“Lionel?” Rhys considered the boy. Lionel’s head was under the blanket, his pillow on the floor, and he drummed his heels against the headboard in a steady, jarring rhythm. “Get Lionel, Angharad, and we’ll leave these sweetkins alone.”
“I believe Marian wants to know what you think of him, now that you know he’s not of her blood,” Griffith said.
“I want to know,” Marian burst out, “if you’ll swear to keep this secret.”
Rhys and Angharad seemed at a loss to comprehend her concern. Finally Rhys spoke for them both. “If you took the lad as your own, and ruined your reputation and your chance at happiness, it seems to me there’s a good reason hidden somewhere. Now, you know the reason, and no doubt Griffith knows the reason, but unless you wish to tell us, we don’t have to know the reason.…Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Swear to keep it secret,” Marian whispered, intense and afraid. “Swear.”
Rhys stiffened, and Angharad gasped in audible dismay.
Griffith groaned and shook his head. “She means no disrespect, Da. If you’d met her father, you’d understand.”
The haughty cast of Rhys’s face tightened, then Angharad touched his chest. She looked up at him, and he nodded at her unspoken message, then came to Marian’s side. He took her hand between his two callused ones. “Harbottle told me about your father, and so I do forgive you your insult. But you’re in Wales now, and among your kin. And if you can’t trust your kin, whom can you trust?”
12
As the door shut softly behind Rhys, Angharad, and Lionel, Marian stared after them and wondered if they were crazed. Trust them because they were kin? What madness was that?
Yet she did trust Angharad. ’Twas impossible not to. And Rhys…well, if Art were Lionel’s companion, and Griffith were Lionel’s father-figure, then Rhys was his hero. He stuck to Rhys like a burr to a sock. She blushed to remember Rhys’s hurt pride when she’d demanded he swear himself to secrecy. “Why is Harbottle here?” she asked.
Griffith sighed and pushed himself away from the window. “He apparently followed your trail into Wales, and when he lost that, he asked directions to Castle Powel.”
“Why?”
He stalked toward the bed, slow and silent. “Because he wants you.”
“Nonsense.” Her voice wavered a little, and she steadied it. “My father must have sent him.”
“Your father seems to have washed his hands of him. As have we. We turned him out four days ago with dry clothes and barely enough food to reach England, if he walks briskly. But he seems willing to defy the fates to get his hands on you, for we’ve had reports of a man watching the castle.” He stepped onto the dais and climbed up on the mattress. “In fact, several reports.”
She wanted to demand more in the way of explanation, but he took off his boots. And his doublet. And when his hands went to the ties of his hose, she whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Coming to get the answers about Lionel. Isn’t this how I got the answers about you?” He stripped off his hose, pulled his shirt over his head, and divested himself of his drawers in a twisting dance that kept her dizzy with his unpredictability. “You came and lay in bed with me, we talked, we loved, and when we had finished, I knew your secrets.”
The blood sang in her veins now, and she no longer wondered why she should get well. It was so she could run away. “It wasn’t so…”
“So?”
Or perhaps, run toward. “So simple.”
He chuckled, low and deep. “’Tis the simplest thing in the world. ’Tis why the Lord God made us so different—so we’d fit together well.”
He stretched out on the bed beside her, all the long length of him bare and brown and brawny, and held her when she would have edged off the bed. Lying down, she clamped her arms at her sides so the blankets were tight around her body. “Someone might come in.”
“We’re in a Welsh household, and by now everyone knows the banns will be called on Saturday.” With a smile, he tucked Lionel’s pillow close against hers and lay so his head rested against her shoulder. “Welshmen have better manners than that.”
With that he seemed content. He said nothing else, made no move, while the minutes ticked by and Marian grew so tense that she thought the tendons in her neck would pop. When she couldn’t bear the silence anymore, she burst out, “What do you want?”
“Several things.” Lifting his hand, he traced the outline of her breasts. “First, as I told you, I want to hear the story of Lionel.”
The covers, which she had depended on for protection, seemed suddenly thin and flimsy. “I can’t tell you that.”
He sighed, and the air slithered through the loose weave of the linen and warmed her chest. He mourned, “’Twas what I feared, and I cannot force the tale which should come to me freely.”
His tone made her wretched, and his touch made her remember. If she had been the experienced woman she pretended to be, she would have different memories to tap into. As it was, only the night in Griffith’s arms came to mind, and came so vividly that she almost forgot the thread of the conversation. “I can’t tell anyone.”
“Not even your bridegroom?”
“I can’t wed you.”
“Ah, that’s next, then. I want your promise to wed me.”
“Nay.” She didn’t sound as firm as she liked, but only because he’d pressed a kiss—one small kiss—at the place where her jaw met her ear.
“There are advantages to our marriage.”
“And disadvantages.”
“Such as?”
“Lionel wouldn’t be in line for…” She trailed off. She’d almost given it all away, and she couldn’t help but admire his cleverness.
He smiled ruefully, a lifting of his lips that made her long to trace them with her tongue. “First, Lionel will be safer with me than without me.” She stiffened, and he lifted his head. “Don’t you agree?”
She didn’t know what to say, for her heart and her mind were at war, battling for supremacy over her body. She had scorned passion for Lionel’s sake, and when Griffith proved himself passion’s master, she had fled him. Perhaps Lionel would be safer with Griffith—but Marian had given Lady Elizabeth a vow, and that vow would be as dust.
“This brings us to the second argument for marriage,” he said, as smoothly as a courtier, as coolly as a king. “I have spoken to our priest, for he is a wise man. The marriage vows take precedence over my vows as a knight to my lord, although both are holy and are given in the eyes of God. I would hope I wouldn’t have to make a choice between my wife and my lord. I would hope I could continue in the service of my lord while servicing my wife. But in the final conflict, I would keep my wife’s secrets, take care of my wife’s property and children, and remain loyal to her above all others.”
She plucked at the covers with nervous fingers. “I see.”
“But do you believe?” His muscles rippled, from his shoulders to his toes, as he hoisted himself up on his elbow and leaned over her. “Would you like to hear the third argument for marriage?”
“I think…”
“’Tis only this.” He covered her face in tiny kisses. Dry kisses, that acquainted her with the texture of his lips, the spicy scent of his breath, his shaven cheeks.
She closed her eyes against the pleasure and found that it only intensified.
“You frightened me, love,” he murmured close against her ear. “I thought I would lose you, and I couldn’t stand that.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this.” She wished her voice were stronger. She wished her will were stronger.
“I’m only doing it to convince you to marry me.”
Her eyes popped open. “So if I consented, you’d go away?”
He stared at her. She stared at him.
“Do you consent?” he asked, his face a frozen mask.
“Tell me first.”
The struggle between his body and his mind raged in his silence, but at last he relaxed. Hi
s hard smile struggled with the bitter perception in his eyes. “Nay. I will not go away. No matter what you say.” He stripped the ribbon off her braid and loosened her hair. “You steal my control, take my honor, yet make me twice the man I was before.” Burying his face in the shiny red strands spread wide on the pillow, he whispered, “So I will do for you what you do for me.”
She half laughed, half sobbed. “Make me a man?”
“Steal your control.” He lifted his head, and he looked like a knight who, even before the battle, recognized victory.
She was weak, but not as weak as she had been a scant hour ago. Not so weak she couldn’t fight him. As his hand hovered above the tie on her gown, she caught it in her grasp.
He smiled. “Where do you wish to place it, my lady? Your wish is my command. Would you like me to touch your shoulders, my lady? They are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen-strong, muscled, but with a hollow about your collarbone that denotes femininity. I’ve seen them from the rear, and marveled at the way they form part of your long, narrow back, the way your back narrows to your waist, the way your hips flare and tease a man with promises of heaven.”
Her fingers trembled. She pressed herself back into the pillows and wondered at the hedonistic pleasure she found in his words.
“Is my hand too heavy for you, my lady?” His voice had become a drawl, sexy, slow, and low. “Place it where you wish.”
Drawing on her strength, she placed it on the covers, away from her.
Still smiling, he leaned on his elbow, supported his head with his palm, and looked pointedly at the hand she had discarded. “A wise idea, my lady. Let’s discuss the proper place to begin again. For my own pleasure, I like to hold your breasts. They’re not too small, not too large, but so responsive. I’ll never forget the sound you made when I lapped the underside of your breast with my tongue. Like a cat, remember?”
She had trouble catching her breath, and the room spun around her. Was it a return of the illness? Or a dose of the cure?
“And you wanted more, but you didn’t know what. Now you know, don’t you?”
Her nipples hardened, pointed at him, answered him. She slapped her hands across her chest, even though he couldn’t see the evidence through the thickness of the blankets.
He chuckled. “You do remember. When I suckled them, I had to hold you down, you were so maddened with desire. You tugged at my hair, and I couldn’t tell if you wanted me to stop or go on. But when I tried to stop—”
“By the saints.”
“—you brought me back by your grip on my neck, and I caressed your breasts until I thought I would die of joy.” He smoothed his own chest, and fascinated, she watched as the crinkly hairs sprang back as his hand passed over them. “A man might delight in such attentions, too.”
Her imagination provided vivid, color pictures of Griffith’s reaction to such boldness.
As he’d intended. A smile teased the corners of his mouth, and it infuriated her that he would tempt her with his words. Shaking her head wildly, back and forth on the pillow, she demanded, “Go away.”
Tenderly he pushed a tendril of hair back off her forehead. “You ask too much, my love.” He cupped her cheek and traced his thumb lightly across her eyelashes. “And not enough. There is much you don’t know about making love. How could you? I’ve not had time to teach. For instance, did you know a man may kiss a woman here”—his hand rested firmly on her mons veneris—“and produce such pleasure she cries with joy?”
She pressed her knees together in instant reaction—to keep his fingers from exploring further, she told herself—but it relieved the pressure of arousal. For a moment. Then it came back, worse, almost painful, almost superb. But not enough. “Nay.”
“I vow ’tis the truth. And a woman may do as much for a man.”
“Would you cry?” She meant to sound sarcastic. She sounded wistful.
“Try it.” He rolled over on his back and stretched his arms up, hooking his hands behind his head. His shoulders, arms, and chest were bulky with muscle, yet still his lower ribs created a ripple of his skin. His abdomen clenched as her gaze passed over it, and she thought his legs had flexed, also. She didn’t know for sure. She couldn’t seem to look past…Jerking her head up, she looked right into his eyes.
They glowed hot as molten gold. They made her squirm more than his touch, more than his words, for his touch and words conveyed his thoughts awkwardly. Now she gazed directly into the crucible of his mind and comprehended each individual temptation.
“Imagine,” he whispered, “how helpless I would be as you explored me. Imagine how I would squirm when you touched my nipples, ran your hand down my stomach. Imagine how I would taste, how I would whimper when you kissed me. Lips open, wet and warm, taking me inside—”
She cut him off with her hand over his mouth.
She hadn’t meant to touch him, but she couldn’t listen anymore.
When had the big warrior become a Welsh poet? When had he learned to seduce with words?
He kissed her palm, and when she would withdraw, with one hand he caught her wrist. On the inside of her hand, he found the sensitive mounds with his rough thumb, seemingly fascinated by the texture, the lines. He traced the edge of each finger, circled the cuticles, until her hand flexed as protection against the sensation. Then, one by one, he took her fingers into his mouth and sucked them.
He wanted her to do that to him. She wanted to do that to him. Jerking her hand away, she sat up. The covers fell away, revealing her breasts through the thin linen, and he groaned as his gaze feasted on her. “Pretty,” he said hoarsely. Then, “Mine.”
“They’re mine.” She leaned over him, fierce with the surge of blood through her veins, well for the first time since she’d entered Castle Powel, and convinced she would live forever. “But if you put both your hands behind your head again, I’ll let you taste them.”
It was a calculated risk. He could have used his strength against her and taken her without a doubt. Even without a struggle, for she craved him desperately. But he wanted her to prove her desire.
Prove it she would. She commanded, “Behind your head.”
His free hand hovered, close to her face, then with an expression of painful resignation he did as she instructed.
What to do first? With him stretched as a feast laid out for her delectation and the whole, uninterrupted day before them, the importance of the decision could not be overstated. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she followed the grade of each muscle of his chest, his hips, his thighs. She explored with lazy intent, still unfamiliar with most of the workings of a man’s body and curious. Curious about his reactions. Curious about his exalted control.
The muscles of his face froze in anguished appeal. His toes curled, his calves flexed, and everything in between was ruddy and hard.
“You wanted this,” she reminded him.
Gruffly he ordered, “So give it to me.”
“All in good time.” She tucked her heels beneath her, placed her hands on either side of him, and leaned over. “All in good time.”
The scent of him—clean male, strong soap—greeted her. “A bath?” she asked.
“’Tis a tradition in my family to”—he inhaled harshly when she nuzzled his ear—“to bathe before a wedding. And I was determined to…I can’t speak when you’re licking at me like a cat.”
“Control,” she reminded him. He tasted as good as he looked, and he shuddered when she used her tongue to wet his nipple, then blew it dry.
Staring up at the ceiling, concentrating on the rafters, he said, “I was determined to treat this as a wedding day. After all, we’re only doing it out of order.”
“Doing what?” She rubbed her cheek against his stomach below his ribs.
“Marrying. We’re only marrying out of order. We consummated first. Now we’re reading the banns. Then we’ll go before the priest and speak the vows.”
“One consummation is all we need.” She grasped his thigh
s and ran her tongue from his knees to his hip. “Why have another one?”
Lifting his head, he looked down at her. “Because I thought you were going to die.”
Her teasing laughter died beneath the intensity of his distress.
“I thought I had found you—happy, robust, a force of nature—in your father’s home, only to lose you.” He unwrapped his arms and stretched them out to her. “Make love to me, woman. Make me aware of only your vitality. Chase the shadows away.”
His appeal shook her to the core.
This man, this stone, needed her. Wanted her so much that his massive will bent to that longing.
Could she take such an entreaty lightly? He was requesting more than her body laid against his. He was requesting her life laid against his.
No other man had ever tempted her to give herself up to him, yet she’d gone to Griffith ap Powel without a thought or regret. She had trusted him with herself; would she come to trust him with Lionel? Did she believe he would put his vows to her above his vows to the king?
Aye, her body answered, even as doubts clung to her mind.
She kissed his outstretched fingers, and he closed his hand around the kiss as if it were a token. With trembling fingers, she folded his arms behind his head again. Her breast brushed his face and he turned his head to catch her nipple in his mouth. She froze as he sucked it, the linen of her shirt between her flesh and his lapping tongue. He didn’t touch her; didn’t have to. All the passion in her body clamored like a church bell in celebration, and when he stopped, she didn’t move for a long, sweet moment.
Then she settled back and smiled a wicked smile. He’d challenged her, and she would respond, creating in him the life for which he entreated.
Untying the strings of her shirt in slow, sensuous sweeps, she watched his expression. Watched every nuance as she lifted the hem, revealing flesh, inch by inch. She pulled it over her head, tossed it aside.
She grasped the part of him she’d hitherto ignored and laughed aloud to see his face. “A stone indeed,” she teased, although he probably couldn’t even hear. And when she took him in her mouth, he groaned like a man lost to all sense.
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