And he did, though Isabella fought him desperately that night, months later, when his patience finally ended, and as he had warned her, Warrick came to claim, by force, that which was rightfully his.
She was no match for him. She never had been. Her slight, slender body struggling against his was like a willow attempting to stand tall against the wind. She knew she must bend—or he would break her. One look at his anguished, desire-filled face told her that. He wanted her—whatever the cost—and had thrown away his pride to have her.
Still, she resisted him, compelling herself to think of Giles and how he had died, what he suffered at Warrick's hands, those same hands that were, even now, pinning her own behind her back, moving slowly, tantalizingly, over her body, tearing impatiently at the lacings of her gown and the soft material of her undergarments.
"Nay," Isabella whispered. "Nay."
But even to her ears, the words sounded like faint moans of pleasure elicited by her husband's caresses as she writhed against him; and she knew she was lost.
For a timeless moment, he stared down at her, his gaze searching her face, taking in the dishevelment of her silvery tresses that tangled down about her in disarray; the wide, fathomless pools of her grey-green eyes; the dark, crescent smudges her long black lashes made against her pink cheeks when she closed the orbs against his scrutiny; the fine straight nose, its nostrils flaring slightly with anger—and slowly awakening passion; the tremu-
lously parted mouth; the small pulse beating jerkily at the hollow of her throat.
Warrick's yellow eyes swept lower, to the bodice he had torn open just minutes past to reveal the swell of her ripe round breasts that rose and fell rapidly at his nearness. Like a starving man, he feasted on the sight, savoring it, anticipating the banquet yet to come. Then Isabella began to struggle against him once more, bringing him back to the present.
Almost savagely, he caught the shimmering cascade of her hair and twisted her face up to his, his lips closing over her own, so gently, at first, that she was taken by surprise by the tenderness of his kiss. Oh, God. How long had it been since she had tasted his mouth, felt those carnal lips moving sensuously upon her own? Her head spun dazedly, and her belly shuddered, as though the earth had suddenly dropped from beneath her feet. His tongue darted forth, outlining lingeringly the sweetly vulnerable shape of her mouth before parting her lips to explore the softness inside. Her mouth grew hot, tingling with electric sparks of shock as his tongue continued its onslaught against her, searching out every hidden place within, until, at last, she was kissing him back, meeting his tongue swirl for swirl and, with her teeth, nibbling his lips, even as he did her own, making her feel dizzy and faint.
Dimly, she tried again to think of her brother and how he had died, but the memory turned to mist and escaped from her, chased away by her husband's kisses until her mind was but a dark, hungry void, aching to be filled by him. Blindly, she fought against the yearning, attempted once more to free herself from Warrick's grasp; but he only held her more tightly, forcing her to respond to him.
A tide of emotion whirled up to engulf her as roughly now, demandingly, his mouth closed over hers again, and once more, his tongue plunged between her trembling lips, plundering the honey that lay within. Isabella gasped with outrage at his assault—aye, and with desire too; she could not deny that, any more than she could deny Warrick, her husband, her own true love. Even now, her traitorous body was molding itself to his; her very bones were melting inside of her, turning to quicksilver as he continued to stroke and fondle her, touching her in ways and places that no other man had ever touched her, would ever touch her. Her treacherous heart beat fast within her breast; the tiny pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttered like the wings of a butterfly when Warrick kissed it, teased it with his tongue, nipped at it lightly with his teeth. Briefly, half-heartedly, she
tried one last time to elude him, but the fight had gone out of her at last. Warrick had claimed her as his, and she was powerless to deny him. Oh, God, what was he doing to her?
Again and again, his lips seared hers until it seemed he meant to go on kissing her forever, drain every last ounce of resistance from her body, leaving her weak and helpless against him. Over and over, feverishly, his mouth slashed like a whip across her face to her cheeks, her temples, her hair, her ears, her throat, then back to her lips, until her mouth was bruised and swollen; her nerves were raw; her thighs were wet; her body was screaming silently for him.
"Cariad," he murmured hoarsely against her ear, making her shiver and whimper a little. "Cariad."
There were other words he spoke in Welsh, his breath warm against her face, words that Isabella only half-understood, never having been able to master more than just the basic rudiments of the strange Welsh tongue. But she did not care. She did not need an interpretation; the meaning of Warrick's words was plain, the language of love, universal.
She was drowning, dying; yet, she was so vibrantly alive, she could not believe it. She was a mass of sharp sensation that tingled and throbbed against him in exquisite agony. She could not even think, could only smell and taste and touch and feel. She did not even realize that Warrick's strong, pinioning grip had loosened, allowing her hands the different kind of freedom they now so desperately craved.
Without her recognizing they did so, her fingers crept up to entwine themselves in his rich tobacco-brown mane streaked with gold; her arms fastened around his neck to draw him even nearer as he pressed his mouth once more to her pale throat, that swanlike column flung back now in exultation, laid bare for his taking.
Isabella shuddered with delight and a little fear too as Warrick's lips traveled hotly down the length of that pearly pillar, for his kissing her there made her feel so vulnerable to him. Might not those teeth that nibbled her so gently have just as easily sunk viciously into her throat, torn her silken flesh apart? Might not those hands that lingered there so caressingly have just as easily strangled the very life from her body?
As though Warrick guessed her thoughts, he tightened his fingers there briefly, possessively.
"Mine," he muttered thickly. "Ye are mine, always mine."
Isabella shivered at the words. The power she knew lay coiled within him overwhelmed her, intoxicated her, made her head spin
dizzily with passion, tliat savage, primal emotion that no civilization would ever tame. Her flesh was on fire with it; its heat emanated from her body and engulfed her in a fine, dewy sheen of sweat that smelled of her white rose fragrance, the forest scent that clung to Warrick, and the musk of them both as their mouths met yet again, tasting, devouring, one another. Isabella's knees buckled, and she knew she would have fallen, had she not been enfolded in Warrick's strong embrace.
Little by little, unnoticed, her clothing slipped away, slid as soft as a sigh from her body to fall in a pool of satin at her feet until she stood naked in his arms, a small silvery goddess his hands and lips worshiped without end.
Warrick's loins tightened, racing with excitement as hungrily his eyes raked her, ravished that soft, yielding skin he had gone without for so long. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly, as he sought out every curve, every nuance, that he had ever known so intimately and called his.
His. Only his. Forever his.
He would never let her go. No matter if she hated him for the rest of her life, she would never belong to another—this forest nymph, this water sprite, who had cast her spell upon him, bewitched him with her haunting grey-green eyes, enchanted him with her siren's song. What magic had she woven to bind him so dearly to her? Warrick did not know. He did not care. He loved her, and she was his. That was all that mattered.
Eagerly, he fondled her breasts, those alabaster spheres of perfection that had always so enchanted him. Like marble they were, of so translucent a white, he could trace the blue veins through which Isabella's life's blood flowed. Their pink crests stiffened and blushed even more rosily as his palms cupped the twin globes, gliding sensuously
across their tiny buttons in a languid, circular motion that sent waves of pleasure radiating from them in all directions. For an instant, Isabella felt a strange warm fluttering in her belly, then the feeling passed to be replaced by something even more exciting as Warrick's thumbs flicked gently at the rigid buds, taunting them to even greater heights. His mouth covered one flushed tip, sucking, tongue swiriing about it deliciously in a manner that made Isabella cradle him even closer and arch her body against his lips, his fingers, hungry for more. She could feel her nipple puckering, growing even harder as, on and on, he tormented it until she thought she could bear no more and was straining feverishly against him, half-mad with wanting. Like wildfire, his mouth scorched its way across
her chest, seeking her other breast and setting it ablaze, as he had done its twin, until it too was a smoldering ember; and she was a wild thing with the passion clawing its way through her body.
Deep within the secret place of her womanhood, a small flame flickered and grew until it was a conflagration she longed desperately for him to quench. She ached to have him in her; but still, he went on kissing her, his lips as soft as a wisp of cloud as they floated down her belly, torturing her, making her writhe and seethe with desire. Slowly, he sank to his knees before her, his hands on her slender hips to hold her near. His tongue probed her navel, making her laugh a little, huskily, throatily, for it tickled as well as aroused her; and she found joy in his lovemaking and was glad. It was good to laugh again—if only for this moment—with the man she loved, the man who loved her. She did not realize how much she had missed it until now, when, smiling, he looked up at her, his golden eyes glowing with tenderness. She noted how the fine lines that crinkled the comers had deepened with time and pain; and a shadow haunted her grey-green orbs, recalling them both to the present as the memory stolen from the past was lost.
Warrick's eyes darkened briefly with sorrow—and then something more as his hands tightened for a minute on her hips before deliberately they slid down her legs, following the shape of her calves, then moved back up, and then down yet again, before, at long last, he parted her flanks. Lightly, lazily, over and over, his fingers trailed along the inside of her thighs, making them quiver with a yearning that Isabella could not disguise.
With a little cry of agony, she caught his hands, causing Warrick to laugh low in his throat with exhilaration and triumph.
Slowly, tormentingly, he sought the swollen folds that curved beneath the downy curls, soft as moss, which twined between her legs. Gently, tantalizingly, he stroked rhythmically the warm wet flesh that opened to him of its own accord as he urged it to part. Finally, languidly, his fingers found the dark cavern that beckoned to him so enticingly. His breathing rapid, mingling with her own, he explored the warm moist chasm that grew molten at his touch and trembled with desire, making him long to bury himself within it, plant his seed in its fertile ground. Warrick could feel the tiny tremors of delight that surged within Isabella as he fondled the length of her. With each fluttering movement of his fingers inside of her, each flick of his thumb upon the little bud that flourished upon the valley's knoll without, he knew her
excitement was climbing toward its peak. Hotly, his mouth enveloped the small bloom his thumb had teased; tauntingly, his tongue rained upon it sweetly, faster and faster, causing its petals to unfurl and then suddenly close up tightly as Isabella gasped, glorious ecstasy flowering within her, sending blossoms of rapture through her body.
From deep within her throat came a single animalistic cry, a low moan of surrender as she clutched him to her, wanting him, needing him. Convulsively, uncontrollably, she shuddered and arched against him until, at last, she whimpered softly, sighing deeply with the pleasure of her release, and was still.
Without warning, Warrick rose, catching her up in his steely arms and setting her upon the rich velvet cushion of a nearby chair, his lips now upon her own, his tongue probing her mouth so she could taste the honeyed nectar of herself that lingered still upon his lips.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he drew away to divest himself of his own garments. How quickly he was free of them and standing before her, towering over her like some ancient pagan god. Isabella's heart beat crazily in her breast as her eyes swept the bronzed, muscular length of him; thought about how tightly yet gently those corded arms could wrap themselves around her; how that broad, furry chest felt pressed against her pale silken one; how that flat firm belly and those narrow hips met her own so strongly with each powerful thrust of their mating—
She flung back her head and closed her eyes, running her tongue across her lips to moisten them as she inhaled raggedly, the pulse at the hollow of her throat leaping wildly with excitement and anticipation.
Warrick caught his breath jerkily at the sight; the sinewy muscles in his belly and loins tautened, like a thong, with sharp desire. For an instant, he did not know if he would be able to restrain himself; but he forced himself to breathe deeply, to relax, and the moment passed.
Suddenly, roughly, possessively, his hands tangled themselves in the satin strands of Isabella's long silvery tresses. Her eyes flew open wide at his touch; her mouth parted eagerly as he bent to kiss her yet again, his lips hard and demanding upon her own. Then he straightened, breathless with expectation as her palms reached up to stroke his chest, glide across the dark mat of hair that grew there. Slowly, mesmerizingly, she stood, nuzzling his breast with her cheek before she pressed her mouth to one nipple and sucked it gently until it was as rigid as her own. Her tongue
darted out to swirl about the stiff button, lick it, tease it tanta-lizingly. Her teeth grazed him lightly; and all the while, her hands moved upon his lithe lean body, causing the muscles in his back to bunch and quiver and ripple beneath her kneading fingers. Deftly, her palms slipped down his flesh, tracing the outline of old scars here and there, as her lips traveled across his chest to stimulate his other nipple until it was as stiff with excitement as its mate. She could feel the evidence of his desire hard against her belly; and, firmly grasping his smooth buttocks, she pulled him to her; and her hands found his maleness at last.
Warrick inhaled sharply, then sighed with pleasure as her fingers traced tormentingly the length of him, up, then down, before they closed about him; and she began the slow, sensuous motion that was as old as time. His body jerked and shuddered when her thumb found that soft, sensitive place upon his shaft and flicked it quickly again and again until his flesh was as raw and screaming for release as hers had been earlier. Still, she went on torturing him sweetly, her mouth sliding like a feather down his belly as, litde by litde, she sank to her knees, lowering her head to kiss the spheres of his manhood that hung just beneath his bold sword. Hotly, her lips and tongue taunted the soft globes until they contracted within the pouch that contained them. Then languidly, almost unbearably, her mouth slid lingeringly up the length of his maleness, then down, over and over, arousing him to a feverish pitch with rapid litde kisses and licks of her tongue before finally, slowly, her lips claimed him; and he moaned with delight. Again and again, her mouth engulfed him; her tongue swirled about him teasingly like a moth's wings fluttering against the flame of a candle until Warrick knew he could stand no more.
With a sudden, swift movement, he pulled her to her feet, then pressed her down upon the edge of the rich velvet cushion of the chair, dropped to his knees before her, and parted her thighs. Moments later, the tip of his shaft found her, plunged into the warm wet core of her with a tender fury that made her gasp with keen desire. Then, just as suddenly, his manhood withdrew, only to thrust into her deeply once more. Over and over, his fiery sword pierced her flaming sheath until they were both panting raggedly for breath. Isabella's nails dug into Warrick's shoulders, raking little furrows down his back. Her body stiffened slightly, then melted and quivered with the explosions of ecstasy that shook her. She whimpered a little, tiny moans of rapture that mingled with his own as their passion-darkened eyes suddenly opened and locked. Isabella felt as thoug
h she were drowning in those amber
depths, so vibrantly intense was the intimacy of that moment. Shyly, yet unable to tear her eyes away, she watched hungrily Warrick's face as his body shuddered with the sweet, savage thrill of his own release, and he spilled his seed within her.
In that precious, primal moment, he offered his soul to her by letting her witness the expression on his dark visage. Always before, he had suddenly crushed her to him, burying her head against his shoulder so she could not see the joy and triumph and sheer sensuality that flitted now across his countenance as his carnal lips parted, and he cried out lowly with exultation, his eyes closing at the last.
Then there was nothing but the sound of their quick breathing, which gradually grew less rapid as the furious pounding of their hearts slowed, and the racing of their pulses gently returned to normal.
Afterward, he kissed her, then, smiling a little as his golden orbs raked her possessively, knowing how victoriously he had conquered her, Warrick withdrew.
And Isabella knew he had taken her heart and soul with hinj for all time.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
London, England, 1489
"DAMN HIM! DAMN HIM TO HELL AND BACK!" LORD Montecatini growled as, like a caged tiger, he paced the room restlessly, his wrath and frustration mounting with each rapid step. "Always, he interferes with my plans—the half-Welsh bastard—advising Henry against any scheme I propose. I may as well return to Rome. As long as Lord Hawkhurst remains a favorite at Court, I am useless here in my position! Sangue di Cristo, but I wouldst like to slay that whoreson earl!"
"Ye have wounded him, my lord." Lady Shrewton spoke smoothly, soothingly, fearing the Count would fall into one of his black Italian rages and beat her, as he always did when displeased. Why she stayed with him she couldn't imagine. Still, if she were to leave him, where would she go? How would she live? A few ugly bruises seemed a small price to pay for the security he gave her. "After all, ye murdered Lord Rushden, and his stupid slut of a sister blamed Hawkhurst for the deed. Though the Earl has hidden it well, 'tis said the bitch's abandonment hurt him deeply. And still, he continues to pursue her like a moonstruck fool!"
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