“You are mine, Bronwyn. Now and forever. And I would notice.”
“Why should I care?”
“Because you would be destroying everyone’s Christmas. For if you try to depart from Hunswick without my approval, I will find you and use every able man to do so.”
Bronwyn openly gaped at him, realizing he was completely serious.
Father Morrell, in hearing distance of the conversation, made another one of his blaring coughs. He then gave them both a slicing look she hadn’t thought possible out of the cherublike face and held up a bowl of spiced and scented water. “It is a time for quiet. A day for being with loved ones, and sharing love together…” The man had started his sermon, making further conversation just like everything else around her…impossible.
Chapter Eight
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1154
SAINT STEPHEN’S DAY
Saint Stephen was the first Christian to be martyred for his faith by being stoned to death shortly after Christ’s crucifixion, furnishing him the highest of the three classes of martyrdom—by will, love, and blood. Though not definitive, some theologians date the holiday back to the Early Middle Ages (400 A.D.), originating with the nobles of England, who celebrated the day with food, fun, and gift giving of practical items such as cloth, tools, feed, grain, and often money to those who supported their rule. In medieval times, monetary gifts would be distributed to families in hollow clay pots called “piggies” with slits in the top, which would be broken to retrieve the money. Many records have this tradition as obligatory and not optional, and by 1871, the gifts were supplied via boxes, causing December 26 to be known as “Boxing Day.”
Tyr swiveled his head, which was relaxing on the back of the comfortable chair, to see who was entering the Great Hall at the very late hour. Midnight had passed some time ago and besides a few snoring men passed out from too much food and drink, he and Ranulf were the only two left awake. The wind howled and slammed the door shut, but no one awoke. The sizable fire flickered, but it remained lit and more than able to keep the spacious room warm for a couple more hours.
It had taken time, and much ale, to get Ranulf to forgive the intrusive tactics to get him to the altar, but he finally had. The relief Tyr felt had been enormous. He could have borne not having Ranulf as a friend—he had endured the loss of much worse in his life—but he would not have liked it.
Ranulf sighed as he approached and sank down into the seat next to Tyr. He outstretched his long legs and balanced the heel of one foot on the toes of his other, staring at them. The man was tormenting himself and had been for hours.
Tyr slouched farther down into the chair, intertwined his fingers over his satiated abdomen, and closed his eyes. “I hope you don’t need any more walks to gather your courage. Yesterday is over, my friend, and your wedding night will soon be as well if you don’t hurry up and join your wife. Has it been so long you have forgotten how? Need any tips?”
“Not from you,” Ranulf grunted, his tone laced with anger.
Tyr’s hazel eyes popped open and glanced at Ranulf. “My God, you still sound jealous, and after all I did to ensure she became your wife!”
“Just you wait,” Ranulf mumbled, wishing he could somehow physically force Tyr to be silent. “Someday you will find someone, and with your impetuous personality, you will act far more out of character than I.”
Tyr shook his head and closed his eyes again. “Not me. I swore an oath.”
“An oath you made when you were barely a man,” Ranulf mumbled, unable to expound further as he knew nothing about the reasons behind the ardent vow.
“Still, it is one I intend to keep. But,” Tyr added in a mocking tone, “if there was ever any example of marital bliss that might get me to change my mind, it would be you and your devoted wife. I have never seen a couple more happy or excited to be married than you two.”
“Someone should muzzle your tongue.”
“Not until you leave. I need it to annoy you into getting up and going to your wife. Consider it another wedding gift.”
Realizing his friend was serious and still drunk enough to disregard the possible consequences, Ranulf rose to leave.
“You can thank me tomorrow,” Tyr muttered.
Bronwyn locked her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth on the rug in front of the fireplace. Her wedding day had ended alone and it seemed her wedding night was going to conclude the same way. And she was not sure how she felt about it.
When Ranulf had ordered her guard to escort her from the feast while it was still lively, she had thought he would soon follow to discuss the situation they were in and determine a course of action, but he never arrived. So she had tried to leave and had been stopped by Norval, who supposedly stayed to ensure her protection. Ha! Ranulf wanted to keep her trapped so that she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—leave. Why would he force her into a marriage he clearly did not want? Why had she not left the very hour she learned of his decision to marry Lily?
Bronwyn had been asking those questions and others repeatedly for hours. She was exhausted but unable to sleep. So she sat in silence and listened, wondering if Ranulf would ever return. When finally she heard the heedless bang of the Tower Keep’s courtyard door, her heart lurched and the frustration that had been mounting rapidly changed to overwhelming sadness. She did not want to be married to Ranulf. Not like this. By the time the footsteps reached the solar door, a new set of tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Ranulf entered his chambers and his gaze immediately darted toward the bed, seeking Bronwyn’s sleeping form. He had hoped if he waited long enough, she would be asleep so that he could crawl in next to her and pull her close. Then if things went ideally, Bronwyn would awaken in his arms, and before she realized what was happening, he could remind her of how much she enjoyed his touch and the pleasures it could bring.
But she was awake. And crying. And far from desiring his ideal plan.
Taking a deep breath, he sauntered up to the chair behind her and sat down. Her back was toward him, as she was hunched over her knees. Her long hair was still covered by the painful headdress and he longed to see it down. “Take that thing off and never don one again,” he barked, not intending for his first words to be so harsh or critical.
Bronwyn blinked. She had forgotten she was still wearing the dreaded thing. After entering the solar and realizing the truth of her situation, everything else disappeared, including her own discomfort. Still, of all the things for him to say, his dislike for part of her outfit was not what she had expected. Then again, the unrelated topic helped to compose her own emotional state.
Slowly she rose to her feet and unpinned the white linen strapped around her chin so she could pull the wire contraption completely off her head. After shaking her hair free, Bronwyn tossed the miniature prison into the fire. Then without a word, she walked over to the peg where his pointed Phrygian cap hung next to the mantel. Only once had she actually seen Ranulf holding the odd-shaped item, and it had been at a distance and from the back. Even in his hand the large coxcomb peak had looked wrong. If she were ever to see Ranulf wearing it, she imagined he would be something between appalling and repulsive.
Yanking the cap off the stake, she tossed it, too, into the fire. “I hate that cap more than you dislike my wimple, my lord.”
“No caps for me or for everyone at Hunswick?”
Bronwyn shrugged. She thought they looked ridiculous on all men, but to ban them in the middle of winter was absurd. “Just you,” she muttered.
Ranulf leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees. He wanted to ask why just him, but he suspected he knew and he wasn’t in the mood to hear the denigration aloud—or from her. Especially tonight. He stared at his thumbs and debated if he should ask the other question on his mind. “Do you need more time?” he finally asked.
Bronwyn blinked. Time? she wanted to scream. All I’ve had was time. “For what?” she snapped.
Ranulf gulped. “I don’t know. I ju
st…well, I mean I took a walk after you came here…to think. I thought you would want some time to do so as well, alone with no festivities to interrupt your thoughts. But if you need more time, I can leave.”
Bronwyn forced her gaping mouth, which had slowly opened during his speech, to close. This whole time she had not been thinking anything. She had been feeling, and most of it was anger—all directed toward him. Suddenly at a loss for words, she crossed in front of the hearth toward the empty chair on his right and sat down. “I don’t need more time to think,” she asserted just strong enough to be believed.
Ranulf continued to stare at his thumbs, but he could see her sitting straight backed in the chair with her elbows resting on the wooden arms in his peripheral vision. The chair on his left had been closer to her, but she had moved to his right so that she would remain in his line of sight. The gesture had been unconscious, but at a deeper level, it had also been intentional. Not a soul in his life—even his friends Garik and Tyr, who had known him for years—was ever so deliberately considerate. Rather, he was always the one to make adjustments or move to where he could best see. Sometimes he felt like he was chasing events rather than participating in them. But not with Bronwyn. And in this one small act she reminded him of a fact he had almost forgotten. She was his soul mate.
Somehow, he needed her to understand how important she was without making her retract even farther away from him. “I want you to know that this marriage, despite how it came about, is an acceptable one to me. With you, I am…comfortable, something I don’t feel around most people. Especially women,” he clarified. “We are also…physically compatible and the people of Hunswick love you and see you already as their Lady. It is appropriate that you remain so.”
Bronwyn was now even more at a loss for words. Appropriate, comfortable, compatible…not the words a woman wanted to hear on her wedding night. Passion, love, desire, these were the things she felt for him. It was one thing to be alone, but to be alone with someone you cared about was a torture Bronwyn wasn’t sure she could endure for long. After their afternoon together, she needed to be touched by him, held by him, not just serve as sporadic company. “Would you expect this to be a…a real marriage?”
“As a lord, I need sons.”
His answer sent a shiver down her spine. She was not sure if she was relieved or bothered by the indifferent reason. “I’m not sure that I can…be with you.”
Ranulf’s breathing deepened to an audible level. “I said I would give you more time.”
“I don’t need time,” Bronwyn insisted with a wave of her hand and stood up to pace. “I need to know…” She paused and looked at him, pleading for him to understand what she could not ask.
In one smooth movement, Ranulf rose and grasped her upper arms. “What, Bronwyn? What do you need to know?”
Bronwyn. He had spoken her name. Not an endearment. No “angel,” no “my lady.” She closed her eyes. “Nothing,” she whispered.
Ranulf caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her head so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”
Once again he was seducing her, and her body was coming alive in his arms. She wrenched free. “How can I lie with you when you wanted my sister?”
Ranulf caught Bronwyn’s face between his hands and kissed her almost savagely, invading her mouth with a soft intimate aggression that seared her senses. She heard him make a soft, hoarse sound and felt his pelvis smash up against the junction of her legs. His hardness, evidence of his desire, was nestled so intimately against her that it rattled her nerves all the way down to her toes.
Deep inside her something responded to the obvious masculine need in him. A soft whimper came from deep in her throat and her fingers clenched around his shoulders. Gradually, the kiss softened until it was so tender, so full of feeling, she felt like she was choking.
He released her lips but he did not pull back. Instead, he traced the lines of her jaw with his fingers. “Does that answer your question? For let me tell you now, I never have and never will desire another.”
His voice was deep, husky, caressing. The sensual sound nearly pushed reason aside. She had been so hurt. Bronwyn was not sure she could survive another disappointment. It would be better to run and live with the memories than stay and face that pain ever again.
Ranulf cradled her face in his hands and studied her eyes, consuming them as if he could discern the essence of her spirit. “I meant what I said, Bronwyn. I will never let you leave me. Never. So end your plans of Scotland and disappearing in the middle of the night, for I will hunt you down and claim what is mine. And you are mine. And I never let go of what belongs to me.”
His possessive speech riled her enormously. She wanted to retort that she belonged to no one, but it wasn’t true. She couldn’t retreat now even if a part of her still wanted to do so. She belonged to him, and his kiss proved that no matter what had happened or would happen, she would desire him and need him in ways that made leaving impossible.
Urging Bronwyn to her tiptoes, Ranulf pulled her close once again for another kiss, this time long and soft and deep, capturing her tongue and drawing it into his own mouth. “Promise me, angel. Promise me that you won’t leave,” he demanded huskily between breaths.
Ranulf wasn’t spouting out words of love, but it did not matter. She was bound to him by law and by spirit. “I promise,” she murmured.
A deep groan of satisfaction escaped his throat and his hand delved into her hair as he kissed her again and again, each time demanding more of her. Then his mouth was gone and she could once again breathe. He kept her close and buried his face in her wild mane.
After a few seconds, Bronwyn realized he was shaking. “What’s wrong?”
Ranulf let go a brief snort, clearly disgusted with his own lack of restraint. “I cannot even kiss you without being in danger of losing control. And I cannot lose what little I still possess, not when I am so close. Damn, Tyr was right.”
Bronwyn pulled out of his embrace so she could look at him. The amount of emotional intensity staring back at her made her heart race. “I don’t understand.”
With the backs of his knuckles, he caressed her cheek. “You are married to a most ignorant man when it comes to your sex. I have never courted a woman, sought after one, or cared about whether or not she received satisfaction in my arms. With you, though…I want so badly to give you pleasure, teach you and delight you in ways to make you happy—more than happy—and I am afraid I am going to fail.”
Bronwyn’s heart swelled, nearly choking her. Ranulf claimed no love for her—nothing of the intense feelings that she had for him—but he did want to please her and care for her. It was enough. It was time to let go of how and why they came to be married and to just love him.
Taking another step back, she slowly began to undo the ties of her bliaut. Her fingers shook with nervousness. Undressing in front of a man was not something Bronwyn had ever done before, and last time, Ranulf had removed her gown in a whirlwind of passion that had completely overtaken her senses. Tonight’s coupling would be deliberate.
The silver shimmering mass fell to her feet. Seeing his shocked reaction, she gained more confidence, and leisurely, she slipped her hose off each leg. “You won’t fail, Ranulf. You have never failed at anything before.” Then standing before him wearing nothing but a diaphanous undergarment, she leaned toward him and said softly, just above a whisper, “I trust you. I always have.”
Ranulf felt her hands upon his chest and stared down at her, unbelieving fortune could have changed to his favor. This morning, he had been doomed for a dismal eternity, but instead, standing before him was a woman giving him everything he had dreamed of but never thought he would possess.
He laid his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent while collecting his thoughts. Ranulf craved to pick her up and carry her to his bed without further prelude, remembering how she felt, all soft and willing pressed up against him. His body quickened at the
thought, and he silently cursed his own weakness. This time he refused to rush. Tonight was about her.
Bronwyn arched her head back and softened her mouth into the barest of smiles. She couldn’t believe it, but she was nervous. Last time, passion had dictated everything, not allowing enough time or the ability to think about what she was doing. But now, Ranulf was restraining himself for her sake. She was appreciative, but what she really wanted was for him to make unrestrained love to her and show her once again what it felt like to be beautiful and desired.
Pulling back the opening of his shirt, he felt her lips kiss the warm skin of his chest as she inhaled his musky scent. “Angel,” he groaned in a deep guttural voice as her mouth seared his skin. She lifted her head and he stared down at her. Bronwyn flicked her tongue over her lips and every muscle in his body seized. He turned her around in his embrace and she leaned back against him. How was he going to keep things slow? His blood was roaring in his ears as it raced like liquid fire through his veins. He closed his arms around her and began to loosen the ties of her chemise.
As the garment fell to the floor, he leaned over until his mouth touched the smooth white skin of her throat. A soft sigh escaped her lips, causing his loins to throb with increased need. Keeping her facing away from him, he quickly disrobed before scooping her into his heavily muscled arms. In three long steps, he reached the side of the bed and tenderly placed her among the pillows.
Shy of her own nakedness, Bronwyn reached out to him and tried to sit up, but Ranulf placed his hand against her shoulder, compelling her to lie back. The firelight flickered over her body and his heated gaze swept over her, taking her in from head to toe. She was beautiful. Perfect. His.
His jaw tightened and he closed his eye. How could he have ever believed that he could spend even one minute in the arms of another woman after being with Bronwyn?
Unable to wait any longer, he lowered himself until he covered her body with his own. His mouth swirled around her ear as his hand molded to her side, tracing a path to her breasts, making her bend to him. A low rumble of satisfaction escaped from deep within Bronwyn. She raised her head and pulled his lips down to hers, opening to him, tasting him hungrily as his thumbs cruised gently over her nipples, relishing her response.
The Christmas Knight Page 24