The flames were still burning, not blazing but still strong; even though she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel his heat. It reached for her, enfolding her in its warmth, slowly seeping into her cool flesh.
Tempting her.
His long fingers were managing her laces with dexterity. She tried to focus on that fact, tried to hold back the tide of yearning that swept through her. Her heart swelled, the beat compelling; breathing was suddenly difficult—she felt faint, yet exhilarated. Her skin was slowly heating. As she watched, his hands slowed, then stopped.
She saw them tremble.
“Eloise…?”
The whispered word was loaded with such aching desire, it rendered all else irrelevant.
Slowly, she raised her head. Her gaze locked with his; golden, burning bright, it stole her breath. His body was a mass of locked muscle, quivering as he held firm, denying the primitive urge that stared at her through his eyes. She sucked in a quick breath. Desire lanced through her, sharp and sweet; flames danced down her veins. A shiver shook her.
He saw it, but held still—the decision was hers.
She had no choice, or so it seemed; St Catherine herself could not have kept her from his arms. Her heart thudded, her pulse an insistent tattoo. She stepped closer, putting aside all resistance; with him and only him could she challenge her fate. Only he possessed the strength to reassure her. Lust, desire, and need were all there in his eyes, yet he mastered them, holding them at her command.
She placed her palms on his chest, then ran them slowly upward; locking her hands about his neck, she stretched up and set her lips to his. She felt him quiver, then one arm closed gently about her. His lips moved, covering hers. She felt him touch her hair, then his fingers slipped beneath one braid, framing her jaw.
A deep sigh escaped him, then his lips closed possessively over hers.
Desire blazed; flame upon flame, it rose quickly within them.
His lips firmed, demanding, commanding. She melted against him, flowing into his heat, eager to share it. She parted her lips; he swiftly laid claim, plundering, ruthlessly wasting all resistance.
Not that she resisted.
She wanted him—after Raoul, after the years of empty loneliness, despite all her nebulous fears.
And he wanted her.
His ardent lips, his all too evocative plundering of her mouth spoke clearly of his need; the hard, hot column pressed to her belly left the matter in no doubt. She exulted, her desire freed by his. Need burgeoned, passion grew. Hard muscle surrounded her, engulfed her, tempted her. Her fingers, twined in his thick locks, clutched tight as she arched against him.
The flames within her roared as she kissed him back, urgent and urging.
After the traumas of the day, the danger, the fears, her temper and his, Alaun needed little urging. Molten desire flowed in his veins; he could no more control it than hold back the sun—his last rational thought was a fervently grateful prayer that tonight, he wouldn’t need to.
Her response, her incitement to claim her, was far more than he’d expected. Her unbridled passion shredded his control; his blew the tattered remnants away.
Within minutes their blaze had become an inferno.
She was pressed tightly against him, her hips shifting needfully. He swept the back of her skirts, the back of her chemise, up to her waist, trapping them in one hand. The other sought the smooth globes of her bottom, caressing the satin skin, expertly tracing their contours. A feverish dew sprang up at his touch; he reached further, slipping his fingers between her thighs. Her secret place lay waiting, soft and swollen, heated and damp. He caressed the sumptuous flesh, feeling it flower, unfurling to reveal still further delights. Her honey flowed, slick on his fingers; he parted her petals and slid into her warm wetness.
She moaned and pressed closer still, undulating against him, shifting his fingers within her.
Eloise dragged her lips from his and buried her face in the hollow of his throat. Gasping, barely rational, barely able to stand, she clung as his fingers probed, shafting fire through her. He was hot enough to ignite cold steel, yet the heat building within her seemed empty, incomplete. A strange impatience rode her. She moved against his hand; he muttered something, his lips by her temple. Then his fingers probed deeply.
Intense pleasure streaked through her. She gasped and arched against him, hips thrusting against his hard thighs. Her fingers, on his shoulders, sank deep; she felt her body tighten. The heated emptiness within her pulsed, ached; she pressed against him, trying to assuage it, then heard herself moan.
Alaun needed no further encouragement. She was hot and very wet; her hands found his face and brought his lips back to hers, urgently entreating. He dropped the back of her skirt and dragged up the front, crushing it, tucking it under her tight-fitting bodice. Her hands came to help, tangling with his. His clothes were easier dealt with, his houppelande slashed from waist to hem leaving only the folds of his braies to push aside.
He pressed against her, letting her feel his strength, then edged back enough to splay one hand across her bare belly. She melted against him. He supported her with one arm, teasing her lips with his as he threaded his fingers through her springy curls. Her softness lay waiting, slick and very swollen, wet and desperately wanting. He found the nub of her desire and swirled his fingertip about it. She gasped and shuddered; he withdrew his hand. Gripping her hips, he pulled her hard against him.
Eloise moaned as her legs gave way. His lips held hers as his hands slipped around, closing firmly about the backs of her thighs. His tongue delved deep in a shatteringly possessive kiss, then he lifted her, hoisting her against him. Unwilling to relinquish the intensity of their kiss, she caught his face between her hands. Her thighs parted; instinctively, she wrapped her legs about his hips. He took her mouth again, in a deep, devastating conquest that melted her very bones.
Then she felt him touch her there, where her heated flesh throbbed. Her aching emptiness swelled.
His muscles locked, Alaun slowly lowered her, letting the broad head of his staff part her soft flesh, sliding past her slick lips to lie throbbing at her portal. He paused fleetingly, gathering his will for a gentle invasion—
Her tongue thrust boldly against his.
His control snapped.
Chest swelling, he struggled for breath. The wet heat of her body beckoned; his wouldn’t wait—with one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself in her softness.
She screamed.
The sound, trapped between them, resonated through his head, stunning him completely. She went rigid in his arms, every muscle in her body clenching hard.
Every one.
For one crazed instant, he teetered on the brink of madness. Not only had the impossible occurred, not only was his entire body locked in a battle to hold back his raging lust, a battle so fraught it was reducing muscles hardened by campaign and tournament to quivering lumps of jelly, but she was holding him on the brink of pleasure and pain; her inner muscles had clamped so tight he couldn’t even think.
He had to pull out of her—at least long enough to understand what had happened. But he didn’t have the strength to lift her from him, not while holding his rabid impulses in check. She was clinging tightly, her body taut, quivering in his arms.
“Eloise?”
Slowly, her lids rose. She was breathing raggedly, shallowly; so was he. A frown puckered her brows; her eyes, finally revealed, were wide, dark, impossibly lustrous. “I forgot,” she breathed, then her lids fell.
For a moment, he was sure he was mad. “Forgot?” He licked his lips, set his teeth. “That you were a virgin?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t…thinking.” She shifted against him—and winced.
He held her still. “Gently, lady-witch.”
She blinked at him. He brushed a kiss across her bruised lips then, very carefully, he sank onto one knee. Moving with extreme caution, he eased her down onto her back in the long grass.
He followed her
down—she gave him no choice. He eased his body over hers, taking his weight on his elbows. Then he lowered his head and kissed her, softly, gently, long and deeply. Then he tried to ease out of her.
It was impossible.
Close to defeat, his muscles shivering with the effort of holding back, he shut his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. The long sleek muscles of her thighs that he’d admired earlier were as nothing to the muscles lining her velvet sheath. They’d never been stretched, had never become accustomed to letting a man inside her—and now wouldn’t let him out. Sheer surprise had got him in in the first place; he was so large and presently so engorged, he couldn’t withdraw without hurting her even more. Let alone him. He was hurting as it was. “Eloise—you’re going to have to relax.”
Eloise didn’t think she could. She seemed wound very tight around something. The pain of his entry had receded, but the shock of his invasion went deeper; she could feel him throbbing inside her, impossibly large, impossibly hard. He filled her completely…
The sensation was not unpleasant.
From beneath her lashes, she glanced at his face, saw the strain, the taut tendons in his neck, the evidence of the effort he was expending on her behalf—so that he didn’t, wouldn’t, hurt her.
If she was ever to know more, learn more, experience more, it was here, now, with him.
Alaun felt her muscles relax fractionally. He tightened his own, dragged in a tortured breath and, very gradually, drew back.
He’d retreated no more than halfway when, without warning, she tilted her hips, arching under him.
“Lady!”
He glared helplessly down at her as his body reacted, surging powerfully back to rock her womb. The flare of satisfaction in her eyes made him groan. Deep within her once more, her scalding sleekness engulfing him, he shut his eyes. “Eloise—I cannot be gentle. Tis not wise—believe me.”
His body was hard, immensely powerful; even now, his weight pinned her to the ground.
Eloise recognized the danger, but the heat was still there, deep within her, no longer empty but swelling, beckoning. She let her lips curve, touched them to his. “Nay—you will not hurt me. I have ever been told I was bred to lie thus.”
The stunned look on his face had her lips twitching. Twining her fingers in his hair, she shifted suggestively. “Let us have done. Tis what I wish.”
What she wished. No other words could have more effectively defeated him. With a stifled curse, Alaun gathered her to him and slowly eased his reins. He attempted to keep them in his hands, but, as he’d feared, after the third delicious thrust, they snapped. After that, nothing, not even the saints, could have stopped him from taking her—deeply, almost savagely. She was his to claim, conquered, lying supine beneath him, her thighs spread wide, cradling his hips, her long legs clasping his flanks. His body rode hers in a pagan celebration of lust fueled by deep desire.
The abrupt introduction to rampant congress shook Eloise, stealing her breath, leaving her gasping mentally as well as physically. For an instant, her confidence wavered. The powerful repetitive invasions rocked her, demanding some response. She lifted her hips, meeting his; the action absorbed some of the impact. With each deep, forceful penetration, an odd quiver of delight rippled through her. Her inner muscles had surrendered, forced to yield to his repeated assaults; when next he thrust inward, burying himself inside her, she tightened about him, holding him for an instant before allowing him to resume his driving rhythm.
A deep shuddering groan was her reward.
Alaun couldn’t believe what she was doing, or what she was reducing him to. The tempo swelled; completion drew near. He sought her lips in a kiss as savage as their joining.
She met him—accepting, giving, surrendering, challenging.
His release swept over him, explosive, profound, and prolonged. With an agonized groan, he spilled himself into her, then collapsed, senseless, in her arms.
Eloise held him, marveling at the sudden dying of his tension, like a spring abruptly released. Her body hummed, still heated, but oddly content. Deep inside, she felt the warmth of his seed. She lay quietly beneath him, savoring the sensations, amazed at how good his weight upon her felt.
His head lay beside hers; she could feel his breath against her ear. Lips curving, she reached up and, very gently, stroked his hair. When he didn’t stir, she let her hands explore, caressing the broad muscles of his shoulders and back through the soft folds of his houppelande.
He still didn’t move; she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. There was a twig poking into her ribs, but he was so heavy, she couldn’t even wriggle.
Resigned, she lay back and looked up at the stars. Drawing a short, shallow breath, all she could manage with him crushing her chest, she reviewed their recent endeavors. Overall, the only complaint she had was of their brevity. Perhaps, next time, she could persuade him to slow down?
Next time?
She frowned.
Alaun returned from the dead with painful slowness. As soon as he regained sufficient wit to realize the danger, he withdrew from her. Rolling onto his back, he rested for a minute, then sat up. Draping his arms over his knees, he slanted a glance at Eloise.
She was frowning.
His heart sank. His gaze shifted to her thighs, still uncovered, and the darker streaks marking her ivory skin. Hauling in a gigantic breath, he stood, grateful that his muscles obeyed him.
Eloise frowned even more as he walked away. Why, she wondered, did she feel so bereft? Disappointed—and peculiarly hurt? Her body, which had thrummed contentedly while he’d rested within her, now felt all at odds with itself, as if her nerves were tangled. She tried to rise, but discovered her limbs were too weak to risk it, so she tugged her skirts loose and flipped them over her legs.
If this was the way he usually behaved, simply walking away after it was done, then she would have to change his ways. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but she would have liked to have held him for longer; she had liked the sense of closeness that had engulfed her while they’d been locked together.
Her frown darkened.
He reappeared beside her. She looked up in surprise as her cloak settled over her. Then he crouched; his hands slipped beneath her and he hoisted her into his arms.
She clutched at his houppelande. “What are you doing?”
His expression was grim. “If you try to walk now, your legs won’t hold you.”
She knew that—very little of her felt normal, particularly not her thighs. Still frowning, she curled into his chest, swaying as he negotiated the track up to the pavilions.
When the glow of the campfires appeared before them, she struggled slightly; his grip merely tightened.
She thumped his chest. “You may put me down, lord. I can walk from here.”
“Nay, lady. Be still.”
She glared. “What will your people think?” she hissed, wishing he wasn’t quite so strong. Now, she couldn’t even wriggle her toes.
“No more than what they’ve been thinking already.”
Her breasts swelling, she redoubled her glare—to no avail; he refused to look at her. He was suddenly very recognizably male; she couldn’t imagine why, but minutes before, she had thought him any different.
She was even less pleased when he carried her straight to his tent. Very conscious of the eyes, surreptitiously but definitely upon them, she held her tongue. She might brawl with him, but she would prefer to brawl in private. With awful patience, she waited for him to set her down.
He did.
In the center of his very large bed.
Suddenly no longer quite sure of her standing, she frowned warily up at him.
He straightened, met her gaze. “Are you sore?”
She returned his look frostily.
He narrowed his eyes, then swore and turned away.
Tentatively, she shifted her hips and stretched her legs. Nothing seemed broken, which, given his lustiness, doubtless qualified as a minor
miracle. There was an odd ache at the tops of her thighs, and a few twinges elsewhere. And a degree of heat between her legs, as if from something rubbing. Other than that, she seemed remarkably whole.
He reappeared at the bedside, a pewter bowl in his hands. Placing it on the ground by the bed, he sat on the pallet, fished a cloth out of the water and carefully squeezed it out.
She watched, a pitying light in her eyes. Why he thought a cloth for her forehead would help—
He flipped up her skirts and applied the wet cloth to the junction of her thighs.
Choking down her shriek, she struggled to sit up; a muscular forearm held her down. She tried to twist her hips, pressing her feet into the pallet—her thighs parted.
He slipped the cold pad more fully into place and held it there, his palm immovable between her thighs.
Muscles quivering, she glared her indignation.
His golden eyes, sober and serious, held hers. “And now, lady, you may tell me how a widow comes to be virgin.”
CHAPTER NINE
For a long moment, Eloise stared at him. Then she fell back against the pillows, shifting her gaze to the gold-striped ceiling. “Nay.” She’d acted on impulse; she hadn’t thought this far. “Tis not an edifying tale.”
“Nevertheless, I will have it.”
She continued to stare at the tent roof.
“You were married to Raoul de Cannar nine years ago. You were put into your marriage bed. I was in the hall; I saw you leave, then he was carried up.”
“Aye.” The gold stripes wavered and dimmed, and she was there, in her marriage bed, watching as her husband stripped and stalked toward her. But she was no longer the girl in the bed; now, she viewed the scene and her younger self from a remote and safe distance.
“De Cannar was brought in to you. What happened next?”
The commanding, authoritarian tones drifted across her mind, distant but insistent. “He locked everyone else out of the room. Then he undressed.”
“He joined you in the bed?”
“Nay. He ordered me out of it.”
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