc’s men grumbled among themselves, while Ioan and Hugh started forward until a swift warning glance from Madoc made them halt.
Rhodri smirked even more and it was all Madoc could do not to strike him.
“I wish you joy of your new wife, Madoc,” Rhodri sneered. “I hope she lives longer than Gwendolyn.”
White cloth or not, Madoc would have drawn his sword and struck him down for that insolent remark, except that Rhodri’s mouth fell open and he stared at something over Madoc’s shoulder as if beholding an unearthly vision.
Madoc turned to see what had captured Rhodri’s attention and wiped the smirk off his face.
It was Roslynn, wearing a gown of light green wool, looking as fresh as spring, with a cloak thrown over her slender shoulders against the slackening rain. The hood only partly hid her torrent of thick brown hair, still tousled as if she’d just risen from the marriage bed, which she had.
Madoc’s ire disappeared, replaced by pride and pleasure. Let Trefor do or say what he would in his childish spite; he had Roslynn.
She had also brought him his cloak, which she put around his shoulders with a motion like a caress before she ran a quizzical gaze over Rhodri.
“Welcome to Llanpowell,” she said, as gracious as a queen. “Unfortunately, I fear you come too late to celebrate. The wedding feast is over.”
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