by Rue Allyn
At the sight, Gennie’s face flushed, and her chest felt tight. Merci Dieu, Haven cannot see me. She had seen many men as tall as Haven; Roger had been one. She had seen many men whose backs were as broad as Haven’s. Even a few who had shared both height and breadth. But none had combined that height and breadth with the same sleekness of muscle and beauty of form that Haven displayed.
An upbringing fostered on legends and housewifery had not given Gennie the words to describe the muscles shaped by strength of sinew and length of bone into one of God’s most alluring creatures. Gennie felt as if Lancelot and Gawain combined had stepped into her chamber. The flutter that twisted her abdomen and the fanciful turn of her thoughts unsettled her. She drew the sheet up over naked breasts that suddenly acquired an almost painfully pleasant twinge.
Haven shifted, tossing the tunic toward a chest that sat beneath one of the chamber’s two narrow windows. The air stirred, and Gennie caught the faint scent of leather and man. He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the mantel. Firelight danced across muscles that rippled and stretched. His hose tightened around thighs that swelled with tension. Gennie felt her insides melt.
What was he thinking? she wondered. Roger, the only other man who had shared her bed—and that rarely—had never paused or hesitated. He had climbed into bed, spread her legs and thrust himself upon her as quickly as possible. He had even insisted she sleep naked so that her nightrobe would not inconvenience him. All men were the same, were they not? So what was de Sessions waiting for?
“Are you ready for me?”
The soft question exploded in Gennie’s ears. Was he being considerate? “Oui, I am ready.” As ready as any woman could possibly be to have her body invaded, she thought.
Haven turned around and bent to remove his hose. Gennie lay back and tried to relax before the coming onslaught. She closed her eyes. She did not want to see him. She just wanted to get the bedding over with, so she could go to sleep.
The covers lifted away, and Gennie felt the cooler air of the room sift over her body. The fire’s heat was weak and did not reach the bed. Gennie shivered a bit as goose bumps roughened her skin. The delay was intolerable. “What are you waiting for?”
“I wish to look at the woman who will bear my children.”
It was not enough that he had to examine her like a broodmare, he had to remind her of the real purpose for this mating. There would be no affection or love in this marriage. How could there be between two people who bore so little trust for each other?
Gennie cracked her eyelids. Fair was fair, and if he would examine her, then she was entitled to a peek at the very least. He was magnificent. All thick thighs and narrow hips. Lean-fleshed and sculpted like the ancient heroes she had been raised to admire. A dusting of golden-brown hairs glittered across his chest narrowing down, down to his… Gennie shut her eyes again.
She did not want to see. Did not want to know the too solid evidence of life that throbbed and pulsed within him. That would soon pulse and, Sacre Dieu, grow within her, if he was as potent a man as he looked to be.
The bed sagged. Gennie felt the covers slide back up over her. Heat from his body seared her. An answering flush sprang from the nerves that burned beneath her skin. But Haven did not touch her. Not even the faint mist of his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple.
“Open your eyes, wife.”
Gennie obeyed, staring ahead into the semidarkness. At least he had finally called her something besides “madame” or “widow”.
“I will try not to hurt you.” His easy rumble crossed her ears and sank through her body. Its vibrations joined the dance of butterflies that shifted from her breasts to her toes, causing her stomach to jump and her thighs to tremble. Was this some trick? Roger had never given thought to her comfort, why should Haven?
“I am not untried, sir.”
He had the ill grace to chuckle.
“Thomas is ample evidence of that. Nay, ’tis not lack of experience that would cause you harm.” He placed his hand on her arm and stroked from shoulder to fingers and back.
“What then?” Gennie’s mind scrambled for the possible cause of his words. Better to think than feel the terrifying tremors that shot through her at his touch.
The gentle caress continued, shifting by slow increments from arm to body, belly to breast, where his large hand finally came to rest. “Suffice it when I tell you that I’ve been about the king’s business for these past three months.”
He leaned closer to her. Gennie felt his lips on her forehead, her eyes, her cheek. He grazed her temple with his tongue and scraped his teeth over her earlobe. His palm closed around her breast, then opened, rubbing tiny circles across the sensitized tip.
Surely her heart would burst through her chest, it beat so hard and furious. She would bloody the sheets with such a violent death.
“You are not breathing, Gennie.” His lips moved constantly. Flickered over her ear, down her jaw. “You have to breathe.”
Mesmerized, she opened her mouth to obey. Those lips settled on hers. She sucked in air and his tongue, all in one life-giving gasp.
“Mmmm.”
That groan of satisfaction. Was it hers? His? It hardly mattered. No sooner had her mouth whispered its delight at being plundered than a thousand other parts of her body shouted their discontent at his benign neglect. Haven seemed intent on pleasing all of them. And her body, traitor that it was, seemed greedily intent on helping him.
She tried, she really tried to remain still and compliant as Roger had expected of her. But Haven’s wandering hands drew surprising urges from within her. His breath upon her face produced shivers throughout her entire body, as his lips, firm and soft, traversed the skin from her mouth to her ear and down her neck. When his mouth finally settled on her breasts, flaying each nipple with delicate strokes, heat flooded her belly. Her fingers itched. She clenched them against the desire to grasp his head, to press him more solidly to her breast and soothe the ache he stirred there. She would not be the cause of his displeasure in this mating. His teeth closed on her breast in a gentle bite. She could not prevent herself from arching her back or uttering a small cry.
“…so good.” His voice came to her as if from a distance. “Gennie, touch me.”
Touch him? Roger had never wanted her to touch him. “Wh…where?”
“Here.” Haven grasped her hand and placed it on his hip.
Her palm uncurled of its own accord. Her fingers tested the texture of his skin and slipped around to his buttock.
“Yes,” he breathed into her ear. “More. Please touch me more.”
“Where?” she asked again, hardly daring to think as her fingers traced circles over his back.
“Anywhere, everywhere.”
His mouth closed over hers again.
She didn’t think, simply reveled in the strength and texture of him. How different the male form was. How unexpectedly wonderful to touch a man. What delicious torment to stroke her hands over him, to arch her body closer to his. She felt the press of his knee against her limbs. Her legs shifted beneath his weight. She flung her head to the side, breaking the kiss.
He propped himself on one elbow and cupped her cheek with his free hand. “What is it, Gennie? Did I hurt you?”
“Nay.” She looked at him, looming over her, his eyes agleam in the dark. “I…I don’t know what it is. I feel so strange, so…needful.”
The sheen of his teeth revealed his smile. “I feel needful too.”
“What can we do about it?”
“Let me show you?”
She should fear him, this man who had betrayed his friend to seek the king’s favor, but in this moment, she could not. Somehow he created such desire in her that she would risk all for the satisfaction he promised. She nodded.
His hand left her face and traveled the length of her body to the patch of hair where her thighs met. He rested there a moment, then pressed with his palm.
“Ahh,” she breathed
. Her legs parted, and she lifted her hips.
His fingers slipped between the folds of skin that hid her womanhood. She felt the slickness that his handling drew forth. Dear Lord, what was he doing to her? She thrust her hips against his hand. It wasn’t enough.
She felt his legs slide between hers. The hair of his thighs tickled the sensitive skin of hers. She spread her legs wider. He moved his hand upward to her breast.
His hips sank down on her. His manhood pressed at the entrance to her body.
She closed her eyes. ’Twas madness surely to let this man she didn’t trust take her body so easily, the thought skittered through her mind. But he was her husband, and the madness was so very sweet.
“Gennie look at me.”
She lifted her gaze to his.
He eased his way into her and out again, then again. She felt her body stretch and clasp around him. She moved beneath him and drew from him a groan. He thrust faster, so she shifted her hips again. His groan became a roar. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, exposing her to his touch. She sobbed with each stroke of his body, each flick of his finger over her sensitized flesh. She reached for his hips. Her nails sank into his flesh. He thrust deeper and harder until her body lifted from the bed and she tumbled into a fantasy of splintered darkness and heat where Haven was the only solid presence. She clung to him, certain that she would be lost forever without him.
Haven drifted back to reality. He felt Gennie’s heart pounding beneath his own. Heard her shallow breathing. The musk of sex swamped the lavender he had come to associate with her. He lifted himself away, and her breathing eased. He looked down at her. Her body, flushed and sweaty in the firelight, was more beautiful than any other woman he had ever met.
In her he found delight and wonder. So sweetly untutored when he demanded she touch him and she asked where. He had shown her. She became ravenous in search of her satisfaction, and his. He smiled, settled beside her and brushed a finger against the lashes that dusted her cheeks. He wanted to see once more those green eyes dazed with passion and desire because of him.
What kind of man had Roger been to find such a treasure unappealing? Haven thought he had known his friend better than anyone, but he had not known that Roger would treat women with callous selfishness. And he had not believed that Roger was capable of treason all on his own.
Guilt flooded Haven. What kind of man was he to slake his body so thoroughly on a woman he couldn’t trust? To lay with Roger’s widow, when he was sworn to protect her, despite that lack of trust?
He gathered Gennie to him, pulling the covers up to ward off any chill. She may have been Roger’s widow, but she was his wife now. The tenderness he felt for her at this moment frightened him. He was unused to fear and did not understand how this woman could inspire it in him. He shoved the feeling aside. He would keep her safe for the sake of the children she would bear him. And since he could not bring himself to trust her, he would guard his heart against her.
Gennie wakened to the feel of Haven’s arm around her waist, anchoring her back to his chest. Merci Dieu, bedding with Roger had never been like that. If all men were alike, she wondered, then who was the aberration, Roger or Haven? For the sake of every other woman in the world, Gennie prayed that more men were like Haven than Roger.
Guilt flushed over her. How could she wish that more men be like Haven? He had betrayed Roger to the king without a thought for the consequences. He took no heed of a child left fatherless or a sister left homeless before doing what he claimed was his duty. Yet here she lay in the arms of a man she did not love and could not trust, wishing only that he would wake and take her to that sweet oblivion again. Vraiment, lust was a powerful temptation.
Mayhap she did not completely trust her new husband. She certainly could not like him. If the rest of their nights would be as this one, she would have no trouble performing her wifely duty. But she might have difficulty keeping safe her heart.
Gennie lay on her side, her back pressed against Haven’s chest, and watched the light change from dark to dim. She worried over Thomas and Rebecca. Were they safe? When would they arrive? They traveled in the cold and rain, without decent shelter, while she slept in comfort and warmth.
Three nights since, she and Haven had married, and each night the same. She had no idea where or how Haven spent his days, but he never failed to return with enough energy to do his duty as a husband. And such a duty.
Her present liking for marriage duty troubled her greatly. She had never experienced such lust with Roger. She had hoped for it, especially in the early days of her marriage, before she discovered that Roger preferred whores to his wife. But look where Roger’s lusts had led him. Mayhap she was as inconstant as he? The thought terrified her. Was she? Would her desire for Haven’s body and what he could do to hers lead her into a mire of betrayal like that where Roger had met his death? Surely her soul was in danger if she allowed this to continue.
Beside her, Haven stirred but did not wake. Gennie smoothed a hand across her lower abdomen. Would she quicken with his child as soon as she had with Roger’s? Worse, would Haven, once assured of a child and possible heir, leave her for whores and other women?
Gennie flung the covers aside. She sat up and dragged on the robe that she had left at the bedside. Roger’s penchant for whores had taught her well. She survived before; she could do so again. She paused in tying the sash around her waist, surprised at the physical pain even the thought of Haven with another woman caused. Straightening her shoulders, she finished fastening the garment and made a decision. This time she would not suffer a faithless husband. Somehow she must find a way to make her marriage work without succumbing to temptation. And the first step was to confess her own guilt.
Haven paced the battlements, watching the sun sink into the clouds that hovered low on the horizon. He had been in Chester three days. Even with Thomas and the others in tow, Soames should have arrived by now. How could they get to Two Hills Keep before Daffydd ap Gruffydd if the men didn’t show up soon? Worse yet, Edward had been unable to give Haven more warriors.
“Here is my royal order giving you the right to compel to service any able-bodied man with or without horse. Between now and the time your own men arrive, you should be able to gather a reasonable force with which to garrison Two Hills Keep.” After a few more words, Edward had ridden away, confident that Haven would succeed. And why not? Haven had never failed his king. But how he would succeed at this with only twenty-five mounted men and no archers, Haven didn’t know.
He reviewed what he did know about Two Hills Keep. The small holding overlooked a vital roadway into the mountains, and Edward expected Haven to hold the keep and the roadway against Wild Daffydd at all costs. Once again, Haven faced failing in his duty.
Haven frowned. He not only had missing men and a nearly impossible task to worry him, he had the widow too. No, Genvieve was a widow no longer. She was his wife. His wife; now there was an irony if he had ever encountered one. He had wedded her out of loyalty to his king. He had bedded her out of duty. He had expected to find that duty onerous, despite her obvious attractions. Instead, he had found himself looking forward to the evenings they shared.
She was well schooled, intelligent and a thoughtful, challenging companion. Even better, she didn’t talk too much, seeming to know when he needed silence. And then there was the bed play.
What was it about the…his wife that drew him mothlike to her honeyed flame each night? Gennie wasn’t skilled in the amorous arts. He knew because he had learned lovemaking from experts in the Holy Lands, Rome, France and the English court. He shook his head at the thought of the female whispers about his perfection in bed.
At the sound of a door opening, Haven turned and saw Gennie enter the courtyard. In the new blue cloak he had given her, she was comely enough. She was still too thin. Her skin remained pallid. But her bruises had healed. He thought her beautiful. Was that it? He had never been drawn by mere physical beauty before. He liked partners
who were not only pleasing to look at but vocally enthusiastic, if not downright lustful. Gennie spoke very little in their bed play.
Not far from his wife, a friar stood haranguing a group of stable lads who gambled in a corner of the bailey.
The same friar Gennie had been speaking with outside Edward’s audience chamber. How had his wife come to know the robed beggar? He watched her approach the itinerant priest. She and the holy man conversed for a moment, then turned toward the chapel. What was she doing? Haven followed the battlement on a course that paralleled his wife’s. Lady Genvieve de Sessions was a puzzle.
She greeted him enthusiastically, even lustfully, in bed. Yet she barely uttered a sound when he touched her. Just an occasional gasp, a moaning cry or an innocent question. Still, if her voice had been restrained, her body had more than made up for it. He had hopes of coaxing a tender word or two from her lips this night.
Haven watched her halt at the chapel door. The friar entered. Gennie looked about her, as if she wished to remain unobserved, then slipped inside the building. Still trying to figure out what drew him to a woman he couldn’t trust, Haven sped down the nearest stair.
If, as she had stated, she merely performed her marital duty, she did so with an unstudied, albeit silent, generosity that lured him in a stronger fashion than the most skilled Saracen women. That was probably it. Gennie was simply a passionate woman who didn’t realize the power she held in her body. Haven wasn’t about to tell her. Thus far she had found no whip with which she could goad him to treason as she had Roger. As long as she remained ignorant of the lust she inspired, Haven was safe.
By the time he crossed the courtyard and entered the church, Gennie had disappeared. Haven stopped. She couldn’t have gone far. The chapel had only one other door. He paced, soft-footed, down the center aisle. Just as he reached the nave, he heard the faint sound of voices. He followed in their direction, until he stood before a confessional tucked into an odd corner beyond the chapel proper.