by Jill Barnett
Her chin went up and she said, “I never beg.”
“You begged.”
“Never.” She shook her head back and forth, her hair swinging with her. She kept denying it as if she were trying to convince herself of the lie.
And he knew then he must handle her easily and gently to gain her trust in this. He softened his tone. “I promise I will be gentle with you.”
The look she gave him said she did not believe him.
“I give you my word.”
She didn’t believe him, but he could see that for just a moment, she wanted to.
“We will make a pact,” he suggested.
“What kind of pact?”
“If I do anything that you do not like, you say stop and I will stop.”
She chewed that one over for a moment. “You will?”
“Aye.”
“You give me your word as a knight?”
“You have my solemn oath.”
She studied him as if she were searching for the truth, ever the skeptic. Then, every so often, she would cast a tentative glance down at his nethers. If she had known what her eyes told him, she would have died of embarrassment. His proud and absurd wife.
“All you need to say is stop. That is all, and I will cease what I am doing.” He leaned forward, still holding her ankles. “I swear to you.”
She did not try to pull away as he moved closer, so he kissed her softly on the lips.
He applied no pressure and did not use his tongue. He just gave her the softest and sweetest kiss he could.
She blinked at him when he pulled back and studied her expression. She was still worried. He could see it plainly.
He brushed his mouth tenderly over her brow and her cheeks, then his mouth drifted to her ear. “I give you my word,” he whispered.
“Oh, Merrick,” she said on a deep and resigned sigh, “I want to believe you.”
“I promise … I promise …” He flicked his tongue over her lips, wetting them, then pressing his mouth over hers and rubbing softly over her slick lips.
That seemed to do it.
She moaned and slid her hands up into his hair again, pulling his head closer to hers and kissing him as if she could not stop herself.
Their mouths ate at each other hungrily and fully and deeply. He slid his hand under her slight body and pressed her back down in the hay, supporting his full upper weight on his forearms.
Their passion came stronger and more furiously, as it had before. ’Twas a consuming kind of thing he had not experienced with any other female, and was curious and new and humbling all at the same time.
Soon they were rolling together, each fighting for control of the kisses, the embraces, the touches, and the passion.
She was atop him, her mouth and tongue moving with him. He grabbed her waist and pulled her up his body, then took a breast deep into his mouth and suckled her.
With a deep moan of pleasure she threw her head back. Her hair slid down on his arms and sides, brushing his ribs like ribbons of silk.
It drove him mad, that hair, and he played the other breast with his lips and tongue and heard her earthy groan of pleasure.
He flipped her onto her back and kissed his way down her belly, then back up to her breasts, and down again. He loved her like that for long moments when time seemed to stop, and there was nothing but skin and kisses and moans of sheer and absolute pleasure.
He dragged his open mouth over the bones at her hips, the plush white skin at her navel, and the tops of her soft, warm thighs. Then he lifted her to his mouth and loved the center of her, tasting all of her womanhood. Her flavor and scent drove him mad, made his tongue react in frantic licking and swirling motions.
She grabbed his hair in her knotted fists and cried out, “Don’t stop.”
He felt her legs stiffen and tasted the salty start of her release against his tongue, which was inside of her as deep as he could go, giving her the most intimate of all kisses.
She came, again and again, until with every panting breath that passed her lips she moaned his name.
When her passion had begun to pass, he lay his head on her belly and tried to control himself. He felt tears rise in eyes and could not believe it.
She was his wife, tender and untried, passionate and everything he could have ever wanted. He moved up her body and hid his face in her fragrant neck, ashamed of his tears and afraid to let her see them.
She stroked his neck and back. They lay there like that, the two of them, naked as the day they had come into the world, free to love each other without restraint.
And there passed between them a feeling, a tenderness, something that created a bond stronger than any mere bedding. Something more than mere love.
He shifted and kissed her with his eyes closed, then moved his hips between her thighs. He arched up, then shifted so he touched her with only the hard quivering tip of him. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes.
He saw her surprise and a frown of confusion. He did not understand, until she whispered his name and reached up, one finger trailing a damp path that still streaked down his cheek.
He did not know the tears were still there and took a deep breath so he would not show her how unsure and shaken he was by her. “Shall I stop?”
She shook her head.
He pressed inside slowly, evenly, and halted when he felt her maidenhead and saw her eyes grow suddenly wide.
“This will hurt.”
“So they tell me,” she mumbled in a hoarse voice.
“You tell me when I can move. Or what you want. I will not do anything without your consent.”
She seemed to think about her answer forever.
He thought he might die waiting. But God in heaven, what a sweet way to die.
She searched his face for the longest time, as if she were looking for answers. She lifted her hands and rubbed her thumbs in small gentle strokes under his eyes.
That damn wetness was still there, spilling over onto her thumbs.
She gave him the sweetest smile he had ever seen; it said without words, “I trust you.”
She raised her mouth to his and touched his lips, then moved her hands down to cup and stroke his jaw. She rubbed the very tips of her soft fingers very gently along his tense neck, moved her palms over his bunched shoulders and down his back.
She combed her short nails through the fine airs on his low back and buttocks. On her next deep breath, she closed her eyes and thrust her hips upward. His hard shaft went right through her virgin’s wall.
He was the one who gasped in surprise.
She made no sound, but her breath came in short rasps.
He did not move, could not. She was so hot, so very soft and hot, it was all he could do not to spill his seed like some green lad inside his first woman.
At that moment, when she gave herself to him so fully and bravely, he knew that he was the luckiest man alive to have her. This was a woman whom he loved more than he had thought it possible to love anyone or anything. And Merrick knew he could never ask for more from life than this.
“I love you, my wife. I love you. I love this. I love the feel of you around me so warm and hot. God, but being inside you is more splendid than my dreams,” he admitted quietly.
She smiled at him then, wistfully and with a misty, faraway look in her deep green eyes, as if her dreams had been weaker than reality, too. She kissed him, as he had kissed her, with all the feeling one human being could put into a kiss.
After deep and wanton minutes, she pulled back, looking up at him with eyes that showed no pain. “You did not keep your promise.”
“What?” He froze. God, how had broken his word?
Finally her eyes began to sparkle with something he could only describe as wickedness. ’Twas then she wiggled her hips and gave him one of those challenging and impish smiles. “I never said stop.”
Chapter 34
The next morning, just past Terce, Clio stood on the steps of the keep, her new
husband standing a few paces away while he spoke quietly with Roger and the king, Edward, who was returning to London.
Every few minutes, she cast furtive glances at Merrick, because she just had to. ’Twas almost as if she expected to blink once and find out this all was a dream.
But this time Merrick caught her look, and the corner of his mouth curved up slightly into a private and crooked smile. Her stomach flipped, and she felt herself flush.
She ducked her head for a second, because ever since they had come back to the great hall the night before, they had been teased by all. Most of the comments had to do with the hay that was poking out of Merrick’s surcoat and layered through her long hair.
Luckily at that very moment the doors to the hall opened and the queen came out, directing her maids and ladies. When she was through, she turned, then pulled Clio from her curtsy and smiled. Eleanor looked so very regal and lovely with her dark features against the rich red damask of her gown and her vair-lined cloak.
Her black Spanish eyes made a mock examination of Clio’s head; then she leaned down and whispered, “I see all the hay is gone.”
At that they both laughed. Clio found that she truly liked Eleanor, who was sincere and not the least bit haughty or cruel. Clio felt this foreign-born queen was the first female friend she had truly ever had.
And she realized something then, something very dear to her. She’d wedded a man she loved, a strong man, who also gave her riches that one could not place a value upon, riches like love and pleasure and companionship.
She was fortunate, most fortunate. In Eleanor, he had given her a woman friend, and a truly fine gift indeed.
“I shall miss you,” Eleanor told her, her words echoing Clio’s thoughts.
They embraced, then Eleanor pulled away, still holding her hands. “Promise you will come to Canterbury. I want you to see Leeds, the place that is our true home. ’Tis not a huge and drafty place like the one in London, but glorious.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Edward does not know it yet, but I have plans for a lovely Moorish garden like the ones in Castile.”
“Nell?” Edward called out in his loud and booming voice. “I see you whispering to our new countess. What are you about?”
The queen looked at her husband, a vision of innocence. “Me? Why nothing.”
’Twas obvious to all he did not believe her, so she smiled at him and added something low in Castilian.
The king burst out laughing. He walked over and looked down at Clio.
Merrick moved with him and now stood at her side. She felt his hand slide across her back, then stroke lower and lower until it rested low and possessively.
She was almost afraid to look into her husband’s handsome face, never knowing exactly what emotion she would see there. But she could not stop herself and did chance a quick look at him.
His eyes said he wanted her.
She adored that look.
“Hear this, countess,” the king was saying in a stern and regal tone. “If you do not take care of my best man, Lord Merrick, I shall have to send my mother here to instruct you in your proper wifely duty.”
The other Eleanor. Saints above! ’Twas a horrid thought. Clio felt suddenly ill.
“Edward!” Eleanor scolded. “Look at her. Poor girl. At just the mention of your mother, the color has sapped away from her face.”
“Aye,” the king agreed. “Mother seems to have the effect on too many.”
“The countess is a new bride and should have no worries. Stop your jesting.”
“I will not sic my mother upon you. Do not fret.” Edward slipped an arm around the queen’s shoulders. “Instead I shall have mother visit us at Leeds.”
Eleanor quietly cursed in Spanish, which made the king laugh loud and long. “Does no one want my dear mother?”
There was absolute silence, which said more strongly than any words, that indeed, no one wanted to tangle with Eleanor of Provence.
Just then Old Gladdys came out the doors of the keep. She stood there and looked down her long, hooked nose at all who were gathered together on the steps or mounted in the courtyard—king, queen, nobleman, and clergyman.
Now, there was someone who could handle Henry’s Eleanor.
She stood there, her back and hands pressed against the doors in the come-hither stance of one of the amorous dairymaids; then her gaze lit on Roger. Her smile turned wicked, and she began to wink at him.
The king leaned over toward Merrick. “What is wrong with her eye?”
Merrick looked at Clio with a bit of amusement in his gaze. “Nothing. Except she has turned it upon Roger.”
The king turned to look at Roger FitzAlan, one of the most brave and strong of his knights.
But Roger was gone.
Merrick stood next to his wife and watched the royal procession riding over the distant hills, a colorful caravan of hungover wedding guests that formed a slow and plodding line behind the royal guard.
In the rear was the troop of traveling entertainers: the mummers and musicians, the tired bards and hoarse troubadours, the acrobats with their tall stilts and the wily fortune-tellers, their pockets filled from the antics of the night before. They were off to attend the huge Mayfair set to take place in a broad meadow in Yorkshire.
“Come,” Merrick said, grabbing Clio by the shoulders and turning her back toward the keep. “We have much to do.”
She looked stunned, then a little downhearted, as if the only joy between them was last night, and now duty was the only thing prominent in their lives.
“Do you meet with the master builder again?” Her voice was clipped and she walked toward the doors with stiff steps
He almost laughed at her. But he wasn’t daft. Instead, he closed the doors behind them and stood there for a long and drawn-out moment. Then he saw they were alone in the entrance to the hall.
He leaned down close to her ear and said, “God, but I thought they’d never leave.”
She looked up at him so fast it almost made him lightheaded.
He grinned down at her and grabbed her hand, pulling her up the stairs.
She laughed joyously, running along to keep up with him. “That is no way to speak about your liege lord and the most powerful man in all of Britain.”
“There are certain times for the company of friends and kings, and times to be alone.” He was headed for their bedchamber. “This is not a time for guests.”
“I adore the queen.”
“She is a kind woman and Edward dotes on her,” he said. “And I am glad they are gone.”
They reached the top of the stairs and stopped suddenly.
The way was blocked by a maze of wedding gifts that had been stacked in the solar.
“Good God …” He took it all in. “Look at all this.”
There were plates of gold and handwrought chalices. There were maser bowls and trunks of cloth, jewels, and furs. Tapestries and precious silks, eastern cottons and finely woven linen. It looked as though they had pillaged a palace.
“There is so much,” Clio said, sounding as overwhelmed as he felt when he stared at all of it.
They were mostly gifts from the court and the king, who had insisted that he dower Clio additionally with a huge amount of gold and silver.
Merrick had almost laughed aloud. Years ago he had been a man who had to fight tourneys to pay his men’s wages. There had been times when he could not pay, but his men had stayed with him. Now he was one of the wealthiest men in all of the kingdom.
But the irony was, he no longer cared about riches and dower gifts. He did not need them to bribe him to wed his wife. Not even for Camrose, which had been the prize he had first coveted.
He knew with surety that he would have gladly fought every knight of the realm for the privilege of wedding her, even if she’d come to him in nothing but sackcloth and ashes.
A moment later, he scooped her up into his arms and turned toward the bedchamber, striding through the doors and kicking them close
d behind him.
Clio’s plump maid spun around and gasped when she saw them.
“Leave us!” He ordered, nodding at the doors. “Now!”
“Merrick!” Clio said, half scolding and half amused.
“Wait!” He looked down at his wife. “Did I mistake your desire, wife? Do you wish her to watch? Or perhaps join us?”
His words hung there.
In a flash the doors flew open and slammed shut.
He laughed loud and hard. “Your maid moves faster than Roger.”
Clio slapped his shoulder. “You are terrible.”
“Aye, but I wager she’ll not bother us if she thinks I have the kind of appetite that desires a threesome.”
“Three people?” She snorted. “Stop jesting.”
He just smiled at the stubborn, yet innocent disbelief in her expression.
“Do you truly think me to be that gullible?”
“I suppose not,” he said, trying to look serious and chagrined for her sake.
“It makes no sense. There is naught for the other person to do.”
He dropped Clio on the mattress and pinned her there with his body, deciding to end the conversation, since it would not matter. She was all he could ever want.
He lowered his head and kissed her the way he had wanted to all morning, long and leisurely and with all of the feeling that was in his heart.
For the longest time he had thought a woman could never be important to him. His life was war and battle and pride.
There had been no softness in his life. No woman who was a part of it, not since he was a lad of six, when he was fostered away from his mother, the only woman he could say he was ever close to knowing.
Though she had given birth to him, she was naught but a memory. A cipher in his past life with black hair and a soft voice, but nothing more.
Later, as he was loving his wife, sharing a miracle that humbled him it was so intense, he struggled to see how very deeply he could be inside of her. He sought to touch her soul with the essence of who and what he was, to bind them together forever, because he knew then he had not lived, not truly, until her.
The Tale of the Alewife
My wife she was a brewer,