The Bride Of Spring

by Catherine Archer

  Benedict stared at those two slender white hands, then his gaze moved down her body, every lovely inch of her bared to the falling rain. The raindrops glistened upon her creamy breasts, making him want to lick them away, feel the softness of her flesh beneath his tongue. That one experience with her had shown him that her skin was velvety and smooth, the kind of skin that beckoned a man’s touch, made him forget all else in the caressing of it. His gaze dipped lower to the curves of her hips, her legs so long and lovely. Those legs had gripped him so tightly, made him want to slip into the warmth of her flesh.

  And more than that was the depth of warmth and welcome he saw in those golden eyes. It was a welcome he had never thought to see. His mind was awhirl, his blood like a river of fire pounding through his heart.

  From whence had she come, this creature of life and nature? Benedict did not know. All he did know was that he could not deny her—or himself.

  He raised his own hand, moving toward her without conscious thought. When her cool fingers closed around his, he drew in a sharp breath at the degree of desire that shot through him. Such a light touch, so delicate, but so arousing. Benedict groaned at the rush of sensations that raced through him.

  All his attention, his entire being was centered on Raine as she came closer, her golden eyes focused on his. Without a word she reached for the hem of his tunic. His knees weakened as she began to lift.

  He moved to help her, trying desperately to give himself something to do, something to think on save his own body’s overwhelming reaction to her touch. But his actions gave him little aid, for as soon as the garment had passed over his head, Raine spread those cool hands of hers across his chest. Benedict shuddered at the sensations that pulsed through him.

  Raine felt him shudder and smiled. She did not know what had happened to her, nor where her brazen courage had come from. The fact that Benedict had come upon her here like this was surely a sign from the heavens above that she should be with him.

  It was as if the wildness of the forest throbbed within her. Or perhaps it was the pounding of her own need for this man?

  Whichever was the case, Raine was past caring. It had been too hard to fight her own needs and desires. Her eyes met his, which had darkened to indigo with the passion he could not disguise. She felt a rush of elation. She, Raine, had brought about this reaction in him.

  Feeling an answering thrill within herself, she lifted her mouth, inviting his kiss.

  Benedict could not ignore the invitation of her mouth. He dipped his head and claimed her lips as his arms closed around her. When her soft tongue prodded at his mouth, he opened to her, his head whirling afresh. Determinedly he pulled himself back from that precipice of pleasure as his tongue met hers, sliding along that tender length with deliberate intent. For he did not mean to allow her all the advances. He, too, meant to give delight, to see her react to his own caresses with passion.

  His hands traced the curve of her back, sliding lower to grip her hips for a long moment, before molding the luscious curves of her bottom. He pulled her more closely against him, reveling in the fact that she gasped and held his shoulders tightly as he did so.

  Obviously Raine, too, felt this deep and overwhelming need. He kissed her again, sucking at her bottom lip and chuckling softly in the back of his throat when she moaned with pleasure.

  Raine was on fire. With each kiss and caress the ache in her lower belly grew thicker, more delicious, more compelling. She pressed herself more closely to him and gasped as he reached down to grasp her bare hips, pulling her against his burgeoning desire. She reveled not only in the feel of those strong, sure hands on her flesh but also in the fact that in his hardness lay the end to her torment, the culmination of all her desire.

  Her fingers twined in the top of his hose, tugging urgently, and Benedict knew what she wanted. Just the thought of her eagerness made his manhood react. Benedict had to close his eyes for a moment, take a deep breath to gain mastery of himself. But in some part of himself he knew that what was happening was beyond his control. He had become a creature of pleasure, taking and giving without conscious thought.

  And he, too, wanted to be bare—exposed to not only the woman in his arms but the wildness of the forest and the rain.

  Quickly he drew away, but only far and long enough to jerk off the hose. The moment he tossed them aside he moved to take her back in his arms, but Raine resisted him, stepping away so that she could see him. Benedict held his breath.

  In the last dying rays of the day, he was so powerful and unbelievably beautiful in his nakedness that she caught her own breath. Her gaze found his without shame, telling him openly how moved she was.

  Strangely humbled by her regard, Benedict pulled her back into his arms. He kissed her—kissed her so thoroughly and so deeply that the world tilted and her blood sang with wanting.

  When his now free manhood pulsed against her belly, Raine felt an answering reaction in her own core, was aware of the swollen need of her own womanhood. She clasped her hands to his buttocks, holding him tightly to her as he had done to her only moments ago.

  He gasped in reaction and she smiled a secret breathless smile of satisfaction and undeniable hunger.

  When they had made love at Brackenmoore, it had been because he’d wanted to have a child, that he wished for the conflict between them to be over. He had imagined that he could make things right between them simply by going on as if it were so. Now she wanted him to make love to her because he could not do otherwise.

  Though she knew it was not love they shared in this wild joining, she wanted Benedict to feel the way she felt. She wanted him to lose control of himself and his reactions as she had.

  It was as if this would, in some small way, make her feel less alone, less mad for not being able to control her own attraction to him.

  She was determined that this time it would be she and not Benedict who took command of what they did. With this thought in mind, she stepped back from him once more, catching and holding his gaze as, with deliberate intent, she reached up to slowly trace a hand over the hard muscles of his chest. She paused, teasingly stroking the tips of his nipples.

  Raine smiled when he gasped, his mouth opening as his breath quickened. How good it was to know that she could evoke this reaction in him.

  When he reached out for her she shook her head, her voice an unrecognizable utterance of both passion and assurance as she whispered, “No, not yet.”

  She moved to place her mouth where her hands had been on his smooth hard chest. Her tongue tasted the rain and salt on his skin and she sighed.

  His hoarse murmuring of her name only served to drive her on, to further embolden her. Without pausing to consider, she dipped her head lower, trailing her lips over his abdomen and nuzzling at the base of his belly. She could hear his breathing become more ragged with each movement of her lips. Benedict’s reactions drove her on.

  She closed her hand gently over the hardness of him. In her mind was a sharp memory of the way he had once pleasured her. She kissed that heated flesh.

  Again Benedict moved to halt her, but she would not be thwarted. This moment was hers to command.

  She slipped her mouth over him. His gasp of “Raine,” was enough to tell her that she was indeed pleasuring him, driving him beyond the steel wall of control he had erected around himself.

  Benedict was drowning, his mind and body awhirl with the sensations she was awakening inside him. She, Raine, was the center of the universe, and all things in it were mere worshipers of her radiant warmth and light. Wave after wave of sweet delight rippled through him with her every movement.

  Yet even as his pleasure mounted, from some distant place inside came the knowledge that he must find the will to halt her. He would soon be unmanned, and that he did not want. More than anything in his life he wished to pleasure her, to know the rapture of bringing her to culmination.

  With a great force of will he pulled away, hearing the rasping sound of his own voice
calling, “No more, Raine, no more.”

  He drew her up to hold her against his body, taking deep gulps of air as he rested his hot forehead against her wildly tangled hair. When she wriggled against him, her own breathing quick and harsh, he lifted her in his arms and laid her on the soft grass beneath them. And even as he positioned himself over her, Raine opened to him.

  And now they danced together, their bodies finding a rhythm as old as time and as irrefutable.

  Raine no longer thought of making Benedict lose himself, for she, too, was lost, merging with the delight that drove her on. Merging with Benedict, the feel and touch and taste of him.

  The sensations built until she felt as she was poised on the brink of all creation. Yet it was only when she sensed the shudders of completion that rippled through Benedict that she fell over that brink, falling—falling into a place where there was only ecstasy.

  Benedict sagged above Raine, his mind and body still pulsing with desire even though his climax had passed. Finally, weakly, he rolled to lie beside her on the dampened earth. And even though he knew that he should now be aware of the grass against his bare skin, the rain on his face, he could concentrate on, was aware of nothing save Raine. He knew each breath she drew in, felt the prickle of the fine hairs on her flesh as she began to experience the coolness of the rain. He was aware of the ripples of sweet fulfillment that pulsed gently in her belly, the pleasing languor that weighted her limbs; all were as vivid as if it were he experiencing them.

  So shocked was he by what he was feeling that for a long moment Benedict did not quite understand what was occurring. But when he did realize that somehow what had passed between them had made him a part of Raine, in some mystical way that he could not even begin to understand, he shot to a sitting position.

  Only then did the sensations cease. In their wake was left a powerful need to deny them. Yet that he could not do. No matter how unexplainable, what he had felt for those moments had been real. With that realization came the certainty that he could not allow such a thing to ever happen again.

  He was Brackenmoore. Never could he let himself be absorbed, bewitched by any woman, however unknowingly. For he did not imagine for even a moment that she had cast some spell over him. He was not so foolish as that.

  He must think on what had led up to this moment, to the fact that Raine was clearly beset by guilt at having been so angry with him. For reasons he could not begin to understand he did not want her guilt, not when making love to her had made him lose himself so completely. Without looking at her he rose and began to don his wet clothing.

  Raine’s voice halted him as he jerked his houppelande over his head. “Benedict?”

  When he turned to face her he saw that she was now standing, her gown held before her protectively, her eyes filled with disbelief and confusion.

  Sympathy made him say, “Raine, I…” But he halted without finishing, for what was he to tell her—that their lovemaking had so moved him that for however brief a moment he had felt as if he was inside her? As if he, Benedict, had somehow become her?

  He could not do so. She would never believe him, and any lesser reason would not suffice to explain why he must now hold himself from her. For that was what he knew he must do. She was recalcitrant enough now, but far too erratic in her behavior. Raine had no true care for him and thus might not continue to hold him in favor. Likely would not do so. He ignored the ache this thought brought to his chest.

  A cry of disillusion escaped her as she quickly drew on her own clothes. He kept his gaze averted, only looking at her when she was finished, saying, “We should go back to the camp now.”

  Angrily she shook her head. “I will not go back with you. Leave me to make my own way.”

  He frowned, deliberately keeping his voice even. “You know I cannot do that.”

  The next thing he knew she was shaking a small, furious fist in his face. “Do you know how very much I hate it when you do that?”

  He took a step backward in surprise at this unexpected attack. “Do what, madam?”

  “When you act as though nothing matters, as though you are not affected by anything.”

  He raised dark brows high, the very accusation bringing a stirring of indignation to his own breast. “I do no such thing. Many things trouble me, especially of late.” He cast her a pointed looked. “I merely accept that I cannot afford myself the luxury of losing control, of giving in to my every emotion.”

  This seemed to only further enrage her, for she sputtered, “You cannot afford yourself the luxury of losing control? That your responsibilities prevent you from being human is all in your own mind. The only reason you keep such a tight hold on yourself, Benedict, is that you are very glad to feel yourself superior to the rest of us. Your need to control everything has nothing to do with doing your duty. It is your way of protecting yourself.”

  A blinding wall of outrage rose up to hold him silent for a long moment before he found his tongue, and when he did he had no care for how much anger he betrayed. “How dare you, you shrew. You think that you do not do all in your power to control everyone and everything about you. That is exactly what you do when you rush ahead with every impulsive notion that pops into that pretty head of yours.”

  He caught her hand before it could connect with his chin. Trying to jerk away from him, she cried, “I do not.”

  He held that fist in his own, his eyes boring into hers relentlessly. “You do, madam, you do. Why do you think you rushed into marriage? It was not only to care for William, though I do grant you that played a part. You say that William has not had opportunity to mourn your father. Have you? I tell you that you cannot run from such pains, they find you. I tell you this as well, Raine—you cannot do what is best for yourself or anyone else lest you learn to stop and think what may happen as a result of your running.”

  She shook her head in utter desperation, her hair flying about her wildly. “Mourn? As usual you are right. That is exactly what I was able to do before you came upon me here. Though what good it has done me when you continue to behave like a knave I do not know.”

  With that she jerked out of his grasp and raced down the path. Immediately Benedict followed her, but he made no move to catch her. Something told him that he had pushed Raine far enough.

  And truth to tell there was another reason for his hanging back. Now that his anger was cooling he was beset by self-doubt. Could there be any truth to her accusations that he was only using his responsibilities as an excuse to remain above and distant from others?

  Determinedly he shook his head. It was not true. He only did what he had to. It was Raine who was hiding from her emotions. He could not allow himself to be caught up in worrying over such wild accusations.

  He had enough on his mind with trying to master the strange feeling he had experienced after they made love. He must prevent such a thing from ever occurring again. For deep inside he knew that whatever had brought about the sensations had the power to destroy him as he knew himself to be. That was something that he could not allow to happen. Too many people depended on him to see to their happiness, their very existence. She said she had mourned her loss. He was glad for that, but no less concerned about how her life had shaped her. She was as wild and impulsive as in the beginning. Was in fact more so, if what had just occurred between them was any indication.

  Losing himself so completely, as he had in Raine for those moments, could jeopardize his ability to do what he must. Which was to put no one being above the others—including a wife. Especially one who had no care for him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The remaining days upon the road stretched long and unbearably for Raine. Benedict seemed completely unaffected by what had passed between them in that terrible confrontation where he had accused her—her, for the love of all the saints!—of being the one who had to be in control. Since then he had more than proved her echoing words by being as controlled and unemotional as a stone. He was polite and deferential to the poin
t of driving her mad, seeing that she was made comfortable and her every physical need met—save one.

  Raine was so confused she did not know where to turn. She certainly could not answer his cool indifference with like behavior. It was completely beyond her to even attempt such a thing, as it would be for any feeling being—a category Benedict obviously did not number among.

  Their return to Brackenmoore brought very little relief. To conduct herself with any sense of pride or courage, she knew she could not remain sequestered in her chamber. Yet when she did come out there were many speculative glances cast her way. None of the servants, not even Maeve, made any remark on her running away, taking Benedict’s lead and treating her as if she were queen of all England. But she knew that her actions could not have been met with approval.

  All she could do was hold her head high and avoid interacting with anyone unless necessary. Meals were the most difficult occasions. There was nothing to be done but appear. Only William’s presence kept her seated at these debacles, for each time Benedict asked her a polite question, such as how she had spent her day, or if she would care for more wine, she wanted to scream.

  She had taken to preparing herself for these interminable episodes of torture as if she were attending court functions. Fine garments and carefully coiffed hair, in some sense, acted as a sort of armor against Benedict’s insufferable coolness. It was as if in her finery she was saying that she, Raine, was more than equal to this place, this man she called husband.

  It also gave her something to think about instead of the anguish she had felt looking into Benedict’s eyes only moments after he had made love to her, and seeing a remote coldness that had made her blood turn to ice. Whatever had brought about the sudden change she could not begin to fathom. She knew only that her heart would not withstand another such rejection.

  She need not worry on that. He made no such overtures.

  The hours when she was not in her chambers she spent with William. He sensed her unhappiness, though she did her best to deflect his every query on the subject. She told him she was missing those at Abbernathy and would soon be herself again, though she did not believe it for an instant. She encouraged him to spend time with Kendran, who continued to be kind to her brother. More than once she found herself thinking, with regret, that if Benedict were only able to shed that air of reserve and autocracy, he might be very like Kendran. Yet it was clear he would never do so.