“Now? Now we will see how effective is my puny weapon.”
Linnea’s heart lurched. St. Jude, but her situation had never been more hopeless.
But when he rolled off of her—still holding tight to her wrist—it was only to pull her over and on top of him. He made her straddle him over his groin, so that his aroused male flesh lay just between them.
“Mount me,” he demanded. He pulled her hand closer to his face and kissed first her wrist and then her fingers that wrapped around the bone handle of his dagger. But his eyes remained locked with hers. “Do as I say, wife. Find your pleasure upon my puny weapon.”
He was a madman, Linnea decided. Then he flexed his manhood and comprehension struck her. His puny weapon? That immense thing?
He started to laugh again and pulled her upward just enough to allow him entrance to her. “If it is puny, ’tis only that of late it has had no exercise. But you will change all that, wife.”
So saying, he grabbed her waist and steadily forced her down until she sat fully upon him and he was sheathed within her. Then he began to kiss her wrist and hand again, bringing the dagger perilously close to his neck and the vein of life that pounded there.
Could she kill him? Linnea wondered. Could she move fast enough? Did she have the nerve to even try?
But he was moving inside her, up and down, and he was forcing her to a slow, bouncing rhythm that distracted her far too much to think about murder. He stroked her with the full length of his manly weapon while he played erotic patterns on her wrist with his lips and tongue. And his eyes stroked the rest of her, her breasts and belly and face.
Her hair fell over them both, half-shrouding them, half-revealing. It was like some dark, dangerous game they played together. They each had their weapons, and yet it was not pain or fear that held Linnea in its grip. He did not claim her body in anger any longer, but in a strange sort of testing manner. She was in control, after a fashion. She reared over him and she held a dagger very near his throat.
Even though she knew he could shift the balance of power at any moment, for the present their situation was not entirely unpleasant. Indeed, the fire that flared between them brought an undeniable wave of pleasure that grew every time she moved over him. As she began to move faster, she realized that she controlled this wonderful, terrible pleasure.
By the time he released her wrist and gripped her hips with both hands, she had forgotten the dagger. She leaned over him, urged to a frantic pace by his demanding grip. Faster and harder, until something broke inside her. Something burst and erupted and she cried out in helpless surrender to it.
But he didn’t stop. He forced her on and on, until the pleasure of it was very nearly a pain, until with a great cry of his own, he jerked over and over, spilling his warmth into her. Flooding her with his fire.
Linnea collapsed over him, gasping for breath. Beneath her his pulse pounded a mad race, and he labored for breath. It was not those details she noticed, however, but him. He was all she was aware of.
She was aware of his hand, rolling her onto the mattress. She was aware that they faced one another, that their legs were still locked together and their bellies still touched. She felt his breath on her skin and smelled the sharp scent of sex.
But she was unaware that she had let go of the dagger. She did not note its loss nor hear the thud of steel and bone on the wood plank floor. She did not notice the candles that guttered in their holders or the velvet darkness that enveloped the room.
Most certainly, as her eyes closed and her body relaxed in the exhausted sleep of fulfillment, she was unaware of the confused expression that clouded her new husband’s face.
Chapter 8
Axton came awake with a start. But his first instinct—to reach for his weapon—was quashed when he recognized the familiar surroundings. A bed. A woman.
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, willing himself to relax again. Then he recalled the rest of it. The bed was in the lord’s chamber of Maidenstone Castle. The woman was the daughter of Edgar de Valcourt.
And she was his wife.
He lay in the dim shadows of the false dawn, conscious of her sleeping form. One of her feet was tucked against his calf. Her derriere fitted against his hip and a strand of her hair was caught in the bend of his arm.
He should have punished her last night, he rebuked himself as he remembered everything that had happened between them. Something swift and harsh. He should have made it clear that to cross him was something she could never do again. And to draw his blood …
But instead he’d done just the opposite. He’d made love to her as if she were the only woman on earth and last night his one and only chance at her.
That she, a virgin, had found such a shuddering completion had astounded him. That he should care, bothered him more than a little.
That he wanted her now, all over again, made absolutely no sense at all.
But the insistent arousal between his legs silenced any mental arguments. She was his wife and he wanted her. There was no need for excuses or explanations. He could do as he pleased with her and no one would say him nay.
Least of all her, he thought with a smug certainty.
He shifted to his side and drew back the heavy pelt that covered them both. He’d meant to get his satisfaction from her, and he had—albeit not precisely in the manner he’d expected. He’d thought to exhaust his rage upon her and at the same time satisfy his sexual frustration.
But his rage had not lasted.
When she’d closed her eyes to him and tried to shut him out, he’d been furious. More than furious. And when she’d drawn that dagger and cut him, he could easily have murdered her.
But something—her courage, her tears, her ridiculous reference to his puny weapon—had turned his anger to passion.
His hand ran down the line of her back. Her alabaster skin prickled with goose bumps. He could feel them. She smelled of woman and mating, and he grew harder with each dark whiff of their joining.
His finger slid down to the cleft between her rounded buttocks. Two soft dimples marked the upper curves of the sweet, womanly flesh. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon find her leading him around by his cods, so intense was the desire she roused in him.
Axton frowned and pulled his hand away. He must make her know who was her master. If not by fear, then he would do it with passion. After all, intimidation was intimidation. The secret to success in any battle was to recognize your foe’s weakness and attack him there. It had worked with her father; it would work with her. She was clearly a woman of intense passions, so it was there he would attack.
He pushed his hair back from his brow as the idea took hold in his mind. He would bind her to him with passion. With the raw power of sex. He would make her a slave to it so that she could not do the same to him. He would master her in the bed—and any other place where he might come upon her.
He grinned at that thought. Should he find her in the kitchen or the laundry—or even in the herb garden—he would send everyone away, and he would make free with her body. Let everyone in the entire castle know the pleasure he took of her—and the pleasure she received from him.
It would be the ultimate disloyalty to her father and would go far in giving Axton the satisfaction he craved. He would bind his reluctant wife to him. Mayhap he would even cause her to love him.
Awash with triumph already, Axton drew her onto her back and viewed the soft, sleeping form of his wife. Tangled hair like golden silk. Pale skin as flawless as pearl. Sweetly rounded she was, with a narrow waist and full breasts. He would begin with those breasts and their dusky rose peaks …
Linnea. came awake to sensations she could never put a name to. Like sunlight heating her from the inside out, though it was yet night. Like the juicy fullness of ripe peaches flooding sweetly through her. Like lightning, terrifying and exhilarating.
She arched up, more exhilarated than terrified, lifted as all the secret places of her body seemed to soar u
pward. Such a succulent feeling, as if she were that sweet, juicy peach.
A hand moved down her body in a heated stroke, and Linnea felt the first quiver of alarm. But she was distracted with the wet tug on her nipple by a pair of very clever lips—
“Oh, no!” She lurched away. Or tried to. But an impossibly large form pressed her down into the bed. Not her bed. Certainly not her thick bear pelt.
Her eyes popped open and though the room was dark, she knew. Axton de la Manse. Her husband.
“St. Jude … St. Jude …” she murmured over and over when the exquisite caress of both her breasts continued. He wasn’t supposed to do this so often. She wasn’t supposed to succumb this easily.
But she was, and he knew it.
When he held both her breasts in his large hands, then moved his kiss back and forth between the two, she was lost. His kiss had started a fire in her belly; the tug of his teeth, the subtle threat of it, made her burn all over.
This was forbidden. It must be. But that didn’t change one thing about her reaction. When he slid his heavy arousal into her, she pressed up eagerly for it. When he caught her face between his hands, she had no choice but to stare up into this shadowed face. Their eyes met and held, and with every long, deliberate stroke, she felt her barriers crumbling to him.
The connection of their bodies was intimate beyond anything she’d ever imagined. But the connection of the eyes …
She felt it beginning, the hot, slow climb that had culminated in that strange, rippling explosion inside her. He fueled it with the leashed power in his warrior’s body and the clear purpose in his unblinking gaze.
Linnea closed her eyes, for his scrutiny was unbearable. But she knew he watched her still and that he saw everything. The hot flood of color in her face. The restless tossing. The panting that sped up as she came closer and closer.
Then the cessation of all breathing as she arched and cried out.
He reacted too, with a shudder and a muffled shout. Then he abruptly rolled off her.
They lay like that, occupying the same bed, but far apart despite it. They were both hot and sweaty, but a cold chasm separated them. From unbearable intimacy to this … this inexplicable loneliness. Linnea shivered and was suddenly ashamed of her nakedness.
“Wait,” he ordered when she moved away and sat up in the bed. He caught her by the wrist and rolled to his side and studied her. Though the room was dark and her heavy curtain of hair shielded her back and derriere from him, Linnea nonetheless felt completely exposed.
“I needs must visit the … the …” She could not say garderobe to him, for it was too personal a revelation. Surely he must know what she meant. To her relief he let go of her hand.
“Come back to bed afterward. I am not done with you.” She jerked her head around to look back at him. “Not done? But … but …” But surely he must be done! “But dawn approaches,” she whispered.
He smirked. “’Tis even more pleasurable in the light of day. I’ll be better able to view my wife’s very pretty body.”
Linnea slid off the bed at that and snatched up her discarded kirtle. “I should think you would have had enough of … of that.”
“A man never has enough of … of that,” he said, mimicking her. “Especially when his wife is as delectable in form as mine. You are perfectly made for a man’s touch, wife. Soft skin. Full breasts. Hair like silk, and though tight as a virgin should be, you have a fiery nature I would not have expected of a de Valcourt.”
Every part of her had responded to his appreciative words. Her skin tingled. Her breasts tightened. Even her hair seemed to move and writhe under his words of praise. Most certainly did the place between her legs vibrate in both remembrance and anticipation. But the reference to her family name doused all her other reactions like cold winter rain on an open fire.
Any other de Valcourt would not be so susceptible to him, so receptive and responsive. Most certainly Beatrix would never have succumbed so easily to his unholy wooing. But she was not really Beatrix. She was the second twin. The bad one. Had she known that this would happen, that she would respond to his overtures with such passion, she would never have suggested such an insane deception.
But it was far too late to back out now.
“I have other duties to attend to this day,” she managed to say as she slipped into her kirtle.
“Your duty is to me. To my needs. To my desires.”
“But … but someone must see to the kitchen.”
“Your grandmother can do it.”
“But … what of my brother? I should check his wounds.” She stared at him, desperate to be away from the influence of his steady gaze—and gloriously naked body. Even in the faint light that crept through the thick glass in the two windows of the lord’s chamber, she could make out more of his body than was proper. Broad chest with its streak of dark hair. Lean hips and powerfully muscled thighs. And that insatiable thing between his legs, that insistent … weapon, she thought, recalling last night. Puny was hardly the word she’d apply to it, for it was his most powerful weapon in his dealings with her.
When she realized where she was staring, she jerked her gaze back to his face. He was grinning now, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Well?” she demanded, hoping to steer their conversation elsewhere. “May I go see to my brother?”
He considered a moment. Then to her surprise, he nodded. “But hasten back to me, my lady wife. I have a hunger that I would assuage again e’er I break my fast in the hall.”
Hot color stung Linnea’s chest and face, but she somehow managed to cling to her wits. If he desired her so much, mayhap he would agree to moving Maynard to a better place. “If … if I may be so bold, Axton,” she added, hoping to please him with her agreeable nature. “Might I have my brother removed from the barracks?” She caught her breath as she awaited his response.
The smile disappeared from his face. “You may remove him from the barracks—and place him in the barn,” he finished coldly.
“Oh, please,” she blurted out. She crossed to the bed, wringing her hands together. “He needs a clean, quiet place where he might better heal.”
Axton sat up and swung his feet to the ground. He was plainly unconcerned by his lack of clothing as he studied her. “If you mean to convince me, I suggest you find a better inducement than that. Why should I care that he heals? Would suit me far better if he should die.”
At her look of horror, he gave her a calculated smile. “’Tis not my plan to kill him, Beatrix. Did I plan that, ’twould already be done.”
Linnea released a shaky breath. Thank God for that. But she still must get him to agree to move Maynard. She stared at him consideringly. He wanted her to convince him—or at least to try to.
What would Beatrix do?
Linnea forced what she hoped was a sweet and imploring expression onto her face. “I thank you most gratefully for allowing him to live.” Though ’twas you who caused his terrible injuries. “If you will grant me this one request on his behalf, I promise to you that I will be a good wife—”
“You’ve already promised me that. Before God and the Church and every least soul at Maidenstone Castle you promised me that.”
Linnea had to set her teeth to stifle the sharp retort that rose to her lips. Instead she advanced a step toward him, her hands knotted nervously. “Please … husband. As a wedding gift to me?” she ventured, though she knew she took a chance with such a ploy.
“As a wedding gift.” He repeated her words and studied her a long, nerve-wracking moment. Then he smiled. “Now that we speak on it, I have a wedding gift for you. Come here.”
Linnea froze. A wedding gift? If this was some coarse male jest and he referred to his … that weapon thing of his …
To her surprise he reached down and retrieved his tunic from the floor. “Come here,” he repeated.
He held a small velvet pouch in his hand when he straightened up. Though Linnea was leery of approac
hing him lest he grab her and beguile her again with his mind-stealing caresses, she reluctantly complied. When she stood directly before him he loosened the pouch and spilled a delicate gold necklace into his palm.
It was exquisite. Even in the pale light of the solar Linnea could see that much. A gold chain of impossible delicacy, it was interspersed with fiery red jewels. And it was for her. She’d never possessed any jewelry of her own. Even Beatrix had not owned anything as fine as this.
Linnea’s gaze rose from the long chain up to his face. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.” His eyes glittered. “Lift up your skirts.”
“What?” Linnea’s eyes went from misty with confusing emotion to wide with shock—then turned hard with fury. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered. “I am no whore to earn jewels in such a way! Is this how the men of your line do deal with women? With their wives?”
To her horror, he began to laugh. That only galvanized her outrage, however. “Spineless cur! Did you learn this at your father’s knee? Did he treat your mother so!”
That killed his humor. But Linnea was not pleased with the emotion that took its place, for his expression turned as hard and unyielding as granite. “I will cure you of your venomous tongue yet, woman. Heed my words. Speak no ill of my father nor my mother. Not to me or anyone else if you do value your pretty hide. I will not abide it!”
He glared at her, daring her to contradict him. “Now, lift up your skirts.”
When she did not do it—because she was too stunned by the vehemence of his threat, not because she meant to oppose him—he yanked up the linen himself. Linnea heard something rip and she nearly toppled over. But she refused to flinch. Let him do his worst upon her. Indeed, she told herself as he bared her legs and belly to his view, she would prefer he take her cruelly than evoke any feelings of desire from her ever again. It would make it even easier to hate him!
But he did not force himself on her. Instead, as she braced herself for his assault, she felt only his implacable grasp on her hips and the cool slide of delicate metal against her skin. He was fastening the chain around her waist!
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