Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  He smiled at her and whispered, “Don’t forget to breathe, Mabelle. Don’t be afraid. Breathe.”

  The sound of his seductive voice calmed her. He kissed her again, continuing to stroke her, harder and faster now, the other hand squeezing a nipple. Intense heat coursed through her belly, shooting down her inner thighs. She dug her heels into the bed, wanting the sensations to go on—and on.

  “Come for me, my lovely,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

  She didn’t understand his words, only half heard them, totally rapt in scaling a mountain of exquisite pleasure, and wanted to scream as her body cascaded from the top of it and fell into bliss.

  “Your screams excite me,” he said huskily. “I want to thrust into you, but I want to see your face again when you reach ecstasy.”

  No man had ever spoken such words to her. She’d entered a world she’d never known. She wanted to laugh and cry. She wanted all of him.

  Where have these thoughts come from?

  He bent his head to suckle her, then ran his fingers lightly across her belly and slid one finger further inside her, then another, curling them against the tender flesh, his palm pressed against her mons. She’d never known such sensations and fulfillment came again quickly. But she was so wet. Ram held her tightly as her body convulsed.

  Is that me screaming?

  She opened her eyes and plumbed his blue depths again. He smiled and whispered, “It’s time. You’re ready now.”

  He rose above her on his knees, and spread her legs wider. She summoned the courage to look at his male part and gasped.

  He chuckled and whispered, “I know. I’ll go slowly—if I can.”

  His hand guided the tip of his manhood into her throbbing folds.

  “I’m wet,” she stammered, in whispered apology.

  He groaned. “Put your hand on me.”

  He took her hand and curled it around his shaft.

  “Like silk,” she murmured.

  The memory flashed into her mind of how magnificent he’d looked at the lake—a beautiful aroused male, his excitement barely concealed by his braies—ever since that moment she’d longed for him to join his body to hers. Surely he must see the lust on her face?

  “You’re beautiful, Mabelle,” he groaned. “I’ve ached to make you mine.”

  “Please—Ram—please,” she murmured, awash with desire, “Possess me—take me.”

  He took hold of her hands and held them over her head, his fingers entwined with hers, bracing himself. He breathed in deeply as he pushed in. She cried out when he breached her maiden’s gate. He stopped and looked into her eyes.

  “Dieu! I’m the first,” he choked. “You’re truly mine.”

  She should have been affronted at the tone of surprise in his voice but was too enthralled with the sensations building inside her. She tore her hands from his and grasped his hips, pulling him towards her, then reached up and brushed his nipples with her thumbs. Her eyes glazed over when he gasped at her touch.

  He withdrew almost completely and plunged in again, then thrust deeply, over and over, faster and faster. She’d never experienced such a feeling of possession.

  This man is mine.

  Deep within, exquisite pleasure blossomed. She raised her arms above her head, and he entwined their fingers again. The overwhelming sensations Ram had brought to her body earlier were nothing to what surged through her now, an inexorably intoxicating bliss. Ram’s skin sheened with perspiration. She wanted to tear her hands from his grasp and run them across his gleaming shoulders.

  She felt his essence burst from his body and rush into hers. He reared his head back and a strangled gasp emerged from deep in his throat. Euphoria filled her. A shudder went through them both, and she screamed out her amazement with a sound she’d never made before. He collapsed onto her, his breathing laboured.

  “Sorry,” he gasped after a minute or two. “Too heavy—can’t move.”

  “You’re not heavy,” she whispered, her fingers lazily caressing the back of his neck. His shoulders twitched. She loved the feel of his weight on her, his warm body covering hers completely, his rapid heartbeat reverberating through her.

  Rolling away several minutes later, he saw the tracks of tears on her face. “I’m truly sorry. I thought you were not a maiden. You should have told me,” he said softly. “Though you were a virgin, that was the most exhilarating—”

  Mabelle blushed, elated she’d pleased him, that he too seemed to have been moved by the experience.

  “—you took all of me. You were tight, my lovely, but you were wet and welcoming. I could feel you throbbing around my shaft, and I wanted to stay inside you as long as I could.”

  How to respond? This man she barely knew, who’d preoccupied her thoughts constantly, was saying intimate things that inflamed her. She wanted to arch her body to his, wrap her legs around him, rake her fingers through his hair—but then he would again judge her a wanton.

  He has eyes that can make women do foolish things.

  He went to the basin, poured water from the ewer on to a cloth. “Would you like me to cleanse you, Mabelle?”

  The deep tenderness in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and despite her discomfort at having a man, a warrior, wash her most intimate parts, she nodded. He smiled at her embarrassment over the bloodstained sheets.

  “It wasn’t a trick,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  He kissed her nose. “I could tell.”

  She wanted to offer to cleanse him but was too shy to ask, and before she knew it, he’d left the bed to take care of his own needs. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he walked around confidently and without embarrassment. He was so male, so muscled, so big, so dark, so naked, and so comfortable in this masculine room.

  “Do you like what you see, Comtesse?”

  She felt her face redden.

  “Oui, milord. I confess to being the wanton you already know me to be. It’s a weakness I didn’t know I possessed. You’ve unleashed something I’ve never experienced before. Despite my anger at you, I can’t say no to your passionate embraces.”

  He sat beside her on the bed and took hold of her hand. “First of all, never call me milord. I’m your husband and my name is Ram. Secondly, I’m conflicted. The irony of our predicament strikes me. You did indeed behave like a wanton, but that aroused me. Your actions were inappropriate, but I wasn’t blameless. At least we have passion, if we don’t have trust. I’m elated no other man has possessed you. I’m also overjoyed to have been the man to bring you to your first experience of ecstasy.”

  She blushed. “How did you know that?”

  He traced a finger down her nose and laughed as she blushed even more deeply. “A man can sense these things. It was the look of utter surprise on your face. Mabelle, you’re not a wanton, just a warm, passionate woman. We’ll make beautiful children. I’m happy to have a wife who is passionate and lusty in bed. Passion isn’t a weakness.”

  “But I don’t know how to be lusty—Ram.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Je serai ton maître.”

  His being her master thrilled and dismayed her.

  “Let’s sleep now and perhaps in a while—”

  He turned her, encircled her with his arms and cupped her breasts in his big hands, nuzzling the back of her neck. They fell asleep quickly.

  ***

  Ram woke before dawn filled with an intense feeling of well-being, and slowly became aware of the naked woman sleeping beside him. His wife! Her back was to him, her breasts and belly pressed to the bed, one long leg straight beneath her, the other bent. One hand rested on the pillow next to her face. Her tangled hair lay like a coverlet over her back and shoulders. He had an urge to put his hands on her lovely round derrière but resisted. He wanted to watch her breathe for a few more minutes. They would have to rise soon to prepare for their journey, and he’d already hardened at the sight of her.

  He’d longed to possess Mabelle from t
he moment he’d first seen her, and yet the intensity of the passion they’d shared had taken him by surprise. He was usually a man of few words when he bedded a woman but recalled sharing intimacies with Mabelle he’d never uttered before. What he’d experienced with her was more than a bedding. She’d claimed him, possessed him, just as much as he’d possessed her. It elated him he was the first man to penetrate her. He’d never made love to a virgin. Why had he been sure she wasn’t a maid? Would she ever forgive his cruel words?

  And he’d cleansed her, something he’d never done for a woman before. He’d done it without thinking. As he looked at her now in the early light of dawn, sleeping peacefully, he tried to imagine what life must have been like for her before they met. It felt good to have her here, beside him, in the chamber he loved but had never shared with anyone. “I swear to you, Mabelle,” he whispered, “You’ll never want for a safe place to sleep ever again.”

  She stirred, and he reached over to fondle her hair. She turned lazily and stretched. His arousal intensified and he gathered her into his arms, feathering kisses along her neck. She blinked, seemingly disoriented for a few moments. Then she smiled. “Do we have time to do it again?” she asked.

  “We have time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “The Saxons are to endure the unspeakable humiliation of seeing the Conqueror crowned on the anniversary of Christ's birth,” Ram remarked, as he and his wife and brothers were breaking their fast before the departure for the coast. “William has a strong feeling for form and law and he’s resolved to let no ceremony pass that might strengthen his claim to be regarded as King of the English.”

  He turned to his brothers. “So we’re agreed? You’ll take care of things here and at Belisle and Domfort. I imagine you’ve had enough of England after Hastings.”

  Both men agreed readily.

  Mabelle smiled timidly at Ram. “I can tell you’re honoured by the invitation from William, and nothing will keep you away. From the little you’ve told me, you played a large part in ensuring the victory.”

  He’d shared something of the details of the battle, though he’d wisely decided not to tell her about his near decapitation. “Are you sure you want to accompany me?” he ventured, not knowing what he would do if she said she would prefer not to. She’d never travelled by ship before.

  “Will it be safe?”

  “It’s a short voyage, and, if we’re careful to pick the right tides, you’ll be safe with me. But the castle at Ellesmere—it’s not like Montbryce—we can’t live in it yet.”

  Why did he feel a compulsion to take her with him? It would be a difficult and dangerous life, perhaps for years, and there would be a lot of travelling back and forth to Normandie.

  “I don’t want to be left behind, Ram.”

  They travelled to the coast. Decorum dictated she ride her mare side saddle.

  “My back feels as if it’s broken,” Mabelle lamented to Ram. “It would be more comfortable riding behind you on Fortis. Then at least I could feel your warmth. I’m cold.”

  He looked at her with a teasing smile and reined in his horse. Perhaps having a wife who had spirit wasn’t such a bad thing? “I too would enjoy your riding behind me, pressing your beautiful breasts against my back.”

  Soon she was mounted behind him, and they made better progress. He reached behind and patted her thigh. “I now see the advantage for me of your riding astride.”

  The winds were with them and they took ship for the English coast. She weathered the crossing well, but Ram was seasick from the moment they cast off. He’d told her about his ailment. “I’m sorry. I did warn you. When I think of the last time I sailed to England, with William, it seems a lifetime ago. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again.”

  Mabelle huddled closer to him. “You thought of me?”

  Another bout of retching prevented his response.

  She wiped his brow. “I’m not a good wife. I have no idea how to help your malady.”

  “Nothing can be done about it, Mabelle. Believe me. Nothing helps. I have to stay outside, but if you’re cold, you should seek shelter in the tent they rigged for you.”

  “Non, I love the tang of the salty breeze on my face, and I would rather be with you.”

  “This wind is filling the sail and should carry us quickly across the Narrow Sea. We’re fortunate.” He didn’t want to mention this stretch of water could be deadly if weather and tides turned against them.

  They came ashore safely. “Welcome to England, Mabelle. I’m content you’re here with me. This is our new country, the land of opportunity for us and our children.”

  William had arranged for an escort to take them into London. They were given opulent accommodation at the royal residence next to the Abbey and were to be among the distinguished guests at the coronation in the church of Saint Peter, called Westminster.

  They made their way there the next day and Ram thought he would pass on to her something of the Abbey, so she would know the history of the magnificent building. “Edward the Confessor chose Westminster as the site for his palace and church because it lay close to the famous and rich town of London. It was surrounded with fertile lands and green fields near the main channel of the river Thames, an important trade route. Of course, London isn’t the seat of government. That’s in Winchester.”

  Mabelle gazed around in wonder. “I know the Confessor grew up in Normandie.”

  “Oui, and he looked to Norman architects to build his abbey, because they were more advanced in their craft than the English. He was aware of the great abbey churches built at Caen and Bernay, and of the development of our architecture. The Abbey was Edward’s great gift to the people of England, magnificent and innovative even by our standards. It was consecrated on Holy Innocents Day, in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Five.”

  Once again, Mabelle surprised him. “But Edward was too ill to attend. My father and I were in Arques, and the castle was full of rumours of his imminent death. We were at Montbryce when he died on the vigil of Epiphany. Like Moses and the Promised Land.”

  He squeezed her hand. He hadn’t known she’d been at his father’s castle for that long, but said nothing. “Oui, but on Christmas Day in the Abbey, William, Duc de Normandie, is to become the third man in this eventful year to wear the English crown. He will be King of his Promised Land.”

  Ram’s chest swelled with pride as he escorted Mabelle into the Abbey. She wore a velvet surcoat dress of emerald green, trimmed with ermine, made for her by Bette, at Montbryce, before the terrible day of their intended wedding. Her girdle was of spun gold. The ruffled pleats of the sleeves of her satin chemise reflected the light of the thousands of candles. Over her dress she wore a voluminous semi-circular matching cloak, pinned in the centre with a brooch bearing the Montbryce crest. The cloak too was trimmed with ermine. On her head, where her hair was closely coiled with a few curls at the forehead, she wore a wimple wound about her golden hair and thrown over her shoulder. A snood of embroidered green silk. held the wimple in place.

  As they proceeded to their places, he whispered in her ear, “You’re stunning. Even in this illustrious gathering you turn heads.”

  There was a substantial guard of Norman men-at-arms and knights posted round the church to prevent any treachery on the part of resentful townsfolk.

  In the presence of the bishops, abbots, and nobles of the whole realm, Archbishop Ealdred of York consecrated William Duc de Normandie as King of the English and placed the royal crown on his head. The Archbishop of Canterbury had refused to officiate. William’s coronation robe was ornamented with gold and costly gems. Hundreds of amulets of gold and silver hung from it.

  “Each amulet contains a saint’s relic,” Ram whispered to Mabelle.

  When Archbishop Ealdred asked the English, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, asked the Normans if they would accept William as their king, all proclaimed their agreement with one voice, but not in one language. Ram shouted pro
udly with a resounding, “Oui!” thrusting his fist into the air in salute to William, filled with conflicting emotions at the memories of the horrific battles, and what William’s victory had cost him. His other hand held Mabelle’s tightly.

  The Archbishop led William to the royal throne in the presence and with the assent of the bishops and abbots gathered there.

  However, the armed Norman cavalry outside, hearing the harsh English accents, believed treachery was afoot. They set fire to some of the buildings surrounding the Abbey, putting people to the sword. The fire spread rapidly and the crowd took fright, rushing out of the church.

  “Ram?” Mabelle cried, clutching his arm.

  She was plainly terrified. “I won’t let any harm come to you. Hold on to me. We must stay together.”

  He led his trembling wife to safety, his arm firmly around her, sword drawn. He delivered her to his men-at-arms with instructions to take her back to the palace.

  Only the bishops and a few clergy remained in the sanctuary to complete the consecration of the king. Ram elbowed his way back to the new King’s side. William seemed badly shaken by the course of events. Once he got William’s attention, Ram urged, “Majesté, you must make an appearance to the people, to reassure our fellow Normans you’ve been crowned.”

  William regained his composure, nodded and walked regally to the door of the Abbey. The sight of him in his Coronation robes calmed the largely Norman crowd. He looked distraught over what had happened, but he was King.

  “I’ve sworn to maintain the Church, and all Christian people in true peace, to prohibit injustice and oppression, to observe equity and mercy in judgments, and to rule my people better than the best of kings before me, if they are loyal to me. I am determined in my heart to make England a country where something other than anarchy can reign. I will pursue the King’s Peace with warlike fervour. With the help of the Confessor’s Norman advisors and courtiers, and allies like you, Comte Rambaud le Noir, I will be invincible.”

  ***

  Frantic with worry for Ram, Mabelle paced back and forth, biting her nails. She’d shed the cloak and wimple. She rushed to embrace him when he arrived back at the Palace.