Roland came in with a tray that gleamed in the firelight. His hair was loose, and there was a sensual grace in his stride. He set the tray on the bedside table and his burgundy shirt gaped, revealing an interesting slice of chest.
He caught her staring and grinned wolfishly. "See something you like?"
She smirked back. "Just put you in a loincloth and hie you to a tropical isle and you might even surpass my fantasy lover."
"There is no ‘might’ about it, love." He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. Relaxed and uninhibited, thanks to the medicine, she sipped at his lips, allowing the intimacy and reveling in it. An uncomfortable fire leapt in her secret places, and she turned her face away with a groan. "I’m not up to this yet."
His lips slid to her ear and explored its contours. "You’re not up to me riding you yet. No one said you couldn’t be broken to bit."
She gasped in outrage and excitement. "Roland!"
He chuckled, and the sound against her ear made her shiver. "You’ll like it, Ally. I will be gentle, and if it looks as if you won’t be able to lie still, I’ll stop. We don’t want you shaking your ribs just yet."
"I’ll be still," she said confidently. Her ribs throbbed like hot pinchers when she moved, but remained tolerable when she lay still. Roland had assured her that it would be six to eight weeks before they were sound again, and he’d looked decidedly irked about it. Letting him pet her would sooth him, and she could admit that she wanted it. It was certainly better than staring at the fire all day.
He smiled wickedly and slowly began to untie her nightgown laces. Her breathing picked up, and she fought to keep it even as first his gaze, then his lips seared the valley between her breasts. He withdrew, and then took his time peeling back the linen. She groaned when it finally whispered away from her nipples, baring them to his sizzling stare.
He purred appreciatively, but made no move to suckle … yet. "You’ve got the finest set of breasts this side of heaven, kitten."
She had to close her eyes. The glitter in his was killing her.
He buried his face between her breasts and inhaled deeply. The edges of his thumbs teased the boundaries of her nipples. "You smell like flowers."
"You’re … all talk," she gasped.
His white teeth flashed in a grin just before he nipped her, lightly, on one inside swell. "What do you want, love? Tell me."
"You know." She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Pillow talk with him was out of the question. Far too intimate and embarrassing … even if his was making her heart jump crazily.
"Is this what you want?" He paused and blew on her nipple, making her long to squirm.
"I, uh … something like." Her brain was overheating. She couldn’t be expected to speak, she assured herself, not when every thought was focused on his bewitching mouth.
He sat abruptly up. "I’m sorry. I just can’t do this."
Dazed, she struggled to focus. "You can’t?"
He shook his head. "I thought I could, but I have no right to take advantage of your illness," he said grimly.
Indignant, she glowered at him. "Yes, you can."
He drew her gown together and laced it. "You’re drugged and ill. You can’t really want this."
With surprising strength for one so ill, she gripped his wrist. "You can. I’m sure it would be all right."
He gently extracted himself. "You need your rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to … I just need a minute."
She blinked in aggravation as he left her there, hot with more than annoyance. What was his game? Yet he’d seemed so sincerely ashamed of his actions. Was this some kind of torture?
* * * *
Roland paused outside the door and gave into the grin tugging at his lips. He was well on the way to making his little wife admit how much she wanted and--needed him. She had come close to ordering him to back to bed, and he couldn’t help but smile at that.
Unfortunately, he’d grown ashamed of his motives at the last minute. Yes, he wanted her to acknowledge her desire, but not like that. He didn’t want to manipulate her. It was not the way to start a healthy marriage. He revised his plans, thinking about what would honestly benefit her.
Touching pleased her. She thought she was ready for it. Common sense told him to give her more time. Two weeks would be best. She wouldn’t like it, but the odds of her truly holding still while he slayed her with pleasure were slim to nil. There would be time for lovemaking later.
He took a deep breath and opened her door. He would survive this.
Chapter 18
She wasn’t going to survive this.
Ally turned her head and frowned at Roland’s dark head on the pillow beside her. They’d slept together for ten days now, and the best she could coax from him were bedtime kisses. Oh, they’d grown hot enough, but every time they did he pulled back, calming her with soothing hands and apologetic, gentle brushes of his lips. Unfortunately, the soothing was working less and less, and as she looked at him now, she felt anything but calm.
Gritting her teeth, she returned her stare to the moonlit ceiling. Is this what it felt like to burn with desire? She’d walled off her feelings for so long, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. There was no forgetting now. Over six feet of pure temptation lay in bed beside her, ensuring he was foremost on her mind.
Moodily, she admitted to herself that she wasn’t up to the steamy fantasies playing in her head. Still, there were other things they could do.
Perhaps her thoughts were loud enough to wake him, for Roland rolled over and blinked at her with sleepy, bedroom eyes. "Are you in pain?"
"No."
He smiled faintly at her testy tone. "Very soon, Ally." He moved closer and carefully cuddled her, stoking her hair in a soothing motion. "Did I ever tell you of my dreams?"
She turned her head slightly to look at him. "Your dreams?"
"Hope for the future. My plans. First, of course, we need to build a bigger bathtub … something big enough for two."
She smiled against his chest. "Mm."
"Of course, you’ll keep charge of your breeding program for as long as you wish. You’re very talented at it, love."
Her smile got bigger. His dreams were pleasing her.
He shifted to get more comfortable. "I’d like to improve our grain mill, and soon we’ll have a houseful of pages and children...."
Ally listened to him plan, enjoying the bloom of contentment inside. She’d dreamed of this moment, this hominess, for a long time. Now that it had arrived, she couldn’t get enough. Perhaps they truly could have the cozy home life Roland was drawing--minus the occasional foray into politics and intrigue, of course.
"Before we start on that, though, I want to take you on a honeymoon. There’s this beautiful place on the continent with a crystal blue ocean and white sands. The fishing is wonderful, and the natives cook a...." He trailed off and turned to look at her. "Are you crying, Ally?"
"No," she sniffed, and then grimaced at the twinge in her ribs. "A little. Why are you so sweet to me?"
Laughing softly, he wiped her eye with the pad of his thumb. "You deserve it, love. We deserve this." He brushed a kiss across her lips, then groaned and drew away. "We need to sleep," he said in a strained voice.
Snorting in amusement, she settled down, teasing, "You’re sure?" The last thing she heard before drifting off was his beleaguered sigh.
* * * *
"You’re sure you’re up to this?" Roland hovered at her side, ready to whisk her back home the moment she showed signs of fatigue.
She accepted his arm around her with stoic resolve. Her ribs throbbed, but she was not about to leave the musicale. They had already breached their hostess’s glittering foyer, and Ally was looking forward to hearing the famous singer engaged for the evening. "It’s been two weeks. Either I get out of the house or I go mad. I’m well enough," she said meaningfully.
He cocked his head. "The doctor expressed his doubts."
"A pox on him."
He laughed and let his hand dip to stroke her hip. Under the guise of whispering, he nuzzled her ear. "If you’re feeling that feisty, then perhaps we can experiment tonight. There are gentler pleasures I can show you--"
"How touching. You two seem to have drawn a truce," a cool, familiar voice drawled.
Ally stiffened in shock and whipped her head around to face Jean Van Sadis, but it was the woman on his arm who came as the greater shock.
"Roland." Marissa nodded cordially at Roland, and then graced Ally with the barest curtsy. "My lady."
Stiff and silent, Roland responded with an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. Only his flared nostrils revealed his anger and tension.
It was easy for Ally to understand his problem. Here was his enemy, taunting him under his nose, and he couldn’t do a thing about it without insulting his host. Of course he was dumbstruck by the unexpected confrontation with his ex-mistress, and possibly embarrassed to have Ally witnessing this mess. Understanding that, she knew it was up to her to parry with their slimy little friends. So, with aplomb born of long years of being toasted over the coals, she raised her brows and quipped an Ally-ism. "Oh, hello. So nice of you two to stop over and congratulate us on our ceasefire. A lucky thing, too, as we’ll be leaving for our honeymoon soon. A bit late for it, but Roland insisted." She looked at him, winked, and then felt unexpected heat in her cheeks. Gads! Was she turning into one of those blushing, simpering maids she’d always reviled? How revolting.
Roland looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled faintly. The expression turned menacing as his gaze slid to Jean. "My Ally deserves the best."
Jean’s brow lifted at the slight emphasis on the ‘my.’ "My thoughts exactly," he said with exaggerated pleasantness. Nine parts possession and one part calculation gleamed in his eyes as they rested briefly on Ally. With elaborate courtesy, he led Marissa off toward the music room.
Roland’s nostrils widened as he took a deep breath. "You’re quite the diplomat."
"Years of practice. But come, we came to hear the music."
He ignored her tug on his arm. "I might kill him if we go in there."
Head cocked, she studied him curiously. "Don’t you play chess, love? It’s all about strategy. It’s time you learned how to cordially hate someone until the time comes to slit his throat. What is one night at a musicale when you know his head will soon be resting on a pike?"
Surprise lit his face and Roland laughed. Allowing her to lead him, he asked, "How do you do it, Ally? How do you rise to the unexpected with such heart? I almost think you like this."
"Yes, well." Dusting lint from her sleeve, she adopted an arch expression. "Never let them see you tremble. If your knees knock, make certain it’s under the table."
He snorted. "My knees were not knocking."
Ally tilted her head and looked up at him softly. "Perhaps it was your heart."
There was silence for a moment as he regarded her. With more intensity than she would have imagined, he said firmly, "There is only one woman who makes my heart knock, love. If you don’t know that by now, then I will have to show you." Flames leapt in his dark eye, promising it would be a scorching lesson.
Plying the fan he‘d given her so long ago, Ally smiled and entered the music room. Roland was no longer thinking dark thoughts, his palm resting low on her hip told the tale. A surge of womanly triumph soared through her, brushing against her heart like the wings of a falcon, making her blink. Odd, she’d spent so much time avoiding romance or her peer’s twisted version of it that she hadn’t thought she’d succumb to such wholly girlish transports now. Her eyes slid to Roland as he helped her into her seat. Ah, well. Perhaps it was past time.
The singer was all she could have hoped for, and Ally completely lost herself in the music, so much so that when Roland leaned over and whispered in her ear, she could only blink at him for a moment. "What?"
Underneath the soft rustle of nobles shifting in their bejeweled clothes and pinching undergarments, he breathed in her ear, "He’s my brother."
When she frowned in confusion it was a long way from musical oblivion to his family tree he looked pointedly at Jean. She studied him with a scowl, wishing she could just enjoy the music in peace. Hadn’t she taken Roland’s mind off him yet? Jean likely sat in the front row to avoid being quietly stabbed, but.... Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. She gaped at Roland. "Your...." Brother wouldn’t come out. A few choice oaths begged to, but this wasn’t the place.
Memories rose up to taunt her as her gaze flew back to Jean. "Sibling rivalry. Jealousy," she said softly. Jean had to be a bastard, then. She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling unexpected pity. It didn’t excuse his actions, saints knew she’d been provoked enough to mayhem in her own life and refrained, but it explained them. He was prideful, and a bastard’s title would not sit well with him, especially since he was unclaimed, and likely unloved.
What had he hoped to accomplish by keeping her as his mistress? Did it give him a feeling of power to be able to toy with her that way? Had he thought her that broken, that weak? Perhaps. If she had been a weaker woman, she might have become his sexual slave, and damn the consequences. Affection was a powerful tool to a starving heart.
What about the tithe he’d stolen? It must have given him immense satisfaction to know he was outsmarting her, and taking what rightfully belonged to his brother. And what he’d done to Roland....
Ally looked at Roland’s brooding face and could no longer enjoy the music. She thought of his relationship with Dante and his formal, but affectionate one with his father, and all that might have been. Sorrow filled her heart as she bowed her head and took his hand. Raising it to her lips, she then cuddled the back of it to her cheek. Oh, love.
* * * *
The kiss started out slow. Roland had been dreaming of it ever since Ally had caressed his hand, and it had given his black emotions another place to go as he forced himself to ignore Jean’s taunting stare and leave at the end of the musicale. The time for vengeance would come. Dealing it out cold would better serve Roland, for he knew that hot headed men made mistakes.
And here was Ally, a perfect, willing distraction. The moment they’d entered their front door he’d dismissed the servants and took her to the closest room with a flat surface--the parlor. His kiss was scorching hot, though he took gently into his arms at first. As the mood got hotter, his hands got wilder. At first she didn’t seem to mind, but when he flattened her to the wall to kiss her senseless, she cried out.
"Saints." He pulled back, looked at her in frustration, and cursed. Her eyes were wide and glazed, but there was a strain in her face that said her rapid breathing caused her pain.
He grimaced and pulled away. "You don’t need this tonight."
She drew a deep, slow breath, though he could see that it pained her. "Perhaps a bit slower?"
Disgusted with himself, he shook his head. "I’m in no mood to be a gentle lover tonight." Running his hand through his hair, he tried to find his trademark good humor and failed. So much for introducing his bride to passion. She would not be pleased.
"Roland." She surprised him by touching his arm softly. "Would you come to our room with me? I would like to sit by the fire in that chair you gave me. I’m tired tonight. Pity me and join me for a game of chess? Perhaps some mulled wine?"
He looked at her for a moment, and then gave a short laugh. "Pity you? Are you certain it’s not the other way?"
She assumed a haughty expression. "You’ll be feeling the need for pity, all right. I intend to demand a foot massage, and I’m not easily satisfied. You’ll have your work cut out for you."
In spite of himself, he smiled. This woman.... He shook his head and offered his arm. "Lead on, haughty one. I’m dying to obey your every whim."
She winked.
Just that, a wink, and everything was right with the world. Had there ever been a woman to equal his? Marveling at his good fortune, he helped her carefully
out of the salon and up their stairs.
* * * *
Ally was in a thoughtful mood as she walked with Ceylon the next morning. It had surprised her, but Roland truly had been too preoccupied to make love last night. He’d even lost at chess, though that may have been due to her brilliant strategy. They’d talked, though, and he’d given her a lovely foot massage, which had gone a long way toward soothing her ego.
Truth be told, she wasn’t really up to what her body craved yet. Deep breaths still hurt, and her lover had proven how many she’d be taking of them. Frustration had gnawed at her, and she had only herself to blame for wasting so much time, but she’d had to be sure.
Restlessness had finally driven her out for a walk, two hefty men at arms in tow. Even if Roland hadn’t been running errands and left orders for her protection, she would have taken them with. She was no fool.
Not that the street full of shoppers looked dangerous, but she wasn’t wearing her sword, and appearances could deceive. Even if she’d been in the habit of carrying a blade in the city, there was no point now, for she couldn’t wield it. Even sneezing exacted a price.
As if reading her mind, Ceylon looked at her sympathetically. "Hurt?"
Ally started to shrug and thought better of it. "I’ll be glad of a rest. Stupid bones. Don’t you have a potion to knit them faster?"
Ceylon’s mouth curved up in a grin. "I gave you some. You said it tasted like day old socks."
Ally scowled in remembrance. "That stuff? I think you’ve been putting newt’s hearts and bat tails in your powders just to torment me."
"Careful. You’re coming awfully close to calling me a witch." There was an edge to her voice that Ceylon only allowed with her friends.
Knowing how painfully close Ceylon had come to suffering a witch’s fate, Ally offered an apologetic smile and changed the subject. An herbalist among the ignorant was not a pretty sight, and had it not been for Uric, Ceylon would have suffered for her skill. Happily, the Queen’s Berserker was not one to tolerate slurs against his wife.
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