by The Vow
“It will do you no good to weep, Ceara,” Luc said after a time. “What is done is done.”
“What would you know of it?” Her throat ached from holding back sobs, and her eyes were hot and scratchy with suppressed tears. “You have won all. It is not your home that is lost to you.”
“Yet I know that grief.”
Opening her eyes, she turned her head to glare at him. “Do not think to ply me with empty words when you know nothing of what I feel!”
Luc turned on his side, propping his head on his palm to gaze at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you think you are the only one to ever lose your home? At least it was through no fault save that of greater arms.”
“I suppose you want me to be grateful that my home was lost to you instead of to the Scots or the Danes. I see little difference between you. You are all predators, rapacious and greedy. Why should I care if Wulfridge is lost through war or wit? Do not make light of it.”
“I do not make light of it. But you should think for a moment. You are not the only one to suffer loss. Is the world to stand still for you, Ceara de Wulfridge?” His voice was angry, and the hand he placed on the mattress between them was fisted. “No, do not talk to me of your loss when you have your life and honor left to you.”
“Honor? To be forced to wed you to keep my home from being ravaged by Normans?” Her laugh sounded brittle even to her own ears. “I have no honor left. It is all over York and most likely England by now that I gave myself to a Norman on the old Roman road.”
“That was your choice and your trick. Do not complain if it is not as you wished. What did you expect? That the king would deed you Wulfridge for the loss of your maidenhead? As I told you before, you put too great a value on it, Ceara. Maidens all over England have lost much more than you.”
He was right, and she knew it, but it did not make her loss any easier to bear. Holding the covers to her chin, she sat up. In the shadows, he looked lean and predatory, almost wolfish. She closed her eyes briefly, then steeled herself.
“I cannot restore the losses of others. I must deal with my loss as best I can. If I have deceived you, it was a deception you happily submitted to. I have not yet heard of a woman being able to force a man to come to her bed. As I recall, you did not need much coaxing from me, for you had already made up your mind what you desired. Am I right, my lord? Or do you wish to call me liar on that as well as everything else? You did not listen when I told you I was virgin—why would you listen now?”
Breathless from her tirade, Ceara paused, trembling. Luc had not spoken, nor had he taken his eyes from her.
“No, I will not call you liar on that. It is true. I wanted you. I still want you. Whether you tempted me or not, my acts were of my own free will. I do not deny that. But you cannot deny that you did not loathe my touch, Ceara. I am not inexperienced. I can tell when a woman responds.”
She flushed with indignant denial. “I only pretended interest so that you—”
“No.” He reached out to cup her chin in his palm.“ Do not bother with a lie that is so easily seen. You did not invent your response when I touched you here … and here.” His hand shifted to move downward, gently shoving away the covers to caress her breast and the tight peak of her nipple. She shuddered, despite her best efforts not to react, and he smiled. “Nor can you hide your feelings now, though they are not as obvious as mine. It is a man’s lot to always have his desire known, while a woman may yet hide hers. But there are ways to tell the truth of it, Ceara, and you cannot deny that your flesh likes my touch even if your heart will not admit it.”
“Leave my heart out of this … and stop that.”
She tried to push his hand away from her breast, but stopped with her fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. He held still, his fingers warm and gentle against her skin. His voice lowered, becoming thick and husky.
“You have won what you desired, ma belle. Now yield me my desire.”
Quivering beneath his caress and the warm, intimate tone of his voice, she tried not to let him see how he affected her. “I … cannot.”
“Yea, you can. And you will, though you may not know why.”
The enigmatic remark spurred her resistance, and she edged away from him. “You speak foolishly.”
“And you, ma chérie, lightly ply a maiden’s fancy if you think I will be stayed this night. You wanted to be my wife and lady of Wulfridge, and so you are. I wanted you in my bed—and so you are.”
“Does it not matter to you that I do not want you?”
“Should it?” He took hold of her wrist as she let go of him, turning her arm over and lifting it to his mouth. His lips pressed against the thin skin of her wrist, her inner elbow, then higher, his mouth hot and soft and demanding, sending shivers through her entire body. “Did it not matter to you that I did not want to wed, chérie? I do not think so. Yet we are wed, and I want you, and for me, it is enough waiting.”
“And if I refuse you?”
“I will take you anyway.” He rubbed his thumb over her collarbone in a slow circle. “It is your choice, but make no mistake—this marriage will be consummated tonight.”
Still holding her arm, he rose to his knees, a dark silhouette against the glowing light from the candle, a hard-muscled promise of change and danger. He was too close. Too overpowering. He seemed to fill not only the bed, but the entire chamber with his presence, and she thought wildly that she had been fool indeed to ever think she could manipulate this man.
“My lord—”
“Luc.” His fingers tightened slightly on her arm. “My name is Luc. I have never heard you say my name, and would hear it on your lips. Luc Louvat—my name and now one shared with you. Say it, Ceara.”
She tensed. It felt strange on her tongue, especially if she said it as he did. Lewk Lew-vah. So French. So alien, for all that it was now so familiar to her. But he waited, his hand a firm, unyielding pressure. And a reminder that though she may resist, he would force her to yield to his stronger will.
“Luc Louvat.” She deliberately mispronounced it Look Loovat, and saw him wince. Her mouth set into a stubborn line when he started to correct her, and he paused with a shrug.
“One day I shall teach you to speak proper French, but for now, that will do. There are other, more important things you must learn this night, chérie.”
She trembled when his hand slid up her arm in a lingering caress to her shoulder, his palm holding her steady as his other hand moved to cup her chin. Why did he stare at her so intently, as if he were trying to pierce her very soul?
His hands were so warm on her, searing wherever they touched. She wanted to move away, to flee from the bed and the chamber, but her limbs were leaden and uncooperative, so that she could only shiver helplessly under his caresses. On his knees, with the light behind him so that his face was in shadow, he loomed ruthless and predatory, relentlessly touching her wherever he pleased. His fingers skimmed her throat, her breasts, over her ribs to her belly and then lower, to touch her between her legs, a feathery caress that ignited a fierce ache.
“I did not give you the right to touch me,” she began in a strangled tone that sounded foolish even as she said it, and Luc laughed softly as he caught the hand she put against his chest.
“Yea, chérie, you gave me rights when you spoke your vows in front of the priest this morning.”
“Not to own me!”
“Ah, but I do own you. It is the way of things. But this is not about ownership. This, what we do, is sharing.”
“And if I do not want to share?”
“That is not your choice.” His faint smile barely lessened the sting of his reply, and he held her tightly when she tried to twist away. “But I do not think you mean what you say. The first time was not as it should have been. This time … this time can be what passion is supposed to be, ma belle. If I had known before that you were untried, I would have been more gentle.”
While he talked, he stroked her quaking body, his hands adm
ittedly gentle, fondling her with slow, careful movements that created shivering responses. Even the air felt warm now—almost stifling.
It was inevitable, and while she did not want to yield, Luc’s caresses were smothering her resistance. And she had not forgotten that night on the old Roman road when she had been oblivious to everything but the mindless need he had ignited. While she could privately acknowledge the desire he roused in her, she dared not let him know the power he held over her body or her emotions.
But how did she counter his demanding kisses? The sweet touch of his hands that kindled such exquisite tremors? He seemed to instinctively know every vulnerability of her body, and use it against her.
His skin was hot, firm, and lightly furred beneath her palms as she pressed her hands against his chest, unable to admit surrender. He took her wrist and pulled her arm downward, so that her hand smoothed over the taut muscles of his chest and belly. Still holding her wrist, he muttered something in guttural French that she did not understand, and looked up at her. His expression was fiercely intent, his thick-lashed eyes dark and glittering.
Ceara’s fingers trembled, and she shook her head when he pulled her hand lower. “No, Luc …”
“Are you afraid, chérie? You?”
Yes. Of you. Of me. Of what this will mean to me and will not mean to you.…
Aloud she said, “No. I am not afraid, just—unwilling.”
“You will not always be unwilling,” he said softly, and she remembered he’d said something very similar earlier.
Closing her eyes, Ceara tried to dismiss his soft words, the endearments in husky French and hoarse English that sifted between them, muttered with lingering kisses on her closed eyelids, earlobe, and mouth. His lips sought the drumming pulse in her throat, then moved lower to the cushioned swell of her breast, tasting and teasing until she writhed with breathless urgency. She could not fight him, not in this, not when she was so vulnerable to the unfamiliar pleasures he summoned from her quivering body. Insanity to allow it, but helpless to resist it, she could not hold back soft moans of mounting excitement.
As if he had been waiting for just that response, Luc shifted. He sat back, gazing down at her until she flushed with embarrassment and tried to cover herself with the heavy embroidered coverlet. He caught her hand.
“Ah no, beauty. Do not hide such a beautiful body. It would be a crime to cover this … or this … did you know your breasts are perfect? So round and firm … and your nipples are like tight rosebuds begging for my touch.…” He bent, taking a nipple into his mouth with a soft inhalation that made her gasp. Against her breast, he murmured, “You smell like lavender. Sweet. Tempting. Bon Dieu, you could drive a man to reckless idiocy—as you did me.”
He looked up at her with wry amusement slanting his mouth. “Your vengeance must be sweet, chérie. You have maneuvered me exactly as you wanted to do.”
“I never”—she halted, flushing a little when his brow lifted in mockery—“meant it to come to this, anyway,” she finished irritably, and he laughed.
“That I can believe. We are both caught in this trap, it seems, but must make the best of it. And in truth, it may be worth the price to have you in my bed of a night.”
There was no answer she could give to that, none that would sound as if she was not willing, or worse—remind him of Lady Amélie, so she kept her silence. Luc continued his exploration, hands stroking and caressing, fingers dipping into curves and hollows with breathtaking results. She quivered. His weight was heavy against her, the pressure of his hip and thigh against her bare flesh hot and arousing. Half lying on his side, his gaze skimmed over her as lightly as his hands, over the swell of her belly and lower, to tangle his fingers in the silky nest of her mound.
“Soft,” he murmured, and stroked his thumb over the very center of her to spark an exquisite tremor that made her ache. Immediately she clamped her thighs together to trap his hand. He glanced up. “Open for me, ma chérie.”
Ceara’s entire body was aflame with a mixture of shame and arousal. She could not … but there was no need to make the decision, for he was gently pushing apart her thighs with his hands, his fingers making slow circles on her bare flesh, brushing inexorably toward the fiery center he had just touched. She could not bring herself to look away as his lashes lowered in a curved shadow on his dark cheeks and he gazed down at her.
And then he was caressing her there, thumbs raking over her sensitive flesh until she arched upward with shuddering moans, her hands reaching out to push him away but instead holding on to his hard-muscled arms. The heat spread upward and outward in fierce spirals, engulfing her, leaving her shaking and breathless and writhing beneath his hands.
When she moved into his caress blindly, clutching at him urgently, he slid his leg over her thighs to wedge his knee between them. Gently, he settled between her legs, and now there was a new pressure against her, a smooth heat that nudged with searing intimacy between her thighs. It caught her off guard, this hot, hard thrust that pushed against the aching center of her.
She looked up, breathless, uncertain, and he stared back down at her as his hips moved forward in a slow excursion into her damp curls. He slid just inside her, an oddly taut, exquisite invasion that hovered between pain and pleasure. With his head bent, he cupped his hands beneath her hips to lift her, and moved again, slowly penetrating with heavy fullness. She shuddered, and he paused.
“Am I hurting you, chérie?”
His voice was so odd, so hoarse and thick, and she shook her head, the words sticking in her throat so that they came out in a rasp. “No, it does not … hurt.”
His chest rose and fell with harsh, quick breaths, and his arms quivered with strain as he held her to him. It felt so odd, his body just inside hers, soft yet so hard, a heated length that seemed much too large to fit. Yet it had fit before, she knew, but so briefly and so piercingly that if not for the bright blood on his blankets, she would not have been certain she’d lost her virginity.
But there was no mistaking it now, as Luc gave a sudden hard push that caught her by surprise as he sheathed his length inside her. She cried out with shock and he bent to kiss her, his mouth lingering on hers until her taut muscles relaxed and she kissed him back. As her body accepted his, he began to move again, in slow, luscious slides that summoned shuddering responses from her.
Now there was only the soaring sensation of excitement, a hovering goal just out of her reach. Whimpering her hips driving up to meet his thrusts, her body clamored for the mysterious satisfaction that eluded her grasp.
“Luc … please,” she whispered, “please.…” She didn’t know what she wanted, what she asked for, but it didn’t matter. He would know.
His head lifted, and he gave her a long look that seared her like fire. Dark hair tumbled over his forehead and into his eyes, and the fine white scar along his jawline looked vivid against his dark skin. His chest rose and fell in labored pants as he withdrew, hovered for a moment, then thrust again, heightening the excitement to near torture as he slammed into her body with exquisite force. She was only vaguely aware of anything but Luc, his muscled shoulders and hard body, the glistening arc of his throat and dark features above her—nothing mattered now, nothing but reaching that elusive peak that waited just beyond her reach.
And then, suddenly, she was there, the frenzy exploding into a whirling shock of ecstatic waves that dragged her into a void where there was nothing but discovery and wonder.
Dimly, she heard Luc groan, the sound muffled by layers of shuddering bliss, and his arms grew tight around her as his body went stiff and still. She felt a peculiar throb, a shudder, then he relaxed, and his mouth found her lips briefly before he shifted his weight to one side, still holding her.
She felt boneless, almost too weak to lift her head, and glanced at him with unaccustomed shyness. In the dim light, he stretched with unconcerned nudity beside her, his long body dark against the stark white of the bed linens. A faint smile lifted one cor
ner of his mouth, and candlelight reflected in his dark eyes.
“Now, chérie,” he murmured, tracing his fingertip over the passion-bruised, swollen outline of her mouth, “you are truly my wife. And when I want you, you will come to me.”
She shivered at the arrogance in his voice and eyes, and prayed that she would not lose her heart as well as her liberty to this man.
PART II
Chapter Twelve
SEA WINDS SWEPT over the tall grasses, bending them to the ground, howling over wave-lashed rocks at the foot of the promontory where Wulfridge castle stood sentinel. A seabird wheeled overhead, its cry sifting through cloud and wind. It was a raw day, with heavy gray skies and a steady drizzle that made man and beast alike miserable.
Through shifting fog and low-lying cloud, the gray stones of the castle were barely visible across the inlet. Luc could feel Ceara’s rising excitement, and shot her a quick glance.
Mounted atop a snow-white palfrey, a wedding gift from William, Ceara wore a hooded cloak that covered her bright hair with crimson wool trimmed in ermine. It was a truly magnificent cloak, purchased with Luc’s hard-won coin, and worth it to his mind, for it set off her fair coloring like a rich jewel. Before leaving York, he’d purchased an entire wardrobe for her. He had not expected nor wanted thanks, but she had come to him with bright eyes and an almost shy smile, and pressed a silent kiss against his cheek.
At that moment, he’d felt like an awkward youth again, clumsy and uncomfortable, but it had quickly passed. There was too much else to distract him, and he was swift to take advantage of her agreeable mood in the time-honored way husbands had with their wives.