A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  “Oh,” she panted, her eyes growing rounder. Her hips shifted beneath him. “’Twill be difficult to endure."

  Her words sent a thrill of desire coursing through him, kindled his need, and had his body throbbing. “But, my lady, let me assure you that you will endure it very well.”

  She should be in as much torment! Stroking her nipple with his thumb, he drew it into a taut peak and was rewarded when Katherine moaned beneath him. Seizing her other breast, he thumbed its peak. Through hooded lids, he watched her head twist from side to side, heard her breathy moan. Her movements beneath him sent his own needs leaping through him like wild fire. Leaning down, he laved her breast with his tongue—leisurely, thoroughly—savoring the taste of her flesh, inhaling the lavender rising from her flushed skin. Setting his attention on her nipple—the pouting, tight rosebud—he licked gently. Taking it into his mouth, he suckled with the might of a newborn babe.

  “Sweet Jesu,” she groaned, grasping his head, digging her fingernails into the back of his scalp.

  “Did I hurt you?” He drew back in concern.

  “Nay.” Katherine looked up at him, her eyes full of wonder. “I never realized losing my virginity would be so—so extraordinary!”

  Jolted by her tantalizing words, a wildfire of arousal burst within him. So many emotions washed over him—abiding love, the need to protect this most precious of creatures, fear of what would befall them on the morrow, helplessness in halting the storm building within him.

  “We’ve only begun, Sweetling. Can you endure it?”

  “’Tis uncertain. Oh—’tis so difficult to breathe!”

  He swelled hard and fast from the sweet torment of her words. Trembling with raw need, unable to withstand more, he reared up on his knees. He focused on her face as he undid his loincloth.

  Katherine’s gaze moved downward. He flung aside the flimsy cloth. She gaped at his unrestrained and throbbing manhood with such fervor that his body swelled all the more. God’s mercy, he could barely contain himself. How was he to instruct a virgin and fight this fearsome urge?

  Lowering himself to her, Rhys supported his weight with his elbows. His hands played with her ear, her hair, brushed across her cheek, anything to give Katherine time to accustom herself to the feel of his rigid body against hers.

  Anything that would help him to restrain himself. ’Twas pure agony, the wait. He ached outrageously from the want of her. Never had he deflowered a virgin and he sought to soothe her fears. The women of his acquaintance had taken the matter into their own hands. Literally. He swelled all the more at his unintended witticism and the scintillating memory of urgent fingers ministering to his manhood. In his imagination, her hands became those hands and awarded him the same dazzling attention. Out of necessity, he shifted his hips, delighting in the exquisite silken skin of Katherine’s inner thigh.

  Drawing her face to his, Rhys kissed her, hoping ’twas leisurely and reassuring. His hand moved along Katherine’s shoulder, crossed the hollow at the base of her neck and paused at her breasts to make a meticulous examination of those rosy hued peaks.

  His lips trailed hot kisses along her neck and then reclaimed her lips. This time Katherine didn’t flinch, but returned his kiss with a growing eagerness.

  His hand, roving lower, encompassed a small buttock. He shifted his weight and clasped the other, pressing her thighs up against his own. His lips trailed hot kisses along her neck.

  Katherine moaned and clung to him.

  He captured her lips. Holding them with his own, he pressed her into the mattress and slid a leg betwixt her thighs, then settled upon her, hoping she could accommodate his weight.

  “You needs move with me, Sweetling. Like this,” he whispered, guiding her, lifting her hips toward him, then letting them drop back to the feather mattress.

  Slowly, clumsily, Katherine followed him.

  Wrapping her in his arms, he held her close, his knees nudging her reluctant thighs further apart. “Just so,” he murmured, trying to restrain himself, trying to be gentle, but shuddering from the extreme effort.

  “Saint Winifred,” breathed Katherine against his ear, clinging to him tighter.

  ’Twas impossible to hold back.

  When her hips rose to him, he met her fully, thrusting into her, filling her. Encompassed by her slick warmth, ’twas all he could do not to plunge yet again and end his agony.

  But Katherine’s startled cry, muffled in his neck, stilled his ardor. He cut off the groan rising to choke him and gathered her close, kissing her temple.

  “Tush, Sweetling, the pain will pass.”

  “You never spoke of pain!” Katherine’s whisper, tinged with reproach and panic, made him feel the knave.

  “I’m sorry for the oversight. You never gave me much choice.” Rhys shifted his weight, hoping ’twould ease her discomfort. It merely heightened his own. The raging pressure of his desires, abetted by the heat of Katherine’s body girding him, begot an exquisite torture, impossible to withstand.

  God’s bones, must he wrestle with nature and the unbearable need to release his seed, even while Katherine must contend with pain? His ragged breathing filled the tent.

  “Dear heart, ’tis done,” he managed and tried not to move, tried to consider her needs and not his own. “You are no longer a virgin. I have been told the pain is of short duration and quickly forgotten.” Supporting himself on his elbows, he gazed into Katherine’s bewildered and flushed face. “Now you will discover what it means to be a woman.”

  He could contain himself no longer. With a satisfied groan, he thrust deeper, felt her surrounding flesh. Rapture!

  “Move with me,” he demanded, holding her buttocks in his hands, guiding her, drawing her into a steady cadence. With hips bound together, arching and falling, they moved in unison. Pummeling her core, basking in the wondrous sensations, his breath grew more ragged with each thrust.

  She strained against him, her nails digging into his back, when a sudden cry flowed from the depths of her throat, as though her very soul had escaped.

  It sent him over the edge. The exquisite beginnings of his own release seized him, and with a roar, he plunged deep and poured his seed into her.

  Katherine began to weep, her face buried in the hollow of his neck. “I never imagined ’twould cause pain for you.”

  “Pain?” Incredulous, he levered himself onto his elbows. “Nay, Dearest, ’twas pleasure—exquisite pleasure.”

  She calmed, caressing his chest. Brushing aside a shock of blond hair from his temple, her eyes questioned him. “Then you’re not hurt?”

  He realized her concern. “Nay, my love. ’Tis the way for a man.”

  Katherine offered him a tight smile and leaned up to place a lovely, lingering kiss upon his shoulder. He sighed in pleasure. She drew back, her lips moist with his perspiration. “’Tis my fervent prayer never to hurt you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  He lifted her chin and gazed into her dark eyes and wished with all his heart he could be as honest. Instead, he enfolded her in his arms and placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

  Her arms encompassed him as though he would disappear.

  Rhys felt himself swelling within her, responding to the contact as though he had never touched her.

  Katherine must have felt the change in him, for a sound, deep and primal, surged up her throat. Her hips arched against him and her legs slid around his own, holding him fast.

  A groan escaped him—of pleasure, of growing need, of helpless frustration. He could not admit his love, yet mayhap he could grant her a measure of reassurance.

  With a kiss upon her cheek, he murmured, “Forasmuch as we have shared this moment, Sweetling, know you will never be alone.”

  In the murky light, Katherine’s eyes glittered like precious gems. She inhaled raggedly. “Yea, my beloved, this night needs last me a lifetime.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Katherine gazed through the window of the wardrobe and tried not
to shed more tears.

  Out in the bailey, chaos reigned as the court prepared to depart for Devizes, where Edward had summoned his council to meet on the fifth of April. Morning prayers had ended and the king was in his chamber readying himself for the journey southward.

  Torches cast feeble spheres of light into the predawn darkness, where wagons were being assembled in the courtyard and laded with the goods of the royal household. The noise waxed to such proportions that all castle inhabitants had been rousted from their sleep, including herself and Rhys.

  She leaned wearily on the sill.

  What had she done? Verily, her love for Rhys was greater anon than yester day. Surely her heart would break in twain. Mired in grief and longing, already her memories haunted her—the desperate pressure of Rhys’s lips on her own, his scent filling her nostrils as she snuggled into his warmth, his heartbeat drumming against her ear, his strength beneath her fingertips. She could nigh endure her own skin, so awakened was she by sensations and emotions she never knew existed.

  They’d fallen asleep after a second bout of lovemaking, her head on his shoulder, his arms securely about her. How was she to know losing her virginity would bind her so inexorably to Rhys?

  Vengeance is mine.

  God wasn’t pleased with her vindictiveness. The very day she discovered the precious depth of love chanced to be the very same day she was to be bound to a husband.

  ’Twas no coincidence. ’Twas God’s will.

  She tried to take strength in the memory of her last moments with Rhys. In the dark, they had slipped across the bailey unnoticed. With servants running thither and yon and squires and pages burdened beneath armloads of personal effects and frantically lading wagons and carts for the departing knights, no one had paid heed to them. At her chamber door, no one witnessed their parting kiss, nor their lingering touch, nor her falling tears as she watched him turn and move away down the corridor.

  A lifetime without Rhys? She sighed. How was she to endure it?

  A dull ache settled in her chest. She drooped against the windowsill like a dying flower, her head supported by the side of the window casement. She had thought her plan so wise, a vengeance on Sir Dafydd.

  ’Twas more like the settling of a score, with her new husband the victor. Already she suffered a greater loss than he could ever feel.

  Horses were being readied, backed between the shafts of the burgeoning wagons and strapped into position. The wainwright, balancing above the fresh manure steaming beside him in the mud, hammered a brace to the broken supports of one listing vehicle.

  From within the kennels, the castle hounds joined the racket of the bailey. ’Twas near daybreak, the usual hour when hunting commenced, and their howling gave voice to their frustration at being left behind.

  Pages and squires worked feverishly to load up the packhorses, while knights, many already mounted, struggled to keep their spirited stallions under control.

  The din grew louder when Edward emerged from the hall. Suited up in full armor, he mounted his charger. Troops fell into place as commanders shouted orders across the sea of fighting men. Kicking his destrier into action, the king led his retinue of knights and men-at-arms out through the castle gates.

  Along with a string of packhorses, the pages and squires mounted and rode out behind their masters, the whole procession moving at top speed amid the rattling of harnesses and armor. The archers, with their long bows, took up the rear of the procession. Finally, with a loud thud, Bereford’s heavy portcullis slid into place behind the last of the riders.

  ’Twas like her heart slamming shut. An omen, to be sure.

  Anne tugged on her arm.

  “’Tis time, sister. I would help you to prepare.”

  Vengeance is mine. A shiver passed down Katherine’s spine.

  “Mayhap God will be merciful,” Anne suggested with a hopeful look in her large, brown eyes.

  “A measure of mercy is not my fate this day,” snorted Katherine. She whirled about and strode across the short distance with an angry step.

  The other ladies, intent on their own packing, avoided her eye while they stuffed their possessions into leather satchels and departed the chamber.

  Anne had laid out a brocaded silk bliaud across the bed. ’Twas a kindness from Rhys, for Katherine had naught the coins for a wedding garment.

  She fingered the brilliant purple cloth and fought back rising tears. Rhys’s consideration was overwhelming. Beside it lay an embroidered girdle with long silken ties, just as lovely. ’Twas not bridal raiment. Nor would there be a wedding mass or a wedding feast. With most of Bereford’s guests in the midst of departure, only the queen lingered, to see the royal command satisfied and to direct the final packing of her precious tapestries.

  “I wonder how the outcast do feel, if this be God’s mercy,” Katherine murmured, tracing her fingers across the soft fabric of the bliaud.

  Anne blanched and crossed herself. “Pray for forgiveness.”

  “Better He ask for mine!” Katherine snatched up the garment and flung it over her head. She shuddered in despair. ’Twas like Rhys’s arms around her. The heartrending thought unsettled her, made her hands atremble. She fumbled clumsily with the shifting fabric.

  “Have a care, Katherine!” gasped her sister.

  “If He did not hear my prayers previously, why should He listen anon?” she complained through the cloth.

  “Do you wish for heaven’s wrath upon us?”

  She emerged from beneath the gown and rolled her eyes. “Hark!” She put her hand to her ear and canted her head. “Hear you, heaven is disposed to silence—no wrath upon us this day.” Dusting the long sleeves of her chemise down into place beneath the shorter ones of the bliaud, she added in a grumble, “Doubtless naught will transpire to save me. ’Tis a luckless day.”

  She allowed Anne to comb her hair, but only briefly. Snatching up a length of white ribbon, she tied it around her head. ’Twas all the preparation she deemed necessary. Not wishing to be splendidly arrayed for Sir Dafydd, she eyed the embroidered girdle and nigh refused it. But thinking of Rhys and his hard-earned coins, she amended her decision and tied it in place. He should not be insulted.

  They broke their fast in the great hall. A servant brought a trencher of bread, smoked herring and a pitcher of watered wine. Anne eagerly partook of the offerings, but Katherine ignored the fare. Clasping her hands to still their trembling, she swallowed deliberately, seeking to calm a roiling stomach. Without the king’s constant throng of vassals and the minions who hovered and served, the silent chamber felt desolate and forsaken.

  “Ah, you are here.” One of Queen Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting appeared. Her relief was obvious. “We thought we would needs fetch you. The queen commands you to the solar.”

  Amid her ladies, Queen Eleanor sat in a cushioned chair by the hearth and its fire, breaking her fast. Her dark brows lifted at their approach.

  “I am pleased you came so promptly, Lady Katherine.”

  Katherine made a swift curtsy. “I keep troth with the king, your grace.” She tried not to look pathetic like the Welsh prisoners stumbling toward the gibbet.

  “Do you have a change of heart?” asked Eleanor with a gentle smile.

  “Nay, my queen.” Katherine held herself rigid, girding herself against the memory of the Welshmen and their last struggle for breath. She heaved a heavy breath, understanding their grief and their terror, feeling their strangulation. “’Tis the most awful sentence visited upon a woman, to marry a man she does loathe.”

  “Ah,” sighed Eleanor, rising and meeting her gaze with a frank expression. “Love can be learned.” She touched Katherine’s cheek. “Sir Dafydd is a loyal and noble knight. ’Tis certain he will suit you, given time.”

  “He is Sir Geoffrey’s progeny, is he not? I am certain ’twill be otherwise,” she replied sharply, bestowing an unwavering glare upon the queen.

  Behind her, Anne gasped.

  ’Twould not be amiss s
hould Queen Eleanor throw her into the dungeon.

  She would welcome it!

  The royal lady did not seem hoaxed by her desperate ploy, though a long-suffering stare from her dark eyes did settle upon her. Katherine did not flinch.

  When Eleanor deigned to speak, ’twas with the most regal of tones. “’Tis time for the wedding ceremony to commence."

  The journey behind the queen down the narrow corridor was all too brief, the small chapel all too cold.

  Katherine hesitated at the entry. On the alter table, two candles flanked the silver cross, their flames dancing like angry nymphs in the chill draft of the chamber. She shivered. The queen beckoned impatiently to her. Slowly she stepped into the chamber.

  By the altar, Rhys stood alongside the black-robed priest. He was suited in his armor, but a white surcoat with dagged edging covered the chain mail. Absent of his coif and steel helm, his blond hair shone bright in the candlelight. Clean-shaven for the first time in weeks, he looked resplendent, and with his schooled features, a most dignified and comme il faut knight.

  ’Twas difficult to believe he was the same man who, as a lover, had exhibited such hearty emotions just a short while agone. His appraising eyes looked steadily into hers. Of a sudden, Katherine found herself looking into the same expression that had aroused her passion at daybreak. At the remembrance of that sweet intimacy, warmth spread through her limbs and into her belly.

  It did not appease her soaring tension that Rhys communicated everything a cherished bride could desire—love radiated from his clear blue eyes, encouragement bolstered her with his broad smile, his bold admiration held her spell-bound, then stunned her, as he unabashedly and leisurely inspected her figure from head to foot, resting overlong on certain parts—parts that began to tingle. Heat rushed into her cheeks, warmed her breasts, awakened her inner core.

  This must not be, not in God’s house, not at the moment she was to be bound to Sir Dafydd!

  Resisting the tempest rising within her, Katherine pushed down the feverish flame licking at her insides. Her blood pulsed from the effort, yet she did not look away from Rhys. She dared not, for the priest stood too close, too menacing. Though he made her vulnerable, making her weak of flesh, Rhys was her salvation in this moment of darkness. He filled her vision, calmed her fears. His gentleness and his presence soothed and comforted her, gave her strength. Because of him, she knew she would not collapse from terror.