Her body was sweet, warm, and strangely magical in its power over him. Tenderness rushed through him, surprising him still further. He marveled at the softness of her skin and the suppleness of her muscles. There was something very calming about the tangling of her limbs with his. He wanted to make love to her slowly, gently, with loving consideration. He didn’t want to hurt her, no matter what she’d done.
He forced himself to remember the horrors of last night. His hand dropped to explore the curve of her throat, the swell of her breasts. Still she didn’t protest. Pushing himself up on his knees, he straddled her, his fingers moving down to fumble with the shirt she was still wearing. He felt unsteady, clumsy, and she stayed rigid, making it difficult to undress her. He wished he hadn’t dropped the knife; he wanted to slice the cloth from her body and see her naked and helpless beneath him.
Alexandra sensed the confusion of violence and tenderness he was feeling. All her instincts warned her not to fight. She had seen the bloody results of his fury on the strand last night, and she knew that it would take very little to drive him over the line into mindless, tragic rage. She could bear whatever he did to her, as long as they survived to forgive one another. Rape would hurt and humiliate her, but it would not break her spirit.
And if she could only make herself relax, perhaps it would not be rape. So far, despite his harsh words, he had not been overly rough. He had not hurt her. She told herself that this was Roger, the man she had yearned to give herself to for nearly a year; Roger, who could arouse her to passion with a look, a finger-brushing touch. And yet she felt no passion now.
Why? Always before she had warmed to his caresses, but not this time, not on the night he would finally take her. Had Geoffrey’s assault done something to cripple her natural desires? The Frenchman’s touch had filled her with revulsion, and as Roger duplicated those unwelcome caresses, fondling her breasts, pressing his legs between hers to part them, the revulsion and the shame she’d experienced last night in Geoffrey’s arms began to well up from the place where she’d hidden it, buried it, slammed the door on it.
Quite suddenly she began to squirm, arching her body against his in an effort to free herself. Her struggles brought her pelvis tight against Roger’s cock, arousing him. He hadn’t really been aroused until now, he realized. Usually it took no more than the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the sweet, beguiling scent of her to bring him to a state of full, aching desire. Now he wasn’t sure what he felt. His emotions were all a-muddle. He had told himself that he had come to punish her, but that wasn’t it, not really. He was here to lose himself in her. Sex with Alix was all-consuming. Sex would transport him, take him out of this world to a place where of peace and safety where there were no torn bodies lying on a bloodstained riverbank. Sex would stop the screaming in his head.
He finally succeeded in tearing away the tattered shirt, leaving nothing but her exquisitely smooth flesh, straining now against him, kicking and writhing as he anchored her firmly with his knees, his thighs, his chest, his arms.
“No!” she cried as he dragged her fists away from his chest. “Roger, stop.”
He closed his heart to her protests. He pinioned her arms against the mattress, bringing her wrists together over her head so he could grip them in one hand. The berth dipped and rolled with the sea, pressing his loins into hers. Breathing hard, rigid now with lust, he stared at her slender body. Levering himself up a bit, he slid one hand over her silken skin, between her small but perfect breasts and down until he found the thatch of burnished curls, and beneath it, the soft petals of her sex. God, she was sweet. Gently, he touched her, parted her. His cock throbbed. From the moment he had first seen her again last summer, he had been hungering to do this—to stroke her, possess her, drive himself inside her. But, unlike the last time he had caressed her intimately, there was no moistness, no arousal. It shouldn’t matter; he wasn’t doing this for her pleasure. But it disturbed him nonetheless, and he withdrew his hand. It felt wrong to touch her this way when she clearly didn’t desire it. He had never taken a woman by force. His lovers were always as ready and eager as he.
His head spun. What the bloody hell am I doing? He looked down into her face. Her eyes were wide, wild. She was trembling.
“How can you do this to me?” she whispered. “I love you.”
He had never seen her look so hurt, so outraged, not even that afternoon in the cave on Thorncroft Overhang when she’d thought he meant to murder her. The image jogged something in his memory: “I made a terrible mistake today because I followed my brain instead of my heart,” she had admitted. She had been wrong about him. What if he was wrong about her?
But how could he be wrong? She was the only outsider who’d known his plans last night, the only possible traitor. And she’d been there watching, caressed by Geoffrey, admitting her crime. She had even admitted that she had been the Frenchman’s lover. His rage gathered again at the thought. He had loved her, and she had given herself to his enemy. “Did you or did you not betray my plans to Geoffrey?”
“It’s not a simple matter of yes or no.”
“What does that mean? If you didn’t, who did? Alan?” His voice lashed her like a whip. “Are you accusing my brother?”
“No.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Alan did nothing wrong. I fell into the snare that Geoffrey set for us. He knew you were planning something, so he had me tortured on the rack to find out what.”
“Torture victims don’t usually walk about an hour later as if nothing had happened. Besides, the Alix I thought I knew would have to be torn apart before breathing a word in betrayal of me.”
“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I have weaknesses, and extreme pain happens to be one of them.”
“Were you in Geoffrey’s bed last night?”
“Not by choice. How could you think I would ever willingly submit to that loathsome creature?”
Not by choice. So the Frenchman had raped her? Had that been the way he had forced her to reveal the heretics’ escape plan? And if he had, oh Christ, if he had. Roger began to feel queasy as he realized that if Geoffrey had raped her, then what he was doing to her right now was even crueler than he had intended it to be.
And even if she was lying, even if she was truly as treacherous as he had been thinking for the past few horrible hours, even then…
This is all wrong. I have to stop.
He released her hands, and she immediately resumed her struggles. He resisted the urge to overpower her. Had she been tortured? He hadn’t believed her before, but now he wasn’t sure. He had been too angry to think straight last night, and he still felt grief-stricken, gut-punched, betrayed. He forced himself to remember that Alix had known for months what a sly manipulator Geoffrey de Montreau was. She had been fully aware of the deep hatred between him and the Frenchman. Even if she had chosen the Queen and her father over him, would Alix, his Alix, have ever made an alliance with Geoffrey?
“I love you,” she declared once again as he hesitated. “I refuse to allow you to desecrate that love.” So saying, she began to fight in earnest, reminding him that she had never been easy to subdue. She bit at his hand, hard, and doubled up her fist to strike a blow at his genitals. She missed—just—and was having another try when he seized her wrists again and pressed them down beside her shoulders. She kicked instead and laughed at him as he struggled to keep her arching body pinned to the bed. Laughed!
“You’ll have to tie me again. That’s the only way you’ll have me. You think I can’t stop you?” She wrenched one of her hands free and raked her nails across his chest. He reared backward in pain. “I’ll not be treated like this!”
Roger cursed as, slippery as a serpent woman, she slid out from under him and rolled with the sea’s motion to the floor. He was about to dive after her when he saw the metallic flash of his dagger. She rose to her knees beside the bunk, her red hair tangled wildly on her shoulders and breasts, her green eyes huge and round and dilated with anger.
He could have taken it from her, of course. But to do so, he would have to hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to break her—not her, not Alix. There was something proud and passionate in her eyes, something glorious. Look at her, bare-breasted as an Amazon, and as heart-stoppingly militant. His love for her swept through him, disregarding all the voices that ordered it to hide its miserable face.
“You’ve misjudged me. You had reason to do so, that I cannot deny. But what’s between us ought to be stronger than reason. If I hadn’t once made a similar mistake about you, I’d be tempted to thrust this dagger into your vile mistrustful heart.”
He held out his hand, deliberately pitching his voice low. “Give it to me.”
“No.” A strange glimmer came into her eyes, making them greener than ever. “Lie down.”
“What the hell—”
“Do it.” She rose to her feet, her body undulating with the ship, seeming to have found perfect rhythm with the rough motion of the sea. She had her sea legs already, after so short a time aboard. “Down, quickly, on your back.”
“Why?”
“Did I ask you why when you came at me, lechery written all over your face? Men take much delight in rape, it seems. Can a woman vent her anger in like manner? We shall see.” She pressed the flat of the dagger against his chest. “Obey me, Roger.”
He couldn’t credit her words, but the furious determination on her face was impossible to deny. Once again he debated making the two or three economical movements that would put her at his mercy; once again he dismissed the idea. He could not bear to see her humbled, not by him, not by anyone. For surely nowhere on the face of the earth would he find another woman to match his fiercely brave and beautiful Alix.
And so, moving slowly, dreamily, scarcely believing his own actions, he did her bidding, lying full length on his back on the bunk. He waited, holding her gaze while she stared down at him, hesitating. Then he closed his eyes and groaned as she gracefully joined him on the bed, straddling his body and cradling his aching cock between her thighs.
Alexandra wasn’t certain what had possessed her. Her head was buzzing with fury, but the secret place between her legs that had been clenched and cold just minutes ago was now infused with heat. Force her, would he? After all she had gone through on his account? “For nearly a year you’ve rejected me. Now you would take me in violence, as a punishment.” She slid the blade of the knife down over his chest to his hard, flat stomach. She exerted no pressure; in fact she was careful because the sea was rolling and she didn’t want to cut him accidentally. “I do not deserve such treatment. But since you don’t believe that, ‘tis I who will punish you.”
“This is punishment?” Roger’s voice had lightened to something close to a laugh.
“You find it amusing to be sat upon, threatened, stroked intimately against your will?” She brushed her fingers over his stiffened member. When he pulsed in her hand, she felt a delicious answering pulse deep in her own sex.
“Not amusing, exactly,” he gasped as her fingers continued to explore. “Nor is it against my will.” He had to close his eyes because the sight of her naked body riding his set off convulsions in his groin. For a moment he thought he might come in her hand. Had it been that long since he’d had a woman? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. There was no other woman for him but her, no matter what she’d done.
Had she been able to stand back and observe what she was about, Alexandra probably wouldn’t have believed it. But she was totally caught up. It was a wonderful, liberating feeling. She traced the light swirls of hair on his flesh with the tip of her knife, enjoying the sight of his lean virile body lying submissive beneath hers. She let his heat penetrate her limbs; she bent her head and nuzzled his neck, intoxicated by his taste, his musky masculine scent. Seductively she rubbed her breasts against his chest. The craving in her belly multiplied a hundredfold, and the painful stiffness in her arms and legs–a relic from the torture–faded from her awareness altogether.
“Alix,” he moaned as she moved against him. His erection was rampant now, and every motion she made delivered shocks of unbearably sharp sensation. “I want you so much.” He molded her buttocks beneath his palms, trying to position her to receive his thrust, but she resisted. He felt the prick of the knife once again, on his shoulder.
“Not yet.” Her voice was husky. “Curb your impatience. Merwynna has warned me that I must be soft inside to lessen the pain of first penetration.” She moved the blade along the surface of his skin, but it was barely touching him. “You are experienced in these matters. Pleasure me.”
Roger drew a deep breath, then let it out in a burst of frustrated laughter. He couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Everything had run together, nothing made any sense. Surely no virgin would straddle him shamelessly and play erotic games with a knife? “What of Geoffrey de Montreau’s bed?”
Her frank green eyes looked directly into his. “One who cannot. I put a witch’s curse upon him to save myself from his attempted rape.”
“Oh, certainly, Alix—”
“Be still. Do not say again that you do not believe me or I will put the same curse upon you.”
He raised his hands to her breasts and gently kneaded them. Has she gone mad? he wondered. Have I? “Put no curse on me, sweetling. If you command me to pleasure you, I will obey.”
His thumbs isolated her rosy nipples, passing over and over them until they hardened. She gasped. He twirled them, tugged them, pinched them gently, noting with satisfaction the slackness that came over her features as he aroused her, the increasing fire in her eyes.
Breathing hard with his own arousal, he swept her entire body with his hands, her shoulders and arms, her breasts, her belly, her hipbones, her thighs. The feel of her velvety skin against his fingers dazzled him. One hand moved slowly to tease the tangled thatch just above the mound of her sex. It was flame-colored, like the hair on her head. He feathered the curls there, moving his fingers in rhythmic circles that dropped ever lower. She made a sound deep in the back of her throat as he touched the tender, vulnerable flesh between her legs and probed her gently. She was moist now; she was hot. Soft as peaches, ripe and bursting with juice. Her eyes closed; she swayed under his expert touch. The dagger slipped out of her fingers and thumped upon the floor.
“Kiss me.” He pulled her down until she was sprawled on top of him. His mouth sought hers, he drank her in. He moved his tongue over hers, courting, tempting; then he caught her bottom lip between his teeth and bore down enough to make her cry out and arch her lower body yearningly against his. His cock leapt. The pleasure was already intense, but he needed more.
“Alix.” This was the woman he loved. Sweet, passionate, responsive. And exciting. Even now she was not granting him total control. She was taunting him with her breasts, the witch, and moving so lithely astride him that his attempts to hold her still and claim her irrevocably were futile.
“Touch me again.” He captured her hand and moved it down his body. “I need to feel your fingers around me.”
Willingly she explored his thick and throbbing shaft, delighting when he sighed and shuddered beneath her touch. His response surprised and pleased her. She hadn’t expected to elicit so strong a reaction with her inexpert wooing.
“Not too much,” he warned. He was fighting to breathe evenly, to restrain himself. “I’m near the edge.” With both hands he stilled her, poising her above him. Dear God, she was fair—those flashing green eyes, that pale honeyed flesh, those clouds of red hair. She was everything he had ever imagined, and more. Last night was forgotten. He knew nothing but the present, acknowledged nothing beyond the fact that her light-boned femininity was the perfect complement to his dark masculinity, and that he couldn’t wait another second to unify the two. “I’m going to tak
e you now, beloved. Are you soft inside? Are you ready for me? Are you willing?”
“Yes, yes, oh yes.”
“Then raise your hips and guide me.”
She followed his directions, raising her body enough to allow his cock to press against her swollen, moistened tissues. The intimate sensation made her cry out. He was breathing hard; they both were. His hands moved to her waist as he carefully eased her down. He groaned at the contact and thrust wildly, feeling himself slide deliciously inside her opening, then lodge there. She was tense.
“Easy now, beloved. Relax.” He found the tip of her breast again and fondled her encouragingly. He drove harder, his body trembling as he tried to curb the lust raging inside him. It mustn’t be over too fast. She needed time. He should have brought her to her climax first with his hands or with his mouth, as he had done that night in the witch’s cottage. God, she was so small inside. She was hanging on to his shoulders with nails that bit into his flesh, and her body was recoiling from his, refusing him entrance.
She was a virgin, he realized. Of course, of course she was a virgin, and of course Geoffrey de Montreau had lied.
“Alix?” He began to tremble. He tried to withdraw from her, knowing with self-loathing that he hadn’t truly believed her until this moment. Body of Christ! He was debauching a virgin; he was injuring his oldest friend. He was doing the very thing he’d tried for so many months to avoid.
“Don’t stop.” She slid her fingers into his hair. “Please. You must cease being ‘one who will not.’ The prophecy is fulfilled: one who cannot, one who will not, one who dares not, one who dies. Geoffrey, you, Alan, and Will. It is over.”
“Dammit, Alix! What else did he lie about? I abducted you, hurt you. I came in here tonight intending to brutalize you.” His voice trailed off as the full implications of Geoffrey’s treachery assailed him. “I can’t take a virgin, not this way, not with anger and cruelty between us. You’ll hate me.”
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