Emotions had run hot during the evening meal, the people of the castle excited by the looming dawn departure. His father had given an impassioned speech, exhorting his soldiers to help save England from the anarchy tearing it asunder.
Leicester had added to the fervor with rousing words.
Rodrick had been swept up by the prospect of the daunting heroic task ahead of them, yet hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Swan. She too was caught up in the spirit of optimism and excitement pervading the Hall, but from time to time she glanced at him, her eyes full of sadness. The longing on her face had sent every drop of blood from his head to his groin.
He was relieved she wasn’t seated beside him. He’d have been hard pressed to keep his hands off her. She and Grace and Bronson had chosen to sit at a table below the dais. He understood her need to be with her brother, but why had his twin come between them? It appeared Grace was flirting with their red headed cousin! This was a surprise. He cast his mind back trying to recall if Bronson was married, or had been married. He supposed since no wife had accompanied him to the Marches, she was either still in Northumbria, or nonexistent. Mayhap he wasn’t the marrying kind, in which case Grace would get her feelings hurt. And she’d been hurt enough.
Exhausted at the start of the meal, he was a wreck by the time it was over. He’d wanted to carry Swan off to his chamber and devour her, but they’d had to content themselves with perfunctory pecks on the cheek as everyone said their goodnights. His impatience had grown at the sight of Bronson and Grace lingering over their fare-thee-wells.
Was Swan pacing her chamber? What harm in making his way there quietly? It was close by. Everyone would be abed. He wanted one more passionate kiss before he left. Just a kiss to reassure her of his feelings.
He cringed when the door creaked loudly. Strange he’d never noticed the hinges needed oiling. He’d mention it to Bonhomme on the morrow, though chances were he’d have other things on his mind.
He closed the door carefully, but the draught almost blew out the single candle he carried to light his way in the dark corridor. It was good he’d thought to leave his boots behind, although most of the stone floor was covered with rush mats that muffled his footsteps.
He tapped lightly on Swan’s door, held his breath, and waited. The hairs on his nape bristled momentarily when he heard another door close quietly further down the hall, near Grace’s chamber. He heard footsteps approaching and shoved the door wide when Swan opened it a crack.
Swan stepped back, thrown off guard by Rodrick’s hasty entrance. She’d known as soon as she heard the tap at her door that he’d come. She hadn’t disrobed, hoping and praying he would, but now her heart skittered around in her rib cage.
“Sorry,” he murmured, blowing out his candle as he closed the door quickly and put a finger to his lips. “Someone’s coming down the hallway.”
“At this time of night?” she whispered.
He chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “Perhaps some other lovesick swain come to kiss his lady love goodbye.”
Try as she might, Swan couldn’t guess who that might be. “You’ve come to kiss me?”
He put his hands on her waist. “I have.”
His warmth penetrated the thick velvet. Imagine if she’d changed into her nightgown! She pushed away the shameful urge to rip off her clothes and press her naked body to his. Looking up into his darkened eyes she parted her lips and murmured, “I’m glad.”
Taking her hand, he led her to the chairs by the hearth. “Sit with me.”
He sat down but when she moved to the other chair, he pulled her onto his lap. She squealed as delight ran rampant through her body.
They clung together for long minutes. She stared into the empty grate, her head on his shoulder, listening to the beating of his strong heart. Something hard pressed against her derrière.
“You have me bewitched, Swan FitzRam,” he rasped, moving his hips. “Just having you on my lap stirs me. If I kiss you—”
“But you must kiss me,” she complained. “I want a kiss that will last me until you return.”
Swan was a forthright person who spoke her mind, but the brazen words surprised even her. She fiddled with the loosened laces at the neck of his linen shirt. “I am a wanton.”
He brushed a curl away from her forehead. “No, Swan, you are a passionate woman, and I cannot tell you how relieved I am you’re free of the nunnery.”
She sat up to look at him, cradling his face in her hands. “Kiss me.”
He smiled. “If you keep moving around I’ll do more than kiss you.”
“Promises, promises,” she teased, sensing she was playing with fire, but not caring. Something was building inside, something that drove her to touch him, savor his scent, share the warmth of his body.
His growl as he took her hands from his face and put them around his neck took her by surprise, but she had no time to think when his lips crushed hers, his tongue demanding entry. She opened her mouth, tasting the sweet wine he’d imbibed at supper, relishing the tingling of her scalp as he ran his fingers through her hair.
Hiram had kissed her, but this was different. She nibbled his lip. “I don’t know how to kiss.”
“Yes, you do,” he rumbled before he delved his tongue in again, teasing hers to follow into his mouth. As far as she recalled, she’d never seen another person’s tongue, now hers mated with Rodrick’s, sending shards of delicious sensation shooting into very private places. Of its own volition her throat made a mewling sound she’d never made before. There was no fire in the grate, but her body heated. The bodice of her gown was suddenly too tight, her nipples protesting their confinement.
As if sensing their need, Rodrick’s hand stroked down her neck and cupped her breast. When he brushed a thumb across the nipple, her body went limp. She stopped breathing, content to let him breathe for her. She put her hand on his face, relishing the velvety softness of his unshaven skin.
“Swan,” he rasped, swallowing hard when they broke apart. “Let me touch you.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant, since they were already touching. He moved his hand over her ribs and her belly until it came to rest on her mons. She opened her legs, seeking release from the throbbing pulse. He moved his hand. She stirred restlessly, torn between propriety and desire.
Her skirts rustled as he gathered the fabric with his hand. “Hush, Swan, let me please you.”
“You are pleasing me,” she breathed in a voice she barely recognized.
He pecked a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, my Swan, so worldly, yet so innocent.”
He came to his feet, sweeping her up and depositing her on the bed. Her heart lurched. She wanted his attentions, but her parents had ingrained in her the importance of a wife coming to her bridal bed a virgin.
As if sensing her reluctance, he touched his forefinger to her lips, then took her hand and placed it on the hard flesh at his groin. “Feel what you do to me. I want you, but I give you my pledge I will return from Wallingford, and we will marry and I will plunge my shaft into your warm sheathe. I am an honorable man and I will take your virginity in our marriage bed. But tonight I want to give you pleasure—something to remember me by.”
His words thrilled her, sending her heart soaring, but she was confused. Her married sister, Elayne Agneta, had confided in hushed whispers how husbands inserted their male parts into a woman’s body. The size of the shape under her hand made her wonder why her sister had teased her. Such interaction was obviously impossible, though a strange and not unpleasant sensation spiralled up her thighs into her lower belly as the flesh beneath her fingers hardened further.
Rodrick lifted her hand. “Best stop that now, or I may be tempted to foreswear myself. Trust me this night.”
She looked into blue eyes full of love and longing and whispered her permission.
He eased off her shoes and stockings. It was the first time since childhood someone else had done so and no man had ever touched her feet. Hiram had not
been permitted to see them. Yet she trusted Rodrick, despite the excitement bubbling in her veins like water in a pot on the boil. He put his hands on her ankles. “Open your legs.”
She dug her fingers into the damask bedspread and did as he bade her, never taking her eyes off his.
“Good girl.”
He feathered his fingers along her shins then grasped her knees, pushing them up as he came to kneel on the bed between her legs, The fabric of her gown slid to her hips, revealing her to his gaze. She swayed on the edge of a dangerous precipice, yet had never felt safer.
“You are as beautiful as I imagined,” he said, his eyes fixed on a part of her body she’d never seen. “So pink, and wet.”
She blinked, unable to squeeze words out of her dry throat, filled with a certainty life would never be the same after this night.
“I am honored to be the first man to look at you, Swan.”
She was too nervous to tell him she was overjoyed that the first man to look at her did so with love.
But perhaps he didn’t love her. Elayne had insisted men were motivated by lust. But she didn’t care, increasingly sure she loved him.
He quickly moved his hands to the tops of her thighs, then bent his head. Surely he wasn’t going to—
She gasped as he parted her nether lips with his thumbs and put his mouth on her most intimate place. Her hands flew to his head to push him away, but his thick hair felt so soft she raked her fingers through it as rivers of pleasure flowed from where he suckled into her spine, her thighs, her nipples, the soles of her feet.
“Rodrick,” she murmured. “I’m sure this is wrong, but don’t stop.”
He raised his head, his face slick with her juices. “You are warm and wet, and you taste wonderful. I can’t wait for us to be wed.”
She pushed away the cloud on the horizon of her bliss. They might never be given permission to marry, and here she was allowing him to touch her in places—
“Stop worrying,” he whispered.
Then he flicked his tongue over a certain spot—a magical spot—again and again until the low wail emanating from deep within grew into a loud scream when she tumbled off the precipice into an oblivion of pulsating bliss. He lunged forward to press his mouth to hers, stifling her scream as he slid his fingers inside her. She turned her face away, panting breathlessly. “Deeper, deeper,” she urged, thrusting her hips towards his hand.
“Not yet, my little bird, you have to be content with only a taste this time.”
Her sheath pulsed on his fingers as she returned his kiss, needing his breath to keep her lungs working.
After their mouths parted she clung to him for long minutes, listening to his breathing. Had he fallen asleep? “What happened?” she yawned. “I had to scream.”
He withdrew his fingers and smoothed her gown over her legs. “You’re supposed to scream.”
“I hope it wasn’t too loud,” she whispered, but exhaustion overwhelmed her and she never heard his answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bronson sat on the edge of his bed, naked, staring at the hard flesh between his legs. The night had been a comedy of errors. He’d gone to Grace’s chamber. Why, he wasn’t sure. Then he looked again at the persistent erection that he would to have to do something to resolve if he wanted any sleep at all.
My cursed shaft knows why I went.
Frustrated they hadn’t been seated together at dinner, he’d tapped on her door.
She’d appeared, floating in a voluminous white bedrobe, her red hair like a blessed aura. For a moment he believed the smiling vision was an angel, seemingly happy at being called upon after midnight.
He’d teetered on the threshold, hesitant to ask permission to enter when she didn’t invite him in. But that was a good thing. Respectable noblewomen didn’t invite men into their chamber in the dead of night. The flame of his candle had guttered in the draught, filling his nostrils with the acrid smell of smoke. She’d wrinkled her nose.
Confident in what he wanted to say when he’d left his own chamber, he now had no idea why he was there when he’d sworn off marriage. The words that came out of his mouth weren’t the ones he’d planned on saying.
Instead of I’m drawn to you, Grace, he’d cleared his throat and stammered, “I wanted to tell you I’m glad you’re accompanying my sister to Shelfhoc.”
He longed to say that her presence at Shelfhoc would be a beacon guiding him home. Into the silence, he spouted, “Swan will appreciate your company. I’m happy you’re becoming friends.”
He had no recollection of how many times he’d used the word glad, nor of anything else that had come out of his mouth. He prayed fervently he’d said nothing on the subject of never marrying again. Whatever she had whispered in reply was lost to him, his gaze and his thoughts focused on her wide green eyes and her smile.
He did remember kissing her—an awkward, adolescent kiss aimed initially at her lips. It had gone off course, collided with her nose and ended up on her reddened cheek.
Godemite! Had he at least wished her goodnight when he’d fled?
What had happened to the polished, articulate Bronson who’d had no difficulty attracting two beautiful wives? He made the sign of his Savior across his body.
God Rest Their Souls.
It flitted into his confused mind that he shouldn’t be calling on the Lord while sitting naked staring at his own rigid manhood, but then he was probably already damned for lusting after his cousin.
Grace had cast a spell on him, turned him into a babbling idiot ruled by impulse, and his cock.
On his way back to his chamber, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of someone entering Swan’s chamber, but maybe he’d imagined it, rendered cross-eyed by his errant shaft that even now refused to obey.
Nothing for it but to take matters into his own hands. He rolled his eyes heavenward.
Forgive me, Lord.
After she closed her door, Grace stood for a long while, inhaling deeply, trying to get her lungs to start working again. She touched her palm to the spot where Bronson had kissed her cheek, smiling at the memory. He was like a youth wooing his first girl.
But his nervousness charmed her. It was flattering to have a strikingly handsome nobleman stumbling over his tongue perhaps because she affected him, although he’d mumbled something about not marrying again.
It had been difficult to keep smiling when he’d said that. But his reddened face, his stammer, the bulge in his leggings, his kiss all belied his words. Why else had he come in the middle of the night if he wasn’t attracted to her? Mayhap she should have invited him in.
Non! He’d judge her a whore, a lonely widow lusting for a male companion.
Was she lonely? Marriage to Victor had been loneliness, complete isolation. She had determined to enjoy her freedom. Ellesmere was often filled with attractive men whose company she could enjoy without giving control over her life to them, and in any case, Bronson was her cousin. There was no future for their relationship. But she would be his friend, help prepare his new home so he had something to look forward to when he returned from Wallingford.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rodrick brought his horse level with his father’s when the narrow, hilly track widened. “Another hour we should make Fernhill Heath,” he observed.
His father shifted in the saddle. “We’ve made good progress. Not as far as yesterday, but acceptable, considering the lay of the land.”
After riding for several hours with no conversation, Rodrick needed to fill the silence. His armor had begun to chafe in uncomfortable places. He wasn’t looking forward to another night under canvas. “Strange how yesterday the men were full of vim and vigor, and today they’re quieter. The infantrymen kept up their ribald songs the whole way to Bridgnorth yesterday.”
His father grinned. “The more difficult terrain has a lot to do with it, but on the first day of a march, men are usually fired by the excitement of the expedition and the prospect of the battle. On t
he second day, they’re thinking of the women and children left behind.”
The wistful look on his sire’s face betrayed exactly where his thoughts lay. Rodrick sought to lighten the mood. “You’ve most of your children along on this campaign, so it must be Maman you’re thinking of.”
Gallien de Montbryce shifted his weight in the saddle. “I’ve left your mother many times to go off to fight, but it never gets any easier. In Flandres I carried a sachet of her potpourri next to my heart for months. Same for her. She’s strong, but she worries.”
Rodrick cast his mind to the future. He wanted with all his heart to wed with Swan and for her to be the one pining for his return. He wished he’d taken a token from her, a lock of hair perhaps. She’d wept when they’d said goodbye in the bailey. But what would happen if they never obtained permission to wed? If he married her without benefit of clergy, he’d lose the earldom.
“A visit to the bishop of Shrewsbury will have to wait until our return.”
Had his father read his thoughts?
“Unless we seek out a highly placed cleric in Westminster, once we succeed in lifting the siege of Wallingford.”
And how had his father known he’d been contemplating such a possibility?
“Do you believe in love at first sight, Papa?” he asked with some trepidation. These were matters they had never discussed.
“That’s the easy part,” came the reply. “Yes, I do, but don’t be like me and deny you’re smitten.” He shook his head. “When I think of the time I wasted, and the hurt I inflicted on my wife.”
Rodrick had never cared enough for a woman to understand before what his father meant, but now he did. Given the difficulties they faced, and what they stood to lose, he might easily tell himself he didn’t love Swan. But he did. “I love Swan, Papa. I’m determined to fight for her.”
“Good. I hope you hold onto your determination, because I have a feeling it will be a long fight. However, I’ve had the good fortune to suffer from the curse of the Montbryces. I hope for the same for you. The love of a good woman makes life infinitely more pleasurable.”
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