Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Her hair had warmth to it as it cradled his cheek. Life, too, for it clung to the top of his mask, to the leather straps holding it firm. For the moment, he ignored it, much preferring to nibble her ear.

  He wanted to taste her. He licked a small spot there on her neck, then around to the hollow at its base. He kissed there, then across her collarbone and back again.

  Raik had it aright. He hadna forgotten the thrill of making love. His abstinence made it all the more exciting. His heart’s beating drummed in his ears. Could she hear it?

  Slow, so not to startle her, he stole the sheet off her, pulling it across his body to land behind him. She shivered. Was she cold? Frightened? He slid his left arm under her neck and with his right hand on her left hip, turned her to face him. She was stiff at first, until he returned to kissing her.

  Catalin greeted him, seemed eager even, for she parted her lips, inviting him. No doubt, she thought to delay more serious moves upon her body. His kisses were more demanding now, exploring deeper, becoming more urgent. She gasped, put her hands on the back of his head to bring him closer and opened wider. To his surprise, she suckled his tongue.

  ‘Twas a verra good sign, for certes.

  Pleasure shot through him. He stroked down her side, dipped in to her tiny waist then cupped her hip. Were his calloused fingers rough on her flesh? Did they scrape her? He hoped not. How wonderful she felt. He lingered on the softness of her thigh before easing back up again to knead her soft nether cheek. Cupping her firm bottom, he brought her closer to him. Against his own hips. She had felt his straining sex, for she flinched as if he had burned her.

  His kisses became more urgent, demanded more. He stroked up the curve of her back, stopped and moved to outline gently the soft swell of her breast with his fingertips. She quivered when he bypassed her nipple to smooth over her shoulder and arm.

  He nuzzled her ear. Took deep breaths in the hair behind it. Her arms moved down around his neck, hugging him.

  “Ye should bear a flower’s name, wife, for ne’er have I savored anyone so sweet.” Her arms slackened.

  ‘Twas not a good sign.

  The years had not made him less the fool to mention making love to other women! He groaned and kissed her again. Soon she responded with growing fervor. He caressed her breasts, still avoiding her nipples, but running his fingertips around them, over her soft globes. She squirmed when he cupped and squeezed them.

  He rolled, slipping her body beneath him. She ran her hands over his shoulder to his back. They stopped, hesitated. Then explored. Inch by slow inch. Would the horror of his back repulse her?

  Ranald rose up on his elbows to break the contact and giving room between their heated skins so he could feel every inch of her. How he had missed this! As his fingertips pressed the fullness of a breast, her nipple thrust against his palm. His head dipped. He wet his lips. He groaned when they formed around that hard bud. He rolled it between his lips, teased it. He lapped over it. It was like a small raspberry. She gasped and thrust up at him, urging him to suckle. He did.

  She shivered then squirmed against him. Restless hands brushed over his head. His mask slid, the ties loosening. He started to raise his head. She grasped him tight to her breast. He reached up and stretched her arms to rest on the pillow above her head. With one hand holding them there, he tossed his mask aside. He could take no chances, though, and kept a firm grip on her wrists.

  “Release me.” She tugged, tried to free them.

  “Nay, wife. Be still. I dinna want to bruise ye.”

  She shivered when he went from one breast to the other, sharing his kisses, his snuggling against them, while his hand roved. Her belly quivered when he brushed over it. He felt its soft roundness. It pleased him noting she was not all sharp angles, but ripe, soft curves down to the juncture of her body.

  He groaned. So warm there in the crease of her thighs. His fingers played with the hair shielding her sex. He combed through it until he found what he sought. The full lips that guarded her core. ‘Twas hot. Damp. Sliding between them, he welcomed the slickness.

  Ah. ‘Twas a verra good thing!

  Ranald had deliberately ignored his body. Until now. It demanded attention, throbbed and strained. Every part of him was taut as a Welsh bow. His face. His neck. The muscles in his arms. His stomach. And, of course, his throbbing arousal.

  He hesitated, for Catalin had not yet opened her legs to him. He reminded himself she was virgin still and knew naught of love play. He nudged his knee between her thighs. At first, she tensed. His gentle coaxing caused her to follow his lead until he could nestle his hips between her thighs.

  “Please. Let me touch you.” She was breathless in her request.

  “Nay. This night I will touch you.” He fondled her cheek with his unmarked one, being careful to stroke upward to keep his stubble from chafing her delicate skin. He moved against her, caressed her with his body. With each stroking movement, his tarse smoothed over her, teased her, until her feet dug into the bed and she lifted to him, groaning, seeking what she needed.

  His impatient tarse nudged her cleft, entered slowly. Hot flesh closed around him. She was tight, delightfully so. He entered, then withdrew, each slow stroke dipped deeper. As he suckled her breasts, her wetness built easing his way. He thrust deep to seat himself. Though she flinched, naught hindered his way.

  He stopped. Lifted his head to peer at her in the dark. Hesitated. Not for long, for that tight, hot silkiness surrounding his tarse called to him. He buried his face in her hair and rocked, faster with each stroke. Her body’s heat scorched him. All her muscles tensed, were rigid. Then her stomach started to quiver.

  Catalin writhed and thrashed beneath him. She jerked, twisted her hands, trying to free them. He clamped them tight, balanced himself and reached between them to touch there where he entered.

  Catalin cried out. Her back arched. She exploded around him. While she throbbed and strained, he allowed his own release.

  The two of them grappled each other until the bed sheets were near on the floor. Finally, their passion calmed. He dropped his head to her shoulder, panting, waiting for his heart to ease. When he was again in control, he rose up, released her hands and moved to her side.

  He put his arms above his head, protecting his face should she decide to touch him. Catalin was very still. Stiff, even. He felt around for his mask, sat up, fitted it to his face and tied the leather. He padded over to the lone candle that was near to spluttering out. Holding it low before him, he gazed at his sex, his thighs.

  He strolled over to the bed. Held it over the rumpled sheets. Over her. Catalin hugged her belly. Turned her back to him. A deep sigh burst from his lips. He lit two more candles afore the flame could die then set them on the table.

  He stretched out alongside her. Knew why his father was so gleeful. Why he insisted he produce bloodstained sheets.

  The candle flames flickered as anger thrummed through him. His fists clenched, his nails dug into his palms knowing why ‘twas so urgent he leave Kelso. Why they couldna wait until he and Catalin could learn to know each other again. Why trick him so? That his father had was what angered him. And Catalin?

  He turned to his side. His body was like a plank, so tense his waist did not dip into the bedding when he propped his head on his fist to study her. Grasping her shoulder, he rolled her to her back.

  Catalin was fearful. Had reason to be. She had deceived him.

  Her eyes shut. Tight. Not enough to keep the wetness from escaping, though. He felt more than saw it. His finger caught a tear as it slipped toward her ear, brought it to his lips. He tasted the saltiness of it.

  He sighed, willing the anger to ease. He moved her arms from her belly. Rested his hand, splayed across it to feel her plump flesh.

  “Moridac’s child nestles here?” He rocked his hand on her flesh.

  “I know not. ‘Tis too soon to tell.” Catalin’s voice hitched, wobbled.

  “On remembering my sire’s triump
hant laugh, I suspect he hopes ‘tis so.”

  He fell back on the bed. It rocked like a small craft on a windy day. He stilled. Thought. He listened to her muffled sobs. He sprang from the bed. Padded across the cold floor. One by one, he lit the candles in the room.

  “Come. Rise. I would see what we must deal with.”

  Catalin’s chest ached, her neck strained, trying to hold back sobs. His voice was so cold, so harsh. How could she have been such a fool to yield to Moridac’s lightest touch? What was to happen to her now? Ranald knew she was an impure bride. If only she had blurted out her confession in the garden. He could have refused to marry her and saved himself the shame of an unfaithful wife afore he even wed.

  “Wife. I await.”

  Menace tinged Ranald’s voice. The words so forced, as if through clenched teeth. She fought the urge to rise and flee, but did not. His hands would clamp around her neck afore she reached the door. She swiped her arms across her cheeks, trying to hide her tears. Bad enough she had come to him a tainted wife, but worse were she a coward too. Ranald stood beside the bed, his hand out-thrust. She rested her icy hand in his and stood, clutching the sheet to her chest.

  Though every portion of his body had touched hers, she had no image of him. Had he not imprisoned her hands and she had felt him with them, he would not startle her so now. How came a monk to be so strong, so hardened? Did they not idle the day away in prayers?

  This man looked every inch the warrior knight, from his massive shoulders to... Saints! She was cold no longer. Surely, her blush covered her from head to toe? If it had not before, it did now that he pulled the sheet from her fingers. It rustled to the floor.

  Why was he silent? What she was staring at with her eyes finally registered in her brain. His body had strange scars, for they curved from his sides inward. What caused such heavy scarring? He shifted, bringing her thoughts back to him.

  He again raked his fingers through the hair above his forehead. It did not help.

  “Yer instinct led ye to protect yer belly, Catalin. I note it as an instinct of a breeding woman.”

  Her eyes followed where he looked. A torrent of melted snow could not have made her colder. She had thought grief had kept her woman’s time away. It had before. In truth, fear had nagged at her. She should have known.

  Her breasts were fuller, her nipples a slightly deeper hue. She raised her left arm to cover them. Her right went over her belly. She had ever been rounded, had felt like a plump goose. Her belly did not sink in like a slender woman’s would. Both arms curled around herself, protecting her body should he beat her.

  “Get back into bed. I’m not going to harm you.”

  She scrambled to sit back on the bed and clutched the sheet again. He shoved her down flat, then rounded the bed and went over to the basin and pitcher of water on a corner table. The candles he had brought to the bedside table lit his back to her view when he walked to his chest to hunt around in it.

  Blessed Mary! His flesh looked as if some strange creature had burrowed beneath his skin, leaving thin, raised tunnels that crisscrossed each other. Her stomach heaved. She realized why the scars were so heavy. For truth, the mud had been nigh impossible to clean from his torn flesh. How had he not died? Surely, he had suffered long, hovering between life and death. Thinking on the man who had done this to his son, she felt a roiling hate for Chief Broccin of Raptor Castle.

  “I need yer help, Catalin.”

  Ranald sat in the center of the bed. He bunched the sheets under his spread thighs. She blinked and shut her eyes.

  “Ye canna help me with yer eyes shut, woman.”

  She opened them, stared. For the first time she saw a man’s sex nested amongst the hair of his groin.

  Where before his shaft had felt long and hard as pewter, now it appeared soft and boneless. What had happened to it? It rested atop two large, slightly hairy, vein-streaked ballocks, strange looking things that they were.

  Oh God. He gripped a dirk! He meant to kill her. She scooted back against the head of the bed, slamming into it.

  “What ails ye?” His head popped up.

  The candlelight behind him threw his face in shadows. He looked wicked. Frightening, with his mask hiding so much of him.

  She gurgled and nodded at the dirk.

  “Dinna be a dolt. ‘Tis for me.”

  “You? You would kill yourself for my sin?” She grasped her throat, about to gather breath for a hearty screech.

  “Quiet. I dinna want to cut too deep.”

  He shook his head and huffed, then bent his right leg up to lay it back on the sheet, spreading it so he could reach an area at the edge of the hair nestled there. He laid open a slit no longer than to the first knuckle of her little finger. Blood welled. He did the same to his other groin.

  “Come. Straddle me.” He twisted at the waist to toss the blade on the table. He spread his legs wide and beckoned her.

  She sat there, mute as a babe, not understanding what he wanted.

  “Hurry, afore the bleeding stops.”

  She didn’t budge. He grasped her waist and dragged her to his lap then placed her legs around him. Once he positioned her where he wanted her, he moved beneath her, rubbed her cleft over his intimate areas, her thighs over him.

  Heat flirted with her again, for her woman’s flesh felt every least bit of him. That thing was changing form again, too. She bent her head and peered at it. Aye. It did not look the same as earlier. Nor did if feel as hard as when he took her. She held to his shoulders. Why was he doing this? He did not seem inclined to kiss or touch her in any other way.

  Finally he stopped, for the wounds stopped flowing. Bloodstains were on her thighs, her nether lips. Blood smeared the sheets, too, as well as his rod and ballocks. She nodded. Understood.

  “Aye. My sire will have the stained sheets he demanded.”

  His voice was so very grim. He stood then wrung cold water from the cloth in the basin and approached her.

  “Open.”

  “What?”

  “I would cleanse ye as if ‘twas ye who had bled. Just enough to show I aided ye.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Nay. Likely, ye would wash my hard-earned labors away. Fall back,” he commanded.

  She did, pulling her pillow to cover her face as he dabbed at her legs, her core. Though she had not been a virgin, the cold cloth soothed skin that had been unused to such activity. When he was done, she slapped the pillow down to cover her private parts. Something rolled and tangled in her curls.

  “Ack! A varmint has nestled in my hair!”

  She bolted up, swatting at her head, sure that some creature lodged there. Whatever it was, it bounced against Ranald.

  “What the...?” He rolled it around in his hand then scowled at her. “Yer intent was to play the virgin?”

  “Blessed Saints!” She craned her neck to see the object. ‘Twas the forgotten vial Hannah had given her. It was red. “When you arrived at the door, Hannah secreted it under my pillow and told me to use it. I did not know what it was or when I was supposed to do something with it. Please, forgive me.”

  She watched his fist tighten around the vial until his knuckles gleamed white as a peeled onion. Did he think she told an untruth? She hoped not, for she already had much for him to forgive. To her surprise, he laughed. Was he daft?

  “I stabbed myself for naught. ‘Tis good the blade was clean. I would hate to die from a festering wound of my own making.”

  Catalin could not believe he was doing so much to save her from scorn.

  “What will happen when a babe arrives afore it should?”

  “When did Moridac come to yer bed?”

  “The night before he went hunting and was gored.”

  “I will claim ‘tis mine. If he looks like Moridac, he will look like me. If I say the child is mine, who can say me nay?”

  “You would do this for Moridac’s child? For me?”

  Ranald heaved a sigh filled with sadness. />
  “Wife, I doubt ye have changed so verra much over the years. My brother had a silver tongue. As young men, I heard more than one lass talked into putting aside caution. I doubt not he argued what did it matter when ye were to wed? ”

  “Two days afore the wedding. But I should not have listened. The sin is still mine.”

  Though he held his anger in check, she saw he seethed with it. His eyes blazed in a tight face, his jaw was rock-hard, his stance stiff. She swallowed before she reminded him.

  “‘Twas that sin I wanted to confess and ask the monk, uh, you, in the garden for forgiveness and guidance.” Her voice wobbled.

  “Ye should have confessed to me, the man, afore we swived. We would still be wed. Though I am deeply angered, it is not at ye. Do ye think me so cruel I would not protect ye? Now come, we must sleep. ‘Twill be dawn before ye know it.”

  With sharp bursts of air, he darkened the candles. He thumped his pillow and settled back on the bed. Of a sudden, he loomed up again. He hovered over her, studied her, before dropping back beside her. She had sniffled. The bed ropes creaked, strained then quieted.

  “Sleep. I willna thrash ye.”

  A deep, drawn-in sigh exploded from him, before he spoke again.

  “Yet!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Yet? Catalin’s eyelids flew high to near ruffle her brows. He was thinking on it? She shuddered. ‘Twould be better to be done with now than dread waiting for the first blows to fall. She grabbed the sheet in her fists and clutched it tight to her neck.

  Likely he would not be as heavy-handed as her Uncle Hamon, her only living relative, had been. Though Hamon was her mother’s brother, he was nothing like that sweet woman had been. He had been furious when she refused to marry Moridac soon after her father died.

  Moridac had noted the fading bruises on her arms when she foolishly wore a wide-sleeved tunic. He shook her uncle and threatened to flay him did he dare strike her again. So to heart did her uncle take it, he refused to again accompany her to Raptor Castle.

  In case Ranald slept, she dared not move. She caught her breath and edged her head to the side to venture a peek at him in the dim light. She saw his profile, saw the white of his left eye shining. Saints! He did not sleep. He stared at the ceiling.