Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  Isabella bit her lip.

  "Perhaps not, but at least he would not have despised me."

  "I do not despise ye, 'Sabelle," Warrick told her.

  "Don't ye?"

  "Nay."

  "Oh, God," the girl breathed with anguish. "Let us at least have honesty between us—if nothing else. Ye never wished to marry me."

  "'Twas nothing against ye, 'Sabelle. I had no desire to wed any wench. But as the King commanded me to marry, I would as lief have wed ye as any other. At least I wanted ye... still want ye—" His voice trailed off meaningfully as he moved to take her in his arms once more.

  "Wouldst rape an unwilling maid?" Isabella suddenly cried out in protest against him.

  He must not touch her; he must not! She would be lost, she thought again, lost to him forever. Somehow, deep in her heart, she knew it was true. He would waken that dark side of her, set it aflame with desire, and she would never be free of him, not as long as she lived.

  He laid his hand upon her throat, his eyes glittering strangely.

  "Willing or nay, have ye I shall," he vowed with fierce intent.

  Afterward, Isabella never remembered just exactly how it had happened; but somehow, suddenly, Warrick was kissing her, kissing her as she had never been kissed before in her life, draining her very soul from her being, then pouring it back in again, filling her to overflowing, blinding her to everything but him. Her heart pounded jerkily in her breast with a hope she feared to feel and something akin to pain that came with it: for the promise of a love that would last for always was on his lips, and she knew it was but a lie. No man loved like that. Lionel had not loved her like that. Warrick did not love her like that, would never love her like that; so why was his mouth kissing her like this, as though he were giving every part of himself to her and asking for every part of her in return? Oh, why did he want her heart when he did not love her? Wasn't it enough that Lionel had hurt her deeply? Must Warrick tear her apart inside too?

  "Nay, oh, nay," she whimpered, trying to free herself from his all-enveloping embrace, but his arms only closed about her more tightly, holding her near, pressing her to him.

  Oh, Christ, sweet Christ, what had she done to him? He had meant only to take her, as he had taken countless other wenches; but from the moment he had kissed her, Warrick had been swept away by something stronger than lust, deeper than desire. It was as though Isabella had been made for him, for she fit against him perfectly, her gentle curves just right for the length of his hard, muscular body. The rose scent of her perfume invaded his flaring nostrils, engulfmg him with its sultry, enticing fragrance. He felt as though he were drowning in it—and he did not care. The taste of her lips was sweeter than the wine he had drunk earlier. How was such possible? Surely, the girl had bewitched him in some manner, drugged his liquor with some potion. Why else would his head be spinning in this fashion? Why else would his flesh feel as though it were on fire where it pressed against her yielding softness? Why else would he be filled with this strange, all-consuming presentiment that his destiny for all time lay in Isabella's arms? The idea was ridiculous! She was only a wench, like any other. But still, he could not halt the tide of overwhelming passion that rushed through him, making him long to take her savagely and make her his, daring her to deny that she belonged to him—and him alone. He wanted her—all of her—not just her body, but her heart and soul as well; and yet, if someone had asked him why, he could not have replied. He knew only that the night was suddenly filled with magic, and he yearned for Isabella as he had never desired another woman in his life.

  "'Sabelle, 'Sabelle," he moaned hoarsely against her mouth.

  He kissed the tremblmg comers of her lips, thrilled by the manner in which they quivered beneath his mouth. Then he teased them gently with his tongue, tracing the outlme of her lips as though he were memorizing every curve, every detail, of their so sweetly vulnerable shape. Though she tried to resist him, still, he parted her mouth, forced it open with his tongue, ravaged it tenderly, at first, caressingly, tasting every drop of the nectar within, savoring it lingeringly until the fever in his blood drove him to be more demanding. He ground his lips down on hers hard, almost savagely, so she was compelled to kiss him back, did not even realize she was doing so. Her mind was a blank, a heady swirl of dizzying sensations that flooded her being like a maelstrom, sweeping all thought away. Her mouth grew warm, tingling inside, where his tongue pillaged it, devoured it, as

  though he could not get enough of her. And like a piece of driftwood, she was carried away by the tide of emotions he was unleashing inside of her. Oh, God. What was he doing to her?

  'Tis the wine, she thought. Aye, 'tis the wine. Surely, 'tis only the wine.

  But she knew, in her heart, it was not.

  "Warrick... Warrick," she murmured his name aloud, a sigh of wanting that fell plaintively in the silence, and she did not even hear it. She was melting inside, her bones turning to liquid ore as unconsciously she molded herself against him, her hands reaching up to entwine themselves in the rich tobacco-brown waves of his hair.

  Impatiently, roughly, he yanked away the sheet to bare her nakedness to his raking gaze, but she did not care. She did not even see how his eyes darkened with hot hunger at the sight of her creamy flesh. She knew only that his hands were moving on her body, stroking her lightly: her throat, her breasts, her belly, her thighs. His fingers were like feathers everywhere upon her skin; she was shivering all over from his touch, shuddering with the delight and desire he was arousing in her.

  He was so gentle with her; why had she ever feared him? Truly, no maid had ever had a more tender initiation into the rites of lovemaking. How strange that it should be so. He did not love her. He had married her only to fulfill the King's command. Why, then, was Warrick taking her as though she were a beloved bride? And why was she responding so wantonly to his kisses, his caresses? It was Lionel she loved—wasn't it?

  Warrick's heart raced as he explored her body. He marveled at the softness of her skin, like velvet beneath his hands, and the smallness of her frame, so very fragile, she seemed almost like a will'o-the-wisp in his arms. He was so strong and powerful; he could have conquered her easily, without effort. But her willing surrender had become important to him. Warrick wanted her to want him as much as he desired her.

  His palms cupped her breasts, tightened gently upon the full ripe mounds that filled his hands. Lightly, he brushed her nipples, over and over, until they were hard little peaks of excitement, aching for his caresses, his kisses. His fingers slid slowly over the rosy crests; his thumbs flicked at the tiny buds. He took one small firm button in his mouth. Languidly, he sucked it until Isabella felt a strange yearning begin to grow inside of her. His teeth closed gingeriy about the pink tip, nuzzled it, nibbled it. His tongue teased it moistiy, licking it, swirling about it in the

  most delicious manner, sending ripples of ecstasy radiating from it in all directions. He could feel Isabella trembling and saw her fling her head back in exultation as the quicksilver waves washed through her body. She felt as though she were floating, floating like spindrift upon a sea of rapture. Oh, sweet Jesu. How she wanted him!

  His lips closed over her other nipple, stimulating it as he had done its mate, then traveled deliberately down the length of her to her belly. His hands slipped down her legs, fingers trailing along the insides of her thighs, then back up, then down again, taunting her.

  A tormenting ache started deep in the secret place of Isabella's womanhood and spread through her blood like wildfire. She bumed for Warrick to quench the heat of urgency within her, the blaze that scorched her so tempestuously, craving release. Instinctively, she arched against him, whimpering a little.

  In response, his hand sought her there at last, found the downy curls and pliant folds of the valley wherein no man before had ever trod. His fingers caressed her rhythmically, tantalizingly, until she was warm and wet, pulsating with the mounting beat of frantic desire that thrummed in her veins. S
lowly, sensing her need, he eased the ache, filling her inside, stroking the depths of her with tiny, fluttering movements of his fingers that wakened her passion to its fullest, roused it to a feverish pitch that was almost unbearable.

  He pressed his mouth to the unfolding petals of her woman's flower, tasting the honeyed nectar of her being. He tongued her deliberately until she writhed beneath him, moaning down low in her throat, her hands drawing him even nearer. She inhaled sharply with shock and pleasure at the intimate contact as the slow, throbbing tremors within her started to build with an intensity that made her think she would surely explode if they continued. And then suddenly, without warning, it was as though a thousand stars had burst within her, sending bolts of white-hot coruscation through her body. She gasped breathlessly once more, exhaled, panted raggedly for air.

  No longer able to contain himself, Warrick rose, covering her body with his own. His hard maleness sought and found her, entered her forcefully, so she barely felt the sudden stab of pain that accompanied his assault, though she cried out until he silenced her lips with his own, kissing her fervently, as though again, he could not get enough of her. His mouth slashed like a brand across her cheek to her temple and then the silvery tresses

  of her long damp hair. His breath was warm in her ear, where he muttered thickly, brokenly, words that Isabella only dimly heard, only half-understood; she was so filled with rapture. Deliberately, he withdrew, then drove into her once more; and this time, he did not leave her but lay atop her instead, accustoming her to the feel of him inside of her.

  She could feel the sinews in his powerful arms standing out like cords, supporting his weight as finally he began to move again, plunging into her over and over, gyrating down into the moist, molten core of her.

  Never interrupting the motion, he rolled slightly to one side, taking her with him so she rested upon one hip. He draped her free leg in the crook of his arm and grasped her buttocks, helping her meet his now-rapid thrusts. Isabella could feel the muscles in his sweating back ripple beneath her calf as she tightened her leg more firmly about him and put her arms around his neck.

  Warrick threw his head back, breathing heavily, his hawklike face naked with desire as he stared down at her.

  "Do ye want me?" he asked, his amber shards dark with passion and filled with a strange expectancy. "Tell me ye want me, 'Sabelle!"

  The girl shivered with an odd thrill of vulnerability at the words, for it was as though Warrick were demanding her surrender, as though she no longer belonged to herself but to him

  "Aye, I want ye," she whispered, unable to deny him.

  His eyes closed. He groaned and crushed her to him possessively, burying his face in her shoulder, kissing that sensitive place at the curve of her neck, spiraling into her faster and faster until she cried out once more at the scintillating suns that flared within her, turning her to brilliant flame. The earth seemed to rock beneath her. Her head reeled. For one blind, exhilarating eternity, Isabella thought she would faint. As though from a distance, she heard Warrick's low moan of joy, felt the racking shudders that shook his body until, at last, he was still.

  It was over.

  His kissed her gently, lightly, several times on the mouth, then laid his head again upon her shoulder. Quietly, they rested together, waiting for the frantic pace of their breathing and hearts to slow. Finally, Warrick moved from Isabella's body, though still, he held her close, cradling her tenderly in his warm embrace.

  They did not speak, for neither knew what to say. They had been swept away by the unexpected magic of the night, and now, they were confused and a little frightened by what had happened

  between them. It was not love. Nay, it could not be love. Love was but a lie that only fools believed.

  For a moment, Warrick stared at Isabella intently, searchingly, as though seeking something he had not previously thought to find. But she closed her eyes and turned away from his gaze so he could not see the expression on her countenance. Physically and emotionally drained, she was too vulnerable to face him now, this instant. He was so clever at guessing her thoughts; he would know immediately how his lovemaking had affected her, the strange hope and yearning for him that had risen in her heart; and he would use the knowledge to hurt her. To the girl's surprise, Warrick did not force her to look at him once more, as he had done earlier. He merely lay there beside her, playing idly with a strand of her silky, tangled hair and thinking.

  It was only later, much later, that, despite her whispered protests, he took her in his arms again, this time teaching her about himself and the things he desired as well.

  Chapter Twenty

  ISABELLA STIRRED GENTLY AS THE FIRST PALE streaks of the rose dawn lit the sky. There was something different about the day; she knew. But it was not until she felt the tightening of Warrick's arms about her that she realized what it was. In a rush, the events of last night came flooding back to her, causing her to blush painfully with shame and mortification. God's blood! How could she have behaved so wantonly, allowed herself to be so completely conquered by this man who lay beside her, siu--rendered so willingly to his strong, enveloping embrace?

  'Twas the wine, she thought dully. 'Twas only the wine.

  But the girl knew, in her heart, it was not true. Oh, sweet Jesii. What had Warrick done to her?

  Cautiously, so as not to waken him, she turned her head slightly to study him curiously, as though somehow expecting to find him changed; but he was not. Though the hard lines of his face were not as pronounced in sleep, there was still an arrogance about his dark, handsome visage that could not be denied. But strangely enough, Isabella felt no fear of him now. Caerllywel had been right. Warrick had not beaten or abused her, as the giri had been half-afraid he might; and though she suspected the Earl would not be above dealing her a few sharp slaps in a rage, she knew

  now that he would not physically ill-use her, as many men did their wives. Had Warrick been as cruel as she had first thought, he would not have taken her with such tenderness last night, taking the time to be certain she knew pleasure too. He would simply have raped her instead, brutally, without care for her feelings. But he had not. There was some kindness and compassion in him. At least Isabella could be grateful for that. At least she would not have to spend the rest of her life with a man who would savagely torment her.

  The rest of her life. How strange that sounded. How strange to think that every morning now, for as long as she lived, she would awaken with Warrick lying beside her, one arm about her possessively, one hand tangled in her cascading mane of hair. In the past, the girl had always slept alone. Now, unless her husband were gone, she would never sleep alone again, for Warrick was not a man who would not claim what was rightfully his. He had made that quite clear last night. Isabella shivered a little as she recalled the words he had spoken.

  Willing or nay, have ye I shall.

  Aye, Warrick would take her whenever he wished, and she would be helpless against him. Worse yet was the terrible knowledge that, despite what she felt in her heart and mind, her body wanted him; and he knew it. Yet, there had been more than just lust between them last night; surely, there had been. Did a man truly take a woman as Warrick had taken her if there was not some spark of caring in him for her? Isabella bit her lip. Her knowledge of courtship and lovemaking was so limited that she did not know. Perhaps all .men were liars and cheats, masters of deception and duplicity who stole your heart, then shattered it into a million pieces. The girl sighed wistfully, her heart aching at the depressing thought. She wondered how it would have been, had it been Lionel who had taken her last night, Lionel, whom she had loved.

  Warrick, who had awakened and was watching her silently, saw her face soften briefly, dreamily, and guessed the cause. His nostrils flared whitely. Isabella was his wife, by God; and though he had taken her fiercely last night, with a torrid passion that had inflamed them both, he had been gentle with her, and she had responded to him in a manner he had not believed possible. He h
ad almost dared to hope she did not truly hate him after all, that they might yet make something of this marriage they had not wanted. Now, this mom, though he held his bride in his arms,

  Warrick knew her heart and mind were with Lionel Valeureux, The thought filled him with rage.

  "Do not even think of him, madam," the Earl ordered coldly, startling the girl. Marry-go-up! How long had he been awake, and how had he read her mind so easily? It was uncanny, and for a moment, all her fear of him returned. Was she to have no secrets from this man? "Like it or not, ye are mine," he continued wamingly, "and I will have no other in your thoughts. Do ye understand, 'Sabelle?" His golden eyes pierced her own grey-green ones, as though he could see into her very soul.

  Isabella shuddered slightly and turned away.

  "I—I do not know what ye mean, my lord," she said. "My thoughts were of no one special."

  "Do not lie to me, madam!" Warrick snapped, catching her jaw and compelling her to look at him. "I saw your face, and 'twas easy enough to read. Well, ye will never know the answer to your question, for ye will never share the bed of Lionel Va-leureux or any other man save me. Is that clear? Ye are my wife—"

  "Well, I wish I were not!"

  Warrick's mouth tightened with anger. His eyes narrowed.

  "No more than do I, my lady; I assure ye. Nevertheless, 'tis done, and we must live with it. And if ye wish to find some semblance of happiness in our relationship, ye had best learn to obey me."

  "Happiness! What do ye know of happiness, my lord? Ye, who arc bitter and cruel! Ye know naught of joy. Naught!" Isabella cried out in defense.

  Warrick smiled hatefully, mockingly.

  "Do I not?" he asked. "Once more, ye lie, madam. Tell me, if ye can, that I didst not give ye joy last night and receive it in return."