Ronan accepted the handclasp. “But I want to bring her here to this bed, the bed I was born in, the bed I shared with Mary, the bed she died in. Will Rhoni understand? Do I understand it myself?”
Baudoin studied the chamber. “If you had asked me the question a few months ago, I would have doubted my sister’s ability to cope with this. But that was before she met you. She’s changed. She will help you make this chamber a place where love rules again.”
Ronan raked both hands through his hair. “I thank you, Baudoin. And I am grateful to your family for everything you have done for me. Your parents would prefer Rhoni wed in England, but, to be frank, I cannot wait. It’s important we marry in Ireland.”
Baudoin walked over to the bed, sat on the end and bounced up and down a few times. “Comfortable. They don’t make beds like they used to! Rhoni is a lucky woman. And you, my friend are a lucky man. My parents sensed you would wed in Ireland. They gave me permission to inform you of her dowry.”
“Dowry?”
“Alensonne. My grandfather’s castle in Normandie.”
“But I thought Montbryce—”
“My other grandfather. The one we never speak of, the irascible and unpredictable Guillaume de Valtesse. It was the brutal treatment of his enemy Giroux that led to the feud that has caused much bloodshed and pain.”
Ronan smiled, stroking his chin. “An Irishman with a castle in Normandie! It surprises me your parents would consider allowing Rhoni to marry an Irishman.”
Baudoin bit his lip. “I’m hoping they will be as broadminded when it’s my turn to wed the woman I love.”
Ronan frowned. “You have someone in mind?”
“She’s Welsh.”
Ronan recalled his time in the Welsh mountains with Rhodri’s family. “Carys?”
Baudoin’s face reddened and he shifted his stance.
Ronan sat beside his future brother-by-marriage. “She’s but a child.”
Baudoin bristled. “I can wait.”
It took a crew of servants five days to clear out the vestiges of Lorcan MacFintain from the chamber. Old linens were burned, tapestries taken down, cleaned and rehung. Wood was polished and fresh rushes laid on the floor. Every stone was scrubbed. The chimney was swept and a fire set. Three cats soon got rid of the mice. New oiled cloth covered the windows. The mattress was mended and restuffed.
Ronan ordered dried lavender be added to the new bolsters.
When the frenzy of activity was complete he surveyed the chamber. It looked and smelled wonderful. Only one thing was missing. He took a deep breath and turned to Conall. “Where is Lady Rhoni?”
Conall winked. “In the Hall.”
Ronan smoothed the front of his doublet. “Wish me luck.”
Conall laughed. “I do indeed, my lord. If you wed Lady Rhoni, there is hope for me and Jacquelle.”
Ronan raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten the Norman maidservant. If Conall was serious, he would try to reunite the pair.
He strode off to the Hall, smoothing back his hair and adjusting his eye patch.
He paused in the entrance to drink in the sight of the woman he loved. His shaft reacted predictably. She was dressed in peasant garb, her hair tied up in a turban, supervising boys crawling in the rafters to dust out cobwebs. He chuckled, surprised she had not climbed up to assist them.
She whirled to face him when he cleared his throat. She fiddled with the turban and her face reddened. He held out his hand. “Come, Lady Rhoni. It’s time to show you my home.”
She inhaled deeply and came to stand before him. He wiped a smudge off her nose and took her hand. “This is the Great Hall,” he jested.
She laughed, intensifying his need.
He led her through the kitchens, now scrubbed clean. They toured the smithy, the chapel, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, and the chicken coop, carefully avoiding the manure pile. In the stables she lovingly stroked the horses. She missed Fortissima. He resolved to somehow bring her beloved horse to Ireland.
As they made their way back through the herb garden, he crushed lavender between his fingers and held them to her nose.
She touched his hand as she inhaled. “I love lavender.”
“I know,” he rasped.
At the foot of the stone steps to the third level, he paused, put his hands on her waist and drew her to him. Now he knew her scent, he revelled in it, the lavender intoxicating him. “There is but one thing left to see. At the top of these steps. It’s the lord’s chamber.”
Rhoni pursed her lips. “Your chamber. Where Mary—”
He put the pad of his forefinger on her lips and shook his head. He led her up the steps and pushed open the door.
He stood in the doorway, holding her warm hand, his heart in his throat. Was he being disloyal to Mary? His dead wife no longer visited his dreams. Her murder had been avenged. Hopefully she and the babe were at peace now. He had done his best.
But was it fair to Rhoni to ask her to be his bride? He had regained much of his health, but was still a one-eyed man with ignominious scars no nobleman should have to bear. Túr MacLachlainn would rise again, but it would take many years of hard work. Would Rhoni come to love his home as much as he did? Ireland was far from her parents, her family.
And what of this dowry castle in Normandie? How to take care of it for Rhoni and her family when his attention had to be on Ireland?
He gripped her hand and looked at her lovely face. A tear trickled down her cheek. “It’s a beautiful chamber, Ronan.”
He drew her inside. “There is but one thing missing.”
She turned her wide brown eyes to him. “What is it?”
“Love.”
Her mouth fell open. He wanted to lick her full lips and delve his tongue inside. He took hold of both her hands. “I love you, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce. Will you wed with me?”
Rhoni had never been as happy to hear her full name. On this man’s lips it was a song. She had ached to hear words of love from him, but had become convinced he was a warrior whose bitter experiences had hardened his heart forever.
Would she fulfill his hopes of filling this chamber, this Tower with love? It had been easy to see his pride in every stone during their tour. Would she be equal to the challenges of Túr MacLachlainn?
Could she help him heal, forget the past? Would his people accept her, a Norman? Sord Colmcille was a long way from Ellesmere.
Though these doubts assailed her, she brought his hands to her mouth and brushed her lips against his knuckles. “I will wed with you, Ronan MacLachlainn,” she whispered.
He growled his elation, pulling her to his body, cupping her derrière with his big hands. She felt desire surge through him as his hard maleness pressed against her belly. She was marrying a man who had kept his passions controlled while he sought vengeance, but now they were unleashed. She was awash with need.
He tore off her turban and bit her hair. “You always smell so good.”
In her frequent dreams of his proposal of marriage, she had imagined she would be beautifully clothed. “I am a mess. I was helping with the cleaning.”
“You look beautiful to me.”
He nibbled her ear, then her neck.
She giggled. “I’m ticklish.”
He grinned, scooping her up. She wound her arms around his neck as he carried her to his bed. She had longed to feel his body pressed to hers, to learn the secrets of lovemaking from him, but they were not married yet. Would he control his passion?
The bed sat on a raised dais, but he easily raised his knee on to it and they tumbled onto the soft mattress. He laughed when she looked at him with surprise, then he dug his fingers into her ribs. “Ticklish, did you say?”
She squirmed and kicked, laughing with him, tickling him back. This was a side of Ronan she had never seen and it thrilled her. Playful and passionate.
Soon they lay side by side, breathless and exhausted. He turned her, spooning her back. She fell asleep to the lilt of the l
ullaby he crooned.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Baudoin de Montbryce was proud to stand in for his father at the marriage of his sister. It was a bittersweet experience. As heir apparent to the Earldom of Ellesmere, he would one day take his father’s place. It was an awesome responsibility, one he hoped he would be equal to.
Ronan wore a black doublet, leggings and boots. Rhoni’s gown was a stunning red. Baudoin had never really noticed how beautiful his sister was. He concentrated on the details of the ceremony, knowing his mother would question him endlessly. She would be elated to hear how happy Ronan’s people were to welcome Rhoni as their new Mistress.
He eagerly anticipated the moment when he would be asked by the priest to present the dowry token. Rhoni had no idea! Good thing the Mass was being said in Latin. He would have been lost in Irish.
He winked at Ronan as he placed the confirmation of the gift of Alensonne on the silver salver thrust towards him at the appropriate time.
Rhoni blinked as she looked at the salver then enquiringly at Baudoin. He smiled innocently.
The ceremony progressed and soon Ronan was kissing Rhoni. The murmurs from the assembled gathering turned to giggles and cheers as their kiss threatened to set the chapel afire. Baudoin doubted they would stay long with their guests at the banquet.
Ronan watched his wife as she moved from table to table, speaking with guests. She was very different from Mary. He had cared deeply for his first wife, but every part of him craved Rhoni. She was in his heart, and made his spirit sing. He had been gifted with a love that would help him exorcise the ghosts of Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. At first sight of her, in his delirium he had believed her an angel. It had not been far from the truth.
Rhoni had taken charge of the preparations for the banquet, supervising the plucking and stuffing of pheasants, even assisting with the unpleasant beheading and slicing of eels for the stew.
Ronan had brought down the boar, but it was Rhoni who had painstakingly instructed the cooks on how to prepare and serve the head. Judging by the oohs and aahs, none of his people had ever seen a decorated boar’s head which was half green and half yellow!
But it was the trout that Rhoni obsessed about, and with good reason. Everyone remarked on how delicious it was, and she explained with delight that it was a traditional family recipe handed down for generations from the cook at Montbryce Castle.
His heart swelled with pride. There was no doubt in his mind Rhoni would make a more than capable chatelaine for Túr MacLachlainn.
He vowed to spend his life making this woman happy, protecting her. His gut clenched. Never again would he allow harm to come to his family.
Family! He was anxious to get started on giving Rhoni children. His shaft hardened as he thought of her belly swollen with his child.
He came to his feet, stalked over to his wife, scooped her up and carried her from the Hall, to the jubilant cheers of the assembly.
Ronan had carried her up three flights of steps, but it seemed effortless for him. “You’re light as a feather,” he replied when she protested she was too heavy. She was secretly pleased he insisted on carrying her. His strength reassured her, made her feel safe, cherished.
He kicked open the door. “I want to lift you over the threshold into our new life together.”
She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him, still finding it hard to believe this giant of a man loved her. He was gentle when he touched her, though she felt desire seething through him. Sometimes she caught him gazing at her intently, causing small creatures to swarm around her belly.
“You’re not going to tickle me again, are you?” she teased, her nipples tightening at the prospect.
He grinned as he put her down on the bed. “I can assure you tickling is not what I have in mind.”
She felt like a wanton, filled with an urge to tear off his clothes. She could not keep silent. “Take off your clothes.”
She gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth, then giggled.
Ronan smiled and slowly peeled off his doublet. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”
Rhoni felt her face redden. “I didn’t mean to be so bold. My mouth ran away with itself.”
He brushed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “My hope is your beautiful mouth will become much more wanton as the night progresses.”
A tingle of expectant pleasure rippled from her most intimate place down her thighs to her toes. Ronan braced his knees against the side of the bed and slowly took off his linen shirt. Her mouth fell open. She had seen him from a distance stripped to the waist in the fields helping with the harvest, or shoeing horses in the smithy. She had wanted to lick the sweat from his perfect body.
He held out his hands. “Touch me, Rhoni.”
He pulled her upright and put her hands on his chest. She pressed her fingertips lightly into the hard muscles, then smoothed her palms over the soft black hair that dusted his upper body. She trailed a finger down the thin line from his chest to his navel. “Silky,” she murmured.
She ran her hands up his corded neck and onto his shoulders. He groaned and tore off her veil to lace his fingers in her hair, pulling apart the elaborate arrangement piled on top of her head. The touch of his fingers raking over her scalp sent shivers down her spine. She put her hands back on his chest and rolled her thumbs over his dark male nipples. Her own nipples tightened, straining against the fabric of her gown.
He fixed his gaze on her breasts, cupping them in his big hands. “I have longed to put my hands on you, Rhoni.”
He brushed his thumbs back and forth over her nipples. Wet heat flooded between her legs. He smiled, flaring his nostrils. He had known her nipples had hardened before he touched them. Did he also sense the intimate moisture his caress had caused—and the ache?
He bent to kiss her, drawing her body tightly to his own. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth in a rhythm her hips were soon echoing. They broke apart, both panting for breath. “I want to feel your skin against mine. Let me undress you.”
A growl of encouragement emerged from her dry throat. “Hurry!”
She felt his arousal buck against her belly and his eye darkened. He turned her and unlaced the back of her bodice, pushing it forward over her shoulders and down to her waist. His warm breath teased the fine hairs at her nape as he cupped her bare breasts. She moaned, thrusting her head back against his chest. Tendrils of pleasure wound their way from her nipples to her toes then into her loins. He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. A jolt of desire rocked her. She cried out his name, barely able to breathe.
He nibbled the back of her neck, intensifying the painful pleasure. She tried to turn to face him, to press her aching breasts against his body, but he resisted. “I fear if I look upon your beauty I’ll be lost.”
She arched her back and reached up to entwine her arms around his neck. “I want you to see me.”
He turned her slowly and stared at her breasts, raking his hands through his hair. “Críost, Rhoni, you are magnificent.”
His words came from deep in his throat, feral. Like her mother, Rhoni was well endowed, but she had never given much consideration to the effect of large breasts on a man. Suddenly, she was aware of her power as a woman. She cupped her breasts and lifted them in offering. “Kiss me—here.”
During his marriage to Mary, Ronan had come to accept that his wife was not a passionate woman and had learned to temper his lusty nature. He had sensed passion in Rhoni, but when she offered her breasts in trusting surrender, the floodgates of repressed desires and needs burst open. He burned to rip the clothing from his wife and fall upon her like a wild thing.
But he wanted his virgin bride’s first taste of ecstasy to be memorable for its beauty, not its pain. Selfishly, he too wanted the pleasure to last.
He bent his head to suckle one pouting pink nipple, drawing its dusky areola fully into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the hard peak. Rhoni kept one hand under her breast, the ot
her she lay on the back of his head, keening whimpering noises that he felt in his ghiniúna.
He shifted to the other nipple, rolling the moistened pebble of the first between his finger and thumb.
“Dieu! Ronan, I—” Her voice caught in her throat.
“Hush, mo stór. Let me pleasure you.”
She peeled open her thick eyelashes. “This is beyond pleasure,” she rasped.
He grazed her nipple with his teeth. “We’ve only just begun, mo croí.”
She gasped. “I’m ready to learn.”
He put his hands at her waist, pushing the gown over her hips. “I’m anxious to teach you.”
The silk whispered against her skin as it fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. She never took her eyes off his face as his gaze travelled the length of her nakedness. His heart was beating too fast. He feared that if she touched him she would be burned. She was so beautifully formed he almost fell to his knees in thanksgiving for this gift that was soon to be his alone.
She put a hand on his shoulder as he helped her kick away the gown. Her heat penetrated his fever. He had to free his shaft from the confines of his leggings before he burst the seams. He quickly unfastened the laces and put her hands on his hips, covering them with his own. “Strip me, Rhoni.”
He pressed her hands over his hips and the leggings slid down his thighs. His hardened manhood sprang free. Rhoni knelt and helped him remove the garment, never taking her eyes off his arousal.
Mary had dutifully suffered the discomfort of his size. Rhoni licked her lips and touched her fingertip to the opening at the end of his aching shaft. “Speaking of magnificent,” she whispered, “are all men’s parts this big?”
It was too much. With a grunt he hauled her to her feet, crushing her soft curves to his hard body. His shaft surged along the wet slit between her legs. He could wait no longer. He raised her up, braced his legs, and impaled her.
She growled his name, locking her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. He felt her maidenhead tear, but could not stop. He bit her neck as she rode him, pumping his hips as her tight channel clenched on him and her thighs gripped him. She cried out and bit him back, a long sound keening from her throat as she neared her release.
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Page 19