by The Vow
Luc studied him a moment, the flushed face and fair hair tumbling into his eyes, hands clasped nervously around Luc’s chain mail hauberk. He shrugged. “I am not displeased, but would remind you that I did warn you the lady was not for you.”
“Yes, my lord. If I had known you wanted her, I would never have—”
“That is not it at all. I had no designs on the lady, only her father’s lands.” He paused, realizing how foolish he sounded in light of all that had happened, then shrugged again. “She is beautiful and any man would be tempted, but the king’s will mattered above all. It pleased William to wed her to me to bind Saxon and Norman together.”
An expression of contempt creased Alain’s face. “Saxons will never be as Normans. All know the English breed an inferior race.”
“So I have heard it said. Yet I was born near Oxford, and spent the first years of my life on English soil, so I would have a differing opinion.”
Alain swallowed hard. “I had forgotten, my lord.”
“Have my supper sent to me in my chamber. Enough for two. And a slab of beef or mutton joint as well.”
The squire did not question the last, though he gave Luc another odd look before he departed, shutting the door softly behind him. The sudden draft made the candle flame dance wildly, and Luc stared at it for some time before rousing from his reverie.
It was late and he was bone-weary. The morrow would come soon enough with its problems and challenges. Not the least of which was his brother. Discretion bade him send Jean-Paul away, yet the memory of another time intruded to remind him that this was still his brother. Half brother, but his own blood. Should he yield to the appeal in Jean-Paul’s eyes? Once, he would not have. But hatred destroyed the vessel in which it was carried, and he had learned to let go of that useless emotion years ago, before it ruined him.
A muffled yelp drew his attention, and his head jerked up at a sudden commotion in the hallway. Shouts in French and English rose into the air, mixed with snarls of bestial rage. Luc strode at once to the door and jerked it open, then came to an abrupt halt at the scene that met his eyes.
Backed against the stone wall of the corridor, a dagger in one fist, Jean-Paul glared at Ceara. The white wolf crouched low at Ceara’s feet, hackles raised, curved teeth gleaming in the dim light of a wall torch. Only Ceara’s hand held back the wolf.
Ceara glanced at Luc, her voice cool. “Give me but the word, and this knave will do for Sheba’s supper, my lord.”
Luc motioned impatiently. “Call off your wolf, Ceara. What is the cause of this? I told you that this beast might be too dangerous to allow inside—”
“If the beast you refer to is yon quaking knave, then I do agree with you, my lord. He needs be taught a lesson in manners, and Sheba thought only to school him well.”
Luc’s gaze shifted to Jean-Paul, who shrugged sullenly. “I thought her a serving wench.” He gestured at Ceara with his dagger, which earned more snarls from the wolf. “Hold the cursed beast, for the love of God,” Jean-Paul pleaded. “Luc—bid this silly bitch control her wolf. I will not accost her again, I swear it.”
“The silly bitch you speak of is my wife, Jean-Paul.”
Luc’s soft, deadly tone penetrated his brother’s fear, and he looked toward him with sudden consternation. “I did not know, I swear it. But look at her, garbed like a peasant—how was I to know?”
Indeed, Ceara wore none of the finery he had purchased for her in York, but one of her shortened tunics, well worn and barely covering her long legs. His mouth tightened with irritation, but reproofs for Ceara would be done in private, not in front of his brother.
“You have no leave to accost any woman on these lands, Jean-Paul, whether she be serf or lady. If I should hear of it, you will deal with me, and I do not think you want that.”
Drawing himself up, Jean-Paul sheathed his dagger. “You have grown more like our father than you would like, Luc.”
Fury rattled him so that for a moment Luc could not speak. Then he said, “You may be my brother, but liken me to our father again and you will regret it.”
Silence fell heavily, with only the labored pants of the wolf filling the air between them. Finally Jean-Paul looked away, nodding his head, his voice a low mutter.
“I meant nothing by it, Luc. Pray, pardon me.”
“Ask the lady’s pardon for your rough treatment. She might be willing to give it.”
Another silence stretched between them before Jean-Paul drew in a deep breath and turned to Ceara, bowing stiffly in her direction. “I crave your pardon for offending you, my lady. It was a mistake.”
“Speak to her in English, Jean-Paul.”
He repeated it in English, his voice sullen, and Ceara lifted a brow. “Indeed it was a mistake if you think you can force your attentions on any woman. Count yourself fortunate you are not a tasty morsel for my pet, nor are you yet bereft of what little manhood you may possess.”
Jean-Paul’s eyes flared with anger. “You have a sharp tongue, my lady.”
“Aye, and a sharper dagger. Mark it well—should you think to lay hand on any woman here, I will know of it, and I will see that you pay dearly.”
“Enough.” Luc stepped between them. In English, he bade them both go their own ways, and added to his brother, “In the morn, we will meet after we break our fast, and discuss the future.”
Putting a hand on Ceara’s arm, he steered her to the antechamber he had just left, holding tightly when she tried to pull away. “Our supper is growing cold, my lady. Bring the wolf.”
She shot him a quick glance, then shrugged. “Sheba, to me.”
The wolf backed away from Jean-Paul, hackles up and ears flattened. A savage expression on the animal’s face made Luc doubt his wife’s assurances that this wolf was tame, and he gazed at Sheba dubiously as she finally turned to heel at her mistress’s side.
As if reading his thoughts, Ceara said softly, “She is very protective of me, my lord.”
Luc shut the chamber door behind them. “So it seems. She will need to be if you insist upon wearing such attire about the halls, for few men would not think it an open invitation.”
“I had not intended to wear it about the halls. Rudd had brought me warm water for a bath. I was already in the tub when I realized he had forgotten soap. I sought to call him back, and that was when I was accosted. In the privacy of my own chamber, it should not matter what I wear.”
“Yet you were not in your chamber.” He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning at the obstinate set of her mouth. “You are no longer just a Saxon baron’s daughter, Ceara, but an earl’s wife.”
“What is that to me? Do you suggest that I am more now than I once was?” Danger glinted in her eyes and her tone, and her small hands curled into fists at her sides.
Irritated, Luc shook his head. “I mean only that if you dress like a serf, you will be treated as one.”
“Ah, I see. Only Normans are moral. Saxons are wanton, and therefore welcome to advances. Is that it, my lord?”
“No. You twist my words.”
“Do I? Yet I am chastised and the man who accosted me goes free with only an insincere apology.”
“Heed me well, Ceara. If any man should touch you, he will answer to me most harshly. I do not allow that which is mine to be mishandled. But you will come to me with your complaint, and not put yourself in danger by tempting men to do as that one did.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as it was out, but the words were spoken and could not be recalled.
Bright flags of rage stained Ceara’s cheeks like crimson banners, and her blue eyes sparked furiously.
“You Norman swine,” she hissed so venomously that the hackles rose again on the wolf’s back. “How dare you speak to me as if I am a child? I told you how it came to be that I was garbed so, but hear this—when this was Lord Balfour’s hall, no man would dare touch me whether I was covered in wool from chin to foot, or in naught but a smile. If you cann
ot control your own, how do you expect to hold Wulfridge against those who would wrest it from you?”
“That will not be your concern.”
“Will it not? Once my father said almost the same words to me, yet he died and it was left to me to hold this land against invaders. Can you swear it will never happen again, my lord? Can you promise me that Wulfridge will never be my concern again?”
Angry now, he crossed to the table and splashed wine into a goblet. Twisting the goblet stem between his fingers, he glanced up at her. Her shortened tunic clung to her in places, damply, as if she had just bathed. Warrior maid, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders and around her face, the wary wolf at her feet … she was a more impressive sight than she knew. How had she managed so well when her father died? It still amazed him that she had the courage to try, for it would be daunting for a trained warrior to go against such odds, much less a girl of such a tender age. Not even with experienced advisers at hand would there be much chance of success, yet she had held out for three months against superior forces.
His anger drained away and he set his untouched wine down on the table. Surprising himself, he shook his head. “No, I cannot promise you will never face such danger again, Ceara. But I can pledge that I will secure Wulfridge well while I live. In my life, I have also known defeat, and it set as ill with me as it does you. I do not intend to suffer it again, nor allow my own to suffer such a fate.”
“And I am your own.” Her mouth twisted with wry sarcasm, and he lifted his brows.
“Yea, you are my own, Ceara de Wulfridge. The day you swore your vows to me, you became mine. Never again will you know want while I live, nor even when I am gone. If it costs me my life, you will be safe.”
She stared at him, her eyes growing wide and dark with shadows. Her lips trembled slightly, and when she lifted an arm to brush the hair from her eyes, her hand shook.
“Be wary, my lord, or I shall think you mean that.”
“I mean it.” His voice hardened. “I mean it most heartily. I keep what is mine, and none shall take it from me, nor abuse what I cherish.”
A long silence stretched between them. The wolf lay down at Ceara’s feet and put her great head between splayed paws. The candle flame flickered in a sudden draft of wind.
Finally Ceara moved, and there was an odd note to her voice when she said, “Long has Wulfridge needed a man of your strength.” She lifted the goblet of wine in one hand, and held it out to him. Over the brimming cup she said softly, “If my land had to be won by Normans, it is well that you are the one to take it.”
It was the closest she had ever come to an honest admission of defeat and offer of genuine goodwill, and he took the cup, curling his fingers around her hand to hold her. He lifted the wine to his lips, holding Ceara’s hand around the stem, feeling suddenly awkward, almost tongue-tied.
Looking deep into her eyes, feeling as if he were drowning in their blue depths, he drank the wine without really tasting it. There was a new intimacy between them now, a bond that had not been there before, but he had no notion how it had happened. It was unplanned, and so fragile he wasn’t certain it wouldn’t shatter at the first sign of trouble. But it was there. And to his surprise, he found himself hoping nothing would destroy it.
This woman, this warrior maiden with the turbulent nature and honest eyes, had somehow wormed into the small part of his heart that was still vulnerable. Because even as he was vowing to protect her, the fear that he might fail near paralyzed him with apprehension. Never before had he felt so about a woman, as if he would dare anything to keep her.
It was a new and most illuminating discovery about himself.
Chapter Thirteen
TREMBLING WITH UNCERTAINTY and raw hope, Ceara allowed Luc to pour wine for her. She sipped it from the cup as if they were truly lovers instead of strangers who shared a bed and intimacies. He surprised her, this man who was her husband. And frightened her, for she knew he truly meant what he said. He would allow no man to take away her home again. There was an inner strength in him that was more daunting than even his physical strength, and it was that virtue that would keep them all safe.
Yet it was all still novel and unfamiliar, and as fragile as a new-laid egg. So she trod cautiously, hopeful but not yet completely believing.
Luc smiled at her over the rim of the goblet, his dark eyes luminous with some secret concern. She managed a faint smile in return, though it felt wobbly. How did she react to him when all her previous responses were so different to what she felt now? Suddenly she was so unsure of herself, of him, of what he was and what he wanted.
“My lord …” The words came out too soft, too husky, an invitation more than a question, and Luc took the wine from her and set it atop the table.
This response she recognized, for she had seen it often since their wedding, the quick flare in his eyes, the heat that radiated from him when he touched her. She started to retreat, but he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the door to their chamber, not giving her a chance to speak as his mouth found hers in a hot, fierce kiss that left her in no doubt as to his mood or intentions.
The wide bed was still strewn with new garments she had unpacked from the trunk, and Luc shoved them carelessly aside as he lifted her to the bed, using his weight to pin her to the mattress. Excitement flared in her as he pulled roughly at her tunic, shoving up the hem to her waist, his hands impatient with the short garment.
Half leaning on her, half on the bed, Luc kissed her mouth, her cheek, the sensitive spot below her ear, his lips searing a fiery trail over her skin. There was the sound of rending material, and she jerked her mouth from his to protest the ruin of her tunic, but it was too late. Cool air whisked over her, and he rose to his knees, gazing down at her with satisfaction.
“You are very beautiful, my beauty,” he said in husky French, and glancing up at her face, repeated it in English. She lay still while he touched her, his hands skimming over her bare breasts, belly, and lower, and then she closed her eyes.
Her breath came more swiftly now as he stroked her hot, moist center with his fingers, teasing her, summoning little moans that she could not hold back. Nor could she halt the arch of her hips into his hand, her fists pressing into the mattress, her heels pushing mounds into the thick coverlet spread over the bed.
Luc bent over her again, capturing her lips, his tongue mimicking the sex act with heated thrusts inside her open mouth while his hand coaxed a shivering response from her. She was quivering, excitement growing higher and hotter, sweeping her toward the brink of fulfillment.
Then he stopped, and she caught at his hand, pulling it back toward her, whimpering for him to continue. “Easy, beauty,” he muttered thickly, and draped her legs on each side of his waist. He wrenched off his sherte and sat back with his legs folded beneath him to tug at the straps that held up his linen leggings.
With his dark head bent, she saw only the fall of his black hair and width of his bare shoulders until he looked up at her again. The open, naked need in his eyes was as arousing as his touch, and she caught her breath at the force of it.
Then he was leaning over her, the light furring of hair on his chest scraping erotically over her bare breasts as he stretched his length atop her, catching her hands in his and pulling them up to press into the mattress on each side of her head. A faint smile curved his mouth.
“Do you want me, chérie?”
“Ye—yes, Luc.”
Her stammered whisper lingered in the air between them, soft and husky and filled with the longing she found so hard to articulate. But it was not going to be enough this night, for he pressed her for more.
“Tell me, ma chérie, tell me just how you want me. Tell me you want me as I want you.…”
Biting her lower lip between her teeth, she arched up into him in a silent effort to bring him closer. He laughed softly, and bent to lavish kisses along her throat and down to her breasts, teasing her with his tongue until she was panting for bre
ath.
“Tell me,” he murmured against her skin, his tongue circling her nipple in erotic strokes, “tell me.…”
“Luc … please.…”
Propping his weight on his hands, his fingers still laced with hers in a light clasp, he arched his hips forward to drag his swollen length over the arching center of her, creating a fiery sensation. Pressing forward, he moved in teasing strokes up and down between her thighs, until she writhed beneath him with urgent moans. He did not enter her yet, but slid over skin damp with anticipation, his every stroke sparking her, making her shiver.
Curving into his dragging strokes, her back arched and her thighs spread wider to receive him, to take him into her aching entrance. Yet still he held back, moving faster but not penetrating. Dazed with passion and filled with a rampant hunger for him, Ceara tilted her hips sharply, and his next stroke slid just inside her.
Luc’s breath came in tortured pants. His arms were unsteady, and he lifted his head to look into her eyes, his lashes half lowered, his face sharp with desire.
“Tell me, chérie.…”
“Luc, I need you inside me … please.…” She turned her head, kissed his forearm, tasted the salt of him on her tongue, and whispered again, “Please, Luc … I want you … I want you inside me.…”
With a groan, his next stroke slid deep inside her, filling her, creating a new, sharp sensation that made her cry out. Urgency filled both of them with exquisite pleasure, his thrusts deep and hard inside her until she was holding him, half sobbing, her nails raking down his shoulders and back as the tension tightened almost unbearably. And then the pressure snapped, exploding into a shower of sparks that overwhelmed her, dragged her under into a dark tide of spinning release that left her weak and clinging to him, her cheeks wet with tears.
Slowly, Luc’s taut body relaxed, and he shifted to one side, still holding her, still inside her, nipping lightly at the skin of her shoulder and throat with his teeth.
In that moment, with him drowsily holding her against his chest, his arms a warm shelter around her, she felt safer than she had ever felt in her life. It was as welcome as it was unexpected, and she prayed that it would never end.