His body covered hers, his weight balanced on his arms. Her hair spilled across the pillow, where he combed his fingers through the curls and lowered his face to smell its fragrance.
She, too, inhaled deeply, her pulse quickened. The urge to taste him near overpowered her. Where in the world had that thought come from? She tried to disguise her goal with an openmouthed kiss against the side of his neck. Her tongue peeked out to explore his skin.
Netta didna hear the soft sounds she made deep in her throat. Mereck did. His tongue outlined her ear, and his teeth tugged the lobe. Feeling her shivers, he pressed the tip of his tongue into the small opening. He whispered into the dampness, telling her how good she felt while settling his lower body against her.
Netta wriggled her hips beneath him. He delighted in a moan that escaped her, and when his heavy arousal pulsed at the joining of her thighs, she rocked her legs to cradle him. The need to feel her bare skin against his own almost swept away the shield he had built around his desire. He stilled, fearing his rampant need might affright her.
His kisses caressed a trail down her neck, and back up to her mouth, to wage another tender assault. His tongue plunged, distracting her with its slow rhythm. He shrugged out of his robe. His fingers stole between them to open the ties of her night garment and slide the thin silk to her waist. His hands explored over the velvet skin of her waist, her hips. She gasped when he rubbed his hair-roughened chest against her breasts.
Her nipples hardened and puckered. She grasped the thick hair at his nape to pull his face close. His tongue slid between her lips, and she suckled lightly. He nudged his tarse against her. She raked her fingernails through his hair and across his shoulders. Her heartbeat thudded against him. After several more thrusts of his tongue, he slipped his hand between her thighs.
Before she knew what he was about, he eased a finger in her tight center and imitated the motion of his tongue. After her first jerk of surprise, he enveloped her in the pleasure of it. When he gently added another to stretch her, she stiffened and started to protest.
“Shh, my heart,” he soothed. Slowly, her muscles loosened around him. He became more demanding. Shudders racked her as her passion awakened. He dampened and suckled each pink nipple, building her tension. Gasping for breath, she clutched his arms.
“I think you had best stop now, husband.” Netta pulled his hair.
The tumult of emotions his loving caused had frightened her.
“Shh, love. Dinna fear the pleasures I bring you.”
She squirmed. With a tortured growl, he drew and tugged a nipple, nipping ever so lightly with his teeth. When he moved to the other breast to do the same, she near pulled the hair from his head. Not to pull him away, but to pull him tighter to her. He slid his fingers from her heat. His throbbing shaft rubbed against the weeping, downy triangle between her legs as he suckled her breast deeply into his mouth.
Her body vibrated. He spread her legs wide with his knees and nudged his tarse closer. She stilled. A groan rumbled from his chest, feeling her wet heat. Taking great gasps of air, he dropped his head to bury his face in her neck.
To cool his lust, he tried to distract his mind with thoughts of battle. It didna work.
He conjured scenes that should cause his manhood to shrivel.
It didna.
He stilled his body atop hers.
“Is it done then, husband?” Her voice was hopeful.
His shaft rested against her opening, and while he tried to school his voice from quivering, she wriggled against him. He gasped when the tip entered between her sweet nether lips.
“But a little more, dear heart, and we will plant my seed.” His voice was a hoarse croak. It disgusted him.
Reaching between them, he sent a litany of thanks heavenward on finding hot, wet curls there. He ran a finger around the sides of his shaft where it entered her, and she gasped when he teased her hidden nub.
He seated himself farther. She shoved against his shoulders.
“Release your seed now, Mereck.” It was a breathless demand.
He almost complied. She dug her heels into the sheet and tried to scoot away, but he held her shoulders in a firm grip.
“Put your arms around me, love, and hold tight. ’Twill sting at first, but soon the pain will be gone. Kiss me, sweetling.”
His open mouth, blatantly hungry and cajoling, covered hers as he teased a nipple with his thumb until she again writhed beneath him. He kept up a steady thrusting of his tongue. When she started to arch her hips against his, he drew back and thrust into her.
Her maidenhead gave way without a struggle.
Netta didn’t. She bit his lip.
She released him quickly though, so she could take a deep breath and howl. It near deafened him. However, at the moment, he wasn’t concerned about his hearing. He stopped moving but stayed imbedded in her heat.
“Shh, sweetling. The hurt will soon be gone.” He groaned when she squirmed again and drove him deeper. “Please dinna move or you will undo me.” He clamped his teeth together and called on all his strength to not shout and ram himself into his bride. Her heart pounded against his chest.
“I am sorry, love. Never again will our loving hurt you,” he murmured. His lips coaxed hers, his tongue stroked and teased until her muscles begin to ease around him. Taking a grateful breath, he eased back and entered again. She did not protest. He began a steady rhythm. Soon she sighed and stopped tearing his back to shreds.
Although thinking it unlikely she would find full satisfaction in this first joining, he continued to caress and soothe her, knowing he stretched her body and made it easier for their next mating. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She moaned and arched her hips to him. He thrust faster.
Surprise crossed her face. She stiffened and panted now. She gripped her lower lip between her teeth and strained against him. He felt the spasms of her first orgasm squeezing his shaft.
It proved his undoing.
He tensed and arched against her. She yelled and clamped him with her legs when he exploded, releasing his seed into her depths. Burying his face in her neck, he cried out his triumphant male possession in sweet agony.
“Ah, sweetling.” He gasped for breath. “You please me mightily.”
Netta struggled to regain her senses. She let go of her fierce grip on his hair, and gave him soft pats over his heart. When he withdrew and moved to her side, her leg muscles screamed their protest.
She pinched him. Though he arched his brows at her, she didn’t bother to explain.
“We have made a bairn, then?” she asked, breathless. The look she gave him warned his answer should be what she wanted.
“God willing, we may have made a babe.”
“May? What is this ‘may,’ husband? Either we did or we did not. Did you not do it right?”
“Sometimes it takes one time to make a bairn. Then again, it may take many.” She scowled. “God made us this way, Netta. You dinna want to argue with Him, do you?”
She mulled the question over and shook her head. She didn’t want to anger God. Besides, it had been most pleasurable. Only the part when she thought he would split her asunder had been disagreeable.
Mereck kissed her forehead, got out of bed and brought the basin and pitcher of warmed water to the bed table. He coaxed her to let him wash her there, telling her it was the custom for a husband to do such. She squeezed her eyes tight.
The heated cloth felt good against her tender parts. She clamped her legs together to keep it there. When she realized she had also trapped his hand, she blushed and relaxed her muscles. While he was occupied soothing her, she glanced down at his body.
She gasped and jerked upright while she stared at his manhood.
“Of merciful saints. I squeezed it to death!”
When he gave a strangled sound and very near squashed the breath out of her, she deemed it was in retaliation.
“You did me no injury, love. What you see is how a man’s rod normally
looks. My tarse only becomes swollen and hard from my wanting you.”
She didn’t know whether to believe him. That is, until he took her hand and placed it on his flaccid member. When it stirred and started to swell, she snatched her hand away.
Mereck stretched out beside her and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed the tip of her nose and brought her close, guiding her head to his shoulder. “Sleep now, little wife.”
She patted his chest, liking the comfort of his steady heartbeat. She sighed. She had too many things to think about to go to sleep. After she mulled over this business of mating and made sense of it, she would heed him.
Her eyes drifted closed. By the time he had counted to ten, she snored in little puffing bursts.
Before dawn, Mereck tucked the covers around Netta and drew the bed drapes closed. He left orders below stairs that no one disturb her.
When the sun had risen high in the sky, a sentry came to tell him the MacLaren men and the visitors would soon arrive. At Damron’s questioning look, Mereck nodded. Since his room was next to theirs, he knew his brother and Brianna must have heard Netta’s shout when he took her maidenhead.
“Spencer,” Damron called to his squire. “Please ask Lady Brianna to come to me.” The young man was off like a flash and back with the laird’s wife before too many heartbeats.
“My sweet, the man who covets our Netta approaches. Until we learn his intent, would ye keep the women above stairs?” He beckoned her close to whisper in her ear. She nodded.
“Don’t worry, love. I will see to her safety.” Brianna kissed Damron’s forehead and hurried from the room.
“Dinna turn your back on Mortain,” Connor warned Mereck. “He plans to stop a wedding. After he finds his prize has slipped from him, he will be overwrought.”
Mereck stood, feet braced wide apart, his face a cold mask. One hand rested on his sword, the other on the hilt of a lethal-looking dagger.
Any man foolish enough to cross him would have to have a death wish.
Chapter 24
Roger of Mortain passed through Blackthorn’s barbican, his eyes studying his surroundings for any weaknesses in the castle defenses. Sentries stood five paces apart, covering the battlement walkways. He ground his teeth in frustration, for Blackthorn displayed more hardened warriors than most fortresses.
High atop the castle, stiff gusts whipped and cracked a glaring white flag below the Morgan standard. His eyes narrowed. The wind teased the edges, sailing it out for all to see. Curses spewed from his lips. Hatred clenched his heart. A sheet hung there for all to bear witness a deflowering had occurred.
Mereck of Blackthorn would pay for this. The bitch who had spread her legs for Baresark would watch her lover die.
Netta scrunched her face, thinking of a way to tell Elise she had been mistaken about the bumping. She had not a chance, for someone was forever by her side. Thinking how she had so proudly educated her friend on mating, she cringed. Secretly, she was relieved not to have the chance to admit her own ignorance.
The sun had started its decline when Mereck and Connor came to escort the women to the great hall. Mereck placed a possessive hand on her neck. His strong thumb rubbed gentle circles in the downy hair at her nape. It reminded her of the way his fingers had circled her nipples—and other places. She flushed. Her female place heated at the memory. When next they went to bed, could she coax him to touch her there again?
Had he picked up Mither? She heard the sounds of a giant cat purring and peeked up at him. No, he had not. Oh, saints. He’s listening again. She hummed and occupied her thoughts recalling names of saints with birth dates on the next two months. Until she saw Eric blocked their path, she did not realize they had reached the stone steps into the hall.
Eric cleared his throat. Not for the first time, if the laughter in his eyes was a clue. “Mereck, I have heard it said your bride’s hums wake the beasts in yonder forest.”
“Hums? I didna ken she was humming.”
“How could you not notice?”
“Why, I believed her stomach protested its lack of food. I was polite and didna mention the matter. She has a hearty appetite, you see.” His conspiratorial whisper as he guided her to the high table was almost as loud as her humming had been.
Netta scowled and poked his ribs with her elbow. It was a healthy jab, but he didn’t flinch. She started to pinch him too, but realized they had halted afore Damron and the visitors who stood beside the fireplace. She remembered her manners and curtsied while Mereck introduced her as his wife. A hand as smooth and white as the underbelly of a fish extended to assist her. Manners decreed she accept the offer. Rising, her eyes skimmed long skinny shanks in tight breeches.
When cold fingers clamped painfully on hers, she winced.
When wet lips touched her skin, she shuddered.
“Roger of Mortain and his overlord, Baron Hugh of Carswell, wish to offer their congratulations on our marriage, Netta. Is this not so, Mortain?” Mereck ignored the man’s title. Tapping the baron’s wrist with a firm finger, he reminded him to unhand his wife.
Fiery streaks of alarm jolted Netta. Her gaze flew to the hawkish face in front of her. She could not still a gasp. Roger’s satisfied smirk sickened her.
She nodded her head, then tugged back her hand to rub the palm against her skirts. His cold eyes registered the gesture. Grasping for Mereck to tug him close, her hand brushed against his sex. She grabbed his belt, and had he not been ken to a giant, she would have toppled him in her haste.
Baron Carswell cleared his throat, drawing her attention. He was nothing like his vassal. His smile was open and friendly, and he was at ease with Damron and Mereck. He studied her face, and when he bent to kiss her hand, he frowned at the angry red marks before gently kissing them.
Later when they sat for their meal, though Mereck piled their trencher with all of the things she especially liked, Netta hardly ate. Every time she sought to put food in her mouth, that cold blue stare impaled her. She sighed with relief when the meal and entertainment ended and Mereck escorted her from the room.
She bolted into their room, and after Mereck shut the door, she checked to see he had latched it tight.
“Bran, please bring a tray of bread, cheese and a pitcher of wine.” While he waited for her to return, he stoked the fire.
Netta need not worry that Mereck would steal thoughts from her mind while he untied the back laces of her tunic. Her musings were not worthy. Far from it. They were cowardly, saints help her.
“Netta, you do me a disservice when you fear that nithing of a man. Do you doubt my skills to protect you?”
Mereck’s voice sounded angry, mean even. Her mouth gaped. So much for his not pilfering chickenhearted thoughts. When he spun her around and scowled down at her, he would have scared a woman less brave than she.
He did not simply look mean. He looked furious.
Heaven help her. She had displeased him.
“’Tis not that I think you lacking in skills, husband. He is such a vile man.” Revulsion swept her on thinking of Roger’s hands on her body the way Mereck had done last eve. She rubbed Roger’s imagined touch from her arms. “When he gazed at me, I felt forewarned something terrible was about to happen. Did he mention he sought to wed me? Father refused his offer. What brings him here?”
“He went to Wycliffe to demand your father honor his suit. He has a signed missive from Baron Wycliffe stating if you were not honorably married, or the union unconsummated, Damron was to turn you over to him.” Mereck scowled.
“Mortain claims he sought to protect you. He brought Carswell with him to force Laird Damron’s hand.” His lips hardened to a thin line. “He sought to return you to Wycliffe, to spare you from ‘being another Morgan leman,’ as he put it.”
Netta gripped his ears and tugged his face close. “Don’t let him take me, husband. I’ll not stand for it.”
“Enough. You insult me.” He grasped her wrists to let her know she was to release him.
“You will not let him,” she ordered and gave his ears another healthy pull before she relaxed her fingers.
“Wife, I ken you are affrighted, but you will stop your foolish fear of him. He is but a man. Not much of one at that.”
“I know. Truly I do. But he is such a weasel of a man. Please do not turn your back on him.” She was glad when Bran returned with the food. Mereck wouldn’t chastise her with the woman present. Until his anger faded, she would keep Bran close.
She asked Bran to brush her hair.
Without speaking, he took the brush from the maid’s hand.
She asked Bran to help her change into her night garment.
Still silent, he took Netta’s robe and nodded pointedly at the door.
Bran left.
Mereck stood in the center of the room and beckoned with one finger. Netta stared at it as if not understanding his meaning.
She knew, all right. She couldn’t help it if she was distracted on recalling what those commanding hands had done to her body. Oh, rats and fleas. She squelched her thoughts, tore her gaze away and hummed a disjointed tune.
With effort, Mereck kept his face impassive, for he also remembered the satiny feel of his wife’s body. He sighed and undressed. While he donned his robe, he watched her pretend he had not bid her come to him. At the rate she hummed and flitted like a hummingbird from one part of the room to another, it would be time for Matins at dawn afore she obeyed him.
Instead, he went to her. He talked to her about the people who would begin to arrive for Connor and Elise’s wedding. While he occupied her mind, he removed her chemise and wrapped her in her robe.
He picked up a cushion from one chair and placed it on the floor in front of the other. He tugged her hand and sat, gesturing for her to sit on the cushion. When she eyed him from the corner of her eyes and settled herself, he took long, even strokes of the brush through her raven curls.
Her head bobbed lightly with each sweep of the brush, and he kept up the soothing motion until her shoulders relaxed. He enjoyed playing with her curls. Never had he known hair could hold such warmth. He stretched a hank of hair straight, then smiled when it coiled back around his fingers.
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