by The Vow
“Do not speak of me as if I am a course for your table.”
“Ah, but are you not? Come. Begin, my lady, for I am growing impatient.”
With trembling fingers, she at last began to draw up her skirts. His gaze shifted to the long expanse of her bare leg as the hem rose higher and higher above the tops of her boots. She bent slightly from the waist, hair falling forward in a tangled curtain that momentarily blocked his view, and when she straightened, he saw the dagger in her fist. Not just any dagger—but his dagger, the one he had not been able to find before leaving Wulfridge. Alain had wasted much time searching for it before admitting that it was lost. Luc grew still, his voice harsh.
“Do not be foolish, Ceara.”
“It is you who are foolish if you think I intend to undress and spread myself at your demand, Norman.” The dagger quivered slightly in her grip. “What I do of my own accord is my affair, but I will not be told I must allow you to … to—” She drew in a sharp breath. “I will not be used like a common whore.”
“That is your choice, my lady. I also have a choice.” He calmly crossed his arms over his chest, and lifted a brow with studied indifference. “Poor Sheba. It would be a shame to have to kill the wolf because of your lies, do you not think?”
Not even the rosy glow of the lamp could add color to her suddenly bloodless face, and she made a small, choked sound. “Nay … you would not.”
He shrugged. “That is your choice.”
“You will not harm her if I yield?”
“When I give my word, ’tis kept. Unlike even those few Saxons who profess honesty.”
The dagger wavered, and with a sound of defeat, she threw it hard across the tent. It struck the far wall and clattered atop a small wooden chest. “Curse you. Curse you.…” The final word ended on a strangled note as she began to unfasten the pin at her throat.
Then the red cloak crumpled to a puddle at her feet. Luc waited. Defiantly, she tugged fiercely at the side laces of her kirtle, tossing it atop the cloak when it came free. Clad now in her undergarment, the longer gunna that reached to her ankles—she faced him with obvious contempt. It should have affected him, but it did not. She had already proven herself to be a liar. And he did not want to examine his motives too closely. Her trespass had surely freed him from the strictures that bade him not to persecute a captive.
“Does it not matter to you that I am unwilling?” Ceara flung at him as she shrugged out of the gunna, her words muffled by a length of linen.
Luc did not reply. Clad now only in lamplight and her boots, Ceara briefly held the gunna to her breast, then with slow deliberation, let it slide the length of her body to join her other garments. She was more lovely than even his fevered dreams recalled. The high, proud thrust of her breasts was firmly round, crowned with taut peaks of deep rose hue. Slender waist, gently curved hips, and a softly mounded belly tapered to slim thighs and shapely calves that disappeared into the tops of her cuffed leather boots.
Luc forgot his intention to humble her. He could not have resisted the urge to move to her, trace the rosy peaks of her breasts with his finger, then weigh the fullness in his palm. She drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, quivering.
“You are afraid, ma belle? You have nothing to fear from me. I do not want a quaking maiden, but a woman well versed in love.” He raked his thumb across her nipple and she shivered. “See, it is not so bad to yield, even if only for the moment.”
At that her lashes lifted and she shot him an accusing glance that spoke volumes. “I have not yielded. I am being forced.”
“No, it is your choice.”
“Yea, if I would lose my beloved pet, I could refuse. You know I will not.”
“Then see? ’tis your choice, as I said.” Before she could protest again, he bent his head to her breast, tasting skin that smelled of lavender and smoke. Against the cushioned swell of her breast, he murmured, “You have much to learn about bartering one thing against the other, ma belle.”
She was soft and smooth beneath his palms as he slid his hands over the ribbed expanse and down to her waist, to cup her hips and pull her against him. A soft moan vibrated in the back of her throat, an echo of the wolf’s earlier cry. A curling tendril of blond hair slithered over her shoulder to tickle his cheek, and he lifted his head to gaze down at her. The throbbing ache in his loins grew more intense as she put the heels of her hands against his chest to lean back and away, her hips pushing into him as she sought his gaze.
“You mistake the moment if you think I barter, my lord.” Her naked flesh pressed seductively against his, and his body responded.
“Then this is a surrender?” Half suspecting a trick and unwilling to face further struggle, his arms tightened around her unresisting body.
“Nay … a tactical retreat, perhaps.”
The blood thundered through his veins as she traced an imaginary path over his chest with her fingertip, then blew softly on his skin. Luc could wait no longer. He pushed her back toward the narrow cot, half carrying her when she suddenly went boneless. Her long lithe form draped gracefully from his arms, an enticing blend of erotic sensation and intriguing resistance.
“Your battle is lost, ma chérie,” he breathed against the sweet curve of her throat and shoulder, and felt her shuddering sigh.
“Is it?” Her arms had curled around his neck when he lifted her, reflexively he’d thought, but now they tightened. He bent his head back to look down at her. A provocative smile curved her mouth, and the sweep of her lashes lowered, teasing. In her soft, husky voice, she murmured, “Beware of claiming victory too soon, my lord, for you may yet wonder who has won after all.”
Driven by both need and determination, Luc dismissed her words as another bluff. She was as full of them as a forest was trees, one coming right after the other in an unending litany. Yet nothing mattered now except the moment and the woman, the urgency of his desire and her sudden capitulation.
Aflame now, he took her down to the cot with his weight, his hungry mouth covering her parted lips with a fervor he had never known could exist. This was no detached lust, but an encompassing, mindless need that smothered everything but the burning desire to make her his.
Kissing her closed eyes, her moist mouth, and the arch of her throat, he wedged his knees between her thighs and moved them apart, urgency riding him so hard he could think only of release. Rose petal-soft skin lured him to caress her everywhere—the enticing curve of her breasts and dip of her belly, the pale glossy threads on her woman’s mound, and the arousing, damp heat between her thighs.
Ceara moaned. Her breath came in harsh pants, and she twisted restlessly beneath him as he lavished attention on her lush curves. When his mouth closed over the tight peak of her nipple she cried out, grasping him by the upper arms to hold tightly. With his hand stroking her soft mound and his mouth moving from one breast to the other, he paused to lave the scented valley between with his tongue, and she responded with urgent little noises that spurred his own desire.
Murmuring French endearments in a thick, rasping voice, Luc lowered his body on hers to sheathe himself in her warmth, his weight resting on his bent arms. She arched upward, hips meeting his slow thrust even while a soft cry escaped her and her fingers dragged down his bare arms.
Ah, she was so tight and hot, so exquisite that for a moment he did not comprehend the message behind her sudden, sharp cry of pain. Yet even as he drove into her again, he realized the significance, and immediately went still. With his head down, the muscles in his arms shaking with reaction and strain, he tried to speak and couldn’t.
Slowly, he pushed himself up and lifted his head to stare down at her pale face incredulously. So it was true. She had not lied about this, at least.
His voice a muffled croak, he finally rasped, “Damn you—you are a virgin.”
“Nay, my lord, I was a virgin.…”
Chapter Seven
LUC LAY ON his back with his forearm thrown across his brow, star
ing up at the tent’s ceiling. His jaw was set, and his dark eyes were carefully blank. “Tell me,” he said coldly, “why a wife wed three years would still be virgin.”
Ceara did not reply. She couldn’t. The raw shock of their recent encounter had left her limp, with frayed emotions that threatened to dissolve into a flood of tears. Inexplicably, she wanted to press her face into Luc’s chest and feel him hold her. Inexplicably, he had pulled her to him without being asked, tenderly stroking the hair from her misted face and muttering in French that he had made a damned mistake.
Her urge to weep was entirely expected, she supposed, but a weakness she detested. The evening’s events left her shaken and uncertain of herself, or what she might do.
How could she have lost control with this man? But she had. Once her anger faded, she realized this was exactly what she had wanted from him. Easy enough then, to play the part of a whore, to undress slowly and deliberately, to entice him with her smile and eyes. His body had already betrayed his desire, but she had not expected her body to do likewise.
For she had found herself responding in a way she’d never dreamed. The exquisite sensations of his hands on her body, his mouth on her breasts, and his fingers sliding over the aching center of her had ignited an explosive response that whirled her into mindless oblivion. Until that sharp, stabbing pain had wrung a shocked cry from her, she had forgotten herself that she was still virgin.
After that, the lovely haze of fiery need had melted under Luc’s recriminations as he rolled off her and to one side. Night air quickly cooled steamy skin, and it was Luc who leaned over to throw the covers over them.
Ceara worried the blanket’s tattered edge between her fingers and tried not to look at him, but the urge to peer at him from beneath her lashes was irresistible. They still lay on the narrow cot, bodies pressed against each other, though Luc had his arms thrown back over his head. A magnificent creature, really, with his hard-muscled body and beguiling kisses. Madness, to think of that now.… She edged away from him with an agitated mutter, and he put a hand on her shoulder to hold her.
“It is not a difficult question, Ceara. Answer me. With the truth, if you value all that is dear to you.”
She didn’t need further explanation of that ominous threat this time, and shrugged before answering, “Wulfric and I grew up together. He was fostered by my father after his parents were killed in a Danish raid when we were both small children. I thought of him as my brother.”
“I won’t mention the vague laws of the church about consanguinity at this point, but it’s something to consider once you meet with the king. Do you have a natural brother?”
“No. My father always longed for a son, but my mother was … frail. I was all she could give him for an heir, and he would not do as some other man might have done and go to another woman. He loved my mother dearly.…” Her voice trailed into pained silence while she composed herself.
“Am I to believe that you lived together as brother and sister, as adults as well as children?”
“ ’tis the truth.” She cleared her throat. “For years Wulfric and I played together, studied together—there was a monk who stayed a time at Wulfridge, and taught us lessons in Greek and Latin, as well as history.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “As a female, of course my studies were not taken seriously. Wulfric excelled in everything, but he was best at military strategy. He and my father would plot campaigns well into the night, always imaginary, as Wulfric was yet a boy. Yet those imaginary battles were enough that Balfour recognized him as a brilliant strategist. It was that, I think, that endeared him to my father. More than the fact that his inherited lands were vast and adjoined our estate.”
“Ah, so Balfour married you to him and increased his holdings. But why a foster brother? Why not one of his stronger vassals? Wulfric’s lands could not have been that vast.”
She turned and met Luc’s gaze. “I would have none of them, and my father knew that. He despaired of ever making me a suitable match, for you see, it was rumored that I could be rather … difficult.”
“Je n’en suis pas surpris.” Some of the tension eased from Luc’s eyes, and the suggestion of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “But obviously you did not object to wedding Wulfric.”
“I was very young, just twelve at the time, and thought only of the way Wulfric and I would always be together. Matters of the flesh did not occur to me, and because Wulfric was older and loved me, he waited. He refused to consummate the marriage. At the time, I thought my age was the only reason.”
Luc frowned slightly. “I take that to mean there was another reason he did not consummate.”
“Yes.” She hesitated. The memory was still painful to her, still made her cheeks hot with remembered anguish and trembling guilt. But she could not tell Luc that, could not tell him how she had disappointed brave Wulfric. Or how she had always loved him—though not in the way he wished. He’d known it, too well, with sadness in his fine eyes and the wistful curve of his mouth.… I know you will never love me as I do you, Ceara, but that is all right. Just love me the best you can, and it will be enough.… But it had not been enough. Not enough to keep him alive.
Ceara chose her words carefully. “I always thought Wulfric the most beautiful boy in the world, and he was. When we were children, it did not matter that he was not very tall, but as I grew taller I saw that he did not, and his body became twisted with a wasting disease.” Here she faltered, and unshed tears thickened her voice. “He was so brave. I never heard him complain, even though there were those who scorned him. He never gave them the satisfaction of acknowledging his pain. Ah, he was so fine, with a face like an angel. Eyes the blue-green of jewels and fine hair the color of moonlight … when he died my father said he was just too pure and noble to remain in this world.”
“So he did not die in battle.”
She tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled. “Oh, but he did. It was the Danes … they came in their long ships, gliding up the coast to ravage the countryside. My father was away—trouble with the Scots to the north—and Wulfric insisted upon leading men to protect Wulfridge. He planned a brilliant strategy, dividing our forces and tricking them into chasing our men toward a wooded glen where he waited with more warriors … but it was there that he fell, slain with a sword in his hand as he had always said he wanted. And his plan worked—our men were able to turn back the invaders and save Wulfridge.”
She tried to draw in a deep breath, but her throat ached and she felt as if a huge stone were crushing her chest. Even now, after four long years, grief had the power to undo her. For she knew as surely as if she had held the sword, she had killed him. His inability to consummate their marriage had been his destruction. After that, he had sought death eagerly, sought his redemption as a valiant warrior. And died for it. If it had not been for her …
As the silence stretched between them, she began to wish she had not confided in this man. After all, he was the enemy, was he not? Why had she blurted out her heart’s ache?
Slowly, Luc said, “Your husband sounds like a noble man, as your father said. Not every man is able to die as he wishes. It was a blessing for him.”
Ceara wished she felt the same. But Wulfric’s death had left so huge a void in her life that it was still impossible for her to see it that way. She was too selfish. That was what Kyna, her old nurse, had said.
“Every day he was in pain, yet you wanted him here only for you,” Kyna scolded. “Did you not care that ’twas an agony for him to rise of a morn, or to dress, or to pretend that he was well so you would be happy? Ah, selfish child, one day you will grow up and realize that real love is not based on how someone else makes you happy, but how happy you make each other.”
“I made Wulfric happy!” she cried, but Kyna scoffed.
“Yea, I always noted how pleased he looked when you insisted he accompany you on long rides, or treks over fen and moor with that dangerous wolf he gave you—yet you never saw it.”
&nb
sp; It was appalling to realize Kyna was right, and for weeks after she’d been inconsolable. And then had come the grief, then anger, then blame. In a desperate attempt to seek solace, she had visited an old crone in a hut down by the sea. There, she had sat upon a woven mat of grass and let the winds blow her hair into tangles as she watched the crone throw the Runes. But this time the prophecy stones did not answer her questions about the future—or the past, for the crone was bent more on prophecy than answering her anguished questions. “The wolf will bring great grief and strife to the land, but after there will come peace for a time, and with it—love. Great love, m’lady, and the lifelong loyalty of a wolf will be yours.…”
Ridiculous prophecy, but uncannily accurate in some ways. William of Normandy had come, ravaging the country like a wolf though most men called him the lion, and grief and strife had come with him. But the time of peace had not arrived, though it had been over three years since William landed near Hastings at Pevensey and slew Harold on Senlac Hill. Long years, years of terror and apprehension, and still no sign of peace. Save for the loyalty of her wolf, the prophecy was empty.
CEARA TRIED NOT to look at Luc. He rode at the head of the line, beneath the banner carried by his standard bearer, and she gazed at it resentfully. Already he had created his baronial arms, and a black wolf fluttered on a red field, proclaiming him lord of Wulfridge. A new standard, a new day, a new lord. What would become of her?
It was midafternoon, and the town of York lay just ahead. So much could happen, and though Luc seemed to think William would be merciful once he heard of Sir Simon’s provocation, she had none of his faith.
Of William she knew only what she had seen along the journey from Wulfridge: Once thriving villages lay in charred ruins, surrounded by black-stubbled fields and the bones of slaughtered cattle lying in massive heaps that bespoke the Norman definition of mercy. Glimpses of the population were few, as any who saw the approach of Norman knights fled for their lives. It grieved and infuriated her that so many had suffered so much.