by Jaye Peaches
He abruptly freed his grasp of her, and she slid off his hip and fell against his stiff form.
“My lord?” she asked with some dread. Had he changed his mind? He had said nothing about his plans for her, nor asked if she had been complicit in her abduction. Was he prepared to punish her for leaving with Geoffrey; she hadn’t screamed for help? Realising her mistake, she rose up on tiptoes and implored with her gaze.
“Sir. He took me against my wishes, you do know that? A hood on my head, and just a robe for protection. I could not escape until we reached the privacy of the forest and—”
He swept the hair out of her face and kissed, as tenderly as a beast could, her cheek. “You have no need to apologise, my little bird. The fault lies with me. With so many guests lying about drunk, I should have escorted you to your room.”
The full ray of sun struck his face and cast out the last shadows under his brow and eyes. What of the Zalim? It seemed to dwindle and step back into the shadows. Gervais’s soft smile was full of charm and uncharacteristically emotional. He stared at her with those twitching lips, his hands on her bare hips, the thumbs stroking her belly, the fingertips stretched along the line of each buttock. She tingled, willing him to tumble her backwards and press home his advantage. But Gervais, although in rapture, was peculiarly sedate.
He picked up the robe from where it had fallen, swung it around her shoulders and drew the lapels together, covering her from thighs to cleavage.
“My lord?” she asked with temerity. “I have invited you to claim me without conceit or compulsion. Is this not where the Zalim conquers?”
“It is. But as you have shown me, I am also a man. And this man wishes to bed his beloved in his home, and not on a bed of hard roots. Once, that was my baser instinct, but no longer.”
There would be no ungracious, rough handling of her in the forest, nor was she expected to humble herself to the point of degradation. The thwarted part of her held fast for a few minutes as they ambled in the direction of Gervais’s horse, but it withered, knowing his wishes were abundantly correct, and disappointment was replaced by excitement once again. He was right. A wife’s place was at home in her husband’s bed, and he had changed the Zalim within him sufficiently to meet the needs of the man.
“Are you the same man I met three months ago?” she asked him.
He lifted her up onto the saddle.
“Always, and more. What about you?” He held the hunting horn close to his lips.
“Likewise.” She grinned.
He blew the horn long and hard, signalling his conquest and summoning his squire to meet them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The wedding bell pealed long and hard, and the small congregation left the chapel tossing petals over Matilda’s floral headdress. Under the veil, her apricot hair shone and her complexion was as flushed as a red carnation. Proud of his bride, Gervais held out his arm, and she rested her quivering palm on his wrist. He had matched her beauty with his commanding presence by wearing his lightest, most decorative plates of armour, which Lionel had polished for hours the previous day. The glinting steel covered his shoulders and breast, the links of chain between them clinking when he moved. And over the ceremonial display he wore a silken cloak woven with his coat of arms, and on the lapel, the small crest of the Order of Zalim, known only to himself and Lionel.
Marcia, the maid of honour, who had prepared his wife along with Sara, beamed at her achievement. She had fussed over the gown and, according to the amused Tilda, had tutted when a single thread of gold came loose and needed stitching back.
To one side, discreet and demurely dressed in plain clothing, was a tall knight without armour or weapons. The request to linger a little and stay for the ceremony had been met with trepidation by Matilda, and bemusement by Gervais. However, neither of them resented Geoffrey’s presence. He had prayed for forgiveness at the chapel altar, charmed Marcia with a subtle approach that proved he had matured, and won her over swiftly. Gervais had agreed to his request and allowed Geoffrey to stand at the back of the chapel, under the watchful eye of Jacob. The young man had kept his word and done nothing to upset the proceedings.
After Gervais had brought his bride home from the forest, he’d found Marcia had already locked her claws on Geoffrey, and she’d persuaded Gervais to let the knight stay for a while and woo her. Gervais, rolling his eyes at the thought of another wilful young lady under his roof, had reluctantly agreed. It was obvious that the absence of her parents would speed up the courting. Gervais wrote to her father indicating something was afoot, and that it would serve well to let it progress naturally.
Marcia and Matilda were now fast friends. It was important for his gregarious Tilda to have companionship beyond his needs, and if he felt threatened by the ongoing presence of Geoffrey, he crushed it at night with his passionate display of lovemaking. Matilda barely noticed Geoffrey hovering in the background and seemed to have lost any interest in conversing with him. So, it seemed that fate had brought the contracted betrothal to a happy conclusion, as well as Geoffrey and Marcia falling in love, Gervais had too, which continued to surprise him.
Outside the chapel, Matilda permitted her former beau a small kiss of her knuckles. She now outranked him, and he bowed low and addressed her as Lady Baliol. Geoffrey took Marcia’s hand and followed Lord Barre and the rest of the small gathering into the Great Hall for the celebratory meal.
Only family and a few friends had witnessed the marriage, and they enjoyed the music and food in quiet appreciation. Gervais had been determined to keep away the boisterous knights and ladies, and ensure nobody spoilt the special day with lewd or drunken behaviour. From evening to nightfall, the merriment continued, until the time came for him to bed his bride.
Tradition encroached on his plans. The wedding party accompanied the couple to his chamber. Matilda’s cousins giggled, while her father was slightly red-faced. He and Gervais both knew she was no virgin, and the performance was for custom’s sake, and not theirs. Matilda had gone quiet toward the end of the festivities, and her apparent meekness sent the blood rushing to his groin. She was as impatient as he was for their time alone.
With more petals strewn here and there, dusting the bedcovers, the parish priest blessed the couple as they knelt by the bed. The formalities completed, the guests retreated. Gervais was alone at last with his wife.
A few days previously, they had discussed in the cool of the darkness how to spend this special night.
“I’m not a virgin,” she’d said. “What can I offer you that is virginal? What would a Zalim require from his woman?”
She understood him too well.
He’d pondered her question while she’d caressed his cock with her tongue and decided that while lovemaking had become established between them, the Zalim required something unusual from her. She had dared to summon him, allowed him to hunt her, and although he had blended the man and beast, creating a new and content being, for one last night, he would let the Zalim hold sway.
Chapter Thirty-Six
She felt like a magnificent swan with her white gown flecked with gold, and Gervais, splendid and breath-taking, was her blue skies. He’d dispensed with the armour and under the shiny plates was a cloth of azure fashioned from the silk and velvet, tailored to perfection around his fine form, and the rich colour matched his startling irises. Capping his regal head was his burnished hair and beard, both of which had been trimmed for the occasion. Consequently, gone was the dark broodiness that often haunted him. He’d lightened considerably in the last few days, wiping years off his appearance. It was only after seeing him so that she’d plucked up the courage to ask for his age, and he had replied with amusement.
“Thirty-two.”
She had assumed he was as old as her father, or thereabouts, and with his admission, she’d realised how ridiculous her estimate had been. He had the body of an athlete, the strength of a young man, and the stamina of youthful exuberance. Her father complained abo
ut climbing the stairs several times a day. Her mistaken guess was based on the years of warfare that had consumed Gervais’s life.
“I was fifteen when I left home,” he’d added, following her train of thoughts. “It’s been a long journey to reach here.”
That conversation had occurred during the dancing, and now, alone together in their bedchamber, the guests raucous outside and finally retreating, she had the full attention of her husband. She bit gently on her lower lip and fiddled with the seam of her opulent gown.
He watched her with opaque eyes from where he stood leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed and arms folded across his chest. Supremely relaxed, he exuded the manliness of his nobility, while beneath lurked the hungry beast. She wished she had his arrogance sometimes, even though it was not always fitting. He carried the confidence naturally, hers had always been forced, brought upon by the wish to be liked by everyone, and tainted by the fear she might lose respect if she showed the slightest hint of her mother’s manic affliction. But she had grown apart from her family, and her mother was no longer influencing Matilda’s thinking.
Gervais sighed and pushed his body off the wall. With his hands tucked behind his back, he sauntered nonchalantly toward her, and she rocked back on her heels, wondering what awaited her. Reaching out, Gervais plucked a pin from her hair, then another, and the peach strands tumbled down, releasing the flowers that had adorned her head. The petals settled on her shoulders and gown.
“Turn,” he said solemnly.
She obeyed, knowing everything he wished was hers to give. He expertly rid her of the knots and bows that constrained her, slipped the gown from her shoulders and continued to unravel her layers. The corset was next, and the laces of her shift, and finally the beautiful gown slithered around her ankles and her bareness was revealed in its entirety.
“Step out,” he said softly in her ear.
He held her hand, and when she was free of all of her clothing, he unceremoniously kicked the bundle under the bed. She nearly giggled; it was so unlike him to be untidy.
“Amused?” he asked, noting her wry expression.
“What have I done to you, sir, that you care so little for your property. That gold gown was purchased from a silk merchant for a princely sum, and now it lies in the dust.”
“Its purpose is complete. You’ll not wear it again.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, her back still facing him, and pressed her down.
Matilda sank to her knees, grateful for the cushioning of fresh rushes. He circled her, the hunter surrounding his prey, and each circuit brought a quickening of her heart.
“I care very much for my property,” he said, and stooped to lift her chin.
She met his gaze. “Will you ever discard me?”
He clucked his tongue. “You questioned my promise? A few hours of wedlock and you think I have not fully understood my commitment to you?”
She blushed, aware of heat rising upward to her cheeks and bosom, colouring her crimson. “It is only that the man made that promise, what of your Zalim? How does that creature show his fealty, his promises?”
“Ah.” He rose to his full height and his shadow was long in the candlelight.
Sometimes, she was convinced the shape of that shadow was different to the body casting it. It had a breadth that stretched wider, and just his hands alone seemed to have grown talons on the ends of his flexing fingers. He itched, no doubt, to touch her.
“The Zalim is offended, Lady Baliol, by your lack of faith.”
Lady Baliol! The title sent quivers of excitement across her hot skin.
He folded his arms, but this time, there was tension in his elbow joints, and he had a disarming expression of severity. Again, another delicious spike of nervous energy struck her core. She was melting, knowing he was gradually introducing the Zalim, allowing it to surface naturally so not to frighten her. Not that she had ever been afraid of it, not like a woman should be. She hid her proud smile; she was special.
She also recognised another trait of Gervais’s other half—an inclination to discipline and apply gravity to the occasion.
“I’m sorry to offend. If I have. Surely, a rampaging beast has not the capacity to make honest promises? He runs wild, does he not, capturing women and forcing them to comply?”
He shook his head. “Tsk, my lady, you are no different from those minstrels who peddle myths. How do you apologise for such a remark?”
She took a sharp intake of breath. Had he ever heard the songs and fairy tales? Probably, and they must rile him. She might be provoking him a little, but the rumours spread by travelling folk would bring his kind despair and mistrust. Why wonder he was not one for feasts and festivals like many other nobles. Lowering her head, she stretched forward and pressed her forehead on the tip of his boot and raised her bottom high. The supplication had a desired effect.
Gervais growled.
Words weren’t necessary now. She had indicated her desire with one simple pose, and whatever Gervais wanted, he could take. The Zalim was about to make his promises in the only way the beast knew how—taking her boldly and passionately.
Fully clothed, he stepped behind her and dropped to his knees. Two heavy hands grasped her hips, the long thumbs prising apart her arse cheeks, revealing her core to him, and the openings he sought. She rested her head on her arms, her hair tumbling about her face in a curtain, and braced herself for the first demanding thrust.
The deep-throated growl enriched itself as he released his cock, the head of which he pressed between her thickened folds of flesh. Here she was at his mercy, a small thing beneath him, and desperate for every inch of his erection. The crudeness was astounding; a husband made love to his wife on their wedding night, not pounded her on her knees. Yet, she had made her wish clear to him—bring me your Zalim and conquer me.
There would be plenty of nights for lovemaking, sweet kisses, and poetry.
The spearing still took her by surprised. She gasped and clawed at the rush matting with her white-knuckled fingers. When he withdrew, emptying her, she shoved her bottom backwards and spread her legs wider, ensuring he saw that she was keen. What he heard was a noisy, incongruous display for the benefit of the demanding Zalim:
“Beast, please take me! I beg you for relief.” She followed the cry with a moaning whimper.
And he thrust again and again with vigour. The feeble sounds fed his Zalim while her body snared his cock, driving him to fuck her harder.
He cupped both of her breasts for a time, pinching the nipples when he lingered inside her, savouring her pleasure and pain with a deep groan of delight. Then, when she begged for more, he snatched at her hair, and drew her head back so that he could plant fierce kisses on her lips. Cocooned under his body, she had no means to shift or unfold herself, and while she might have his cock buried to the hilt inside of her, he had her trapped in her entirety. The melding of their bodies was perfection.
But it could not last, not on her part. Gervais and his Zalim could fuck like this for hours, but her body was weak, and he sensed her buckle and strain for movement.
Abruptly, he disengaged, scooped her up in his arms, and laid her on the bed belly up.
“Spread,” he ordered.
She drew her knees up and wide, and stretched her arms above her head. Before he entered her, he stripped, finally pleasing her. The contours of his frame were etched onto her mind but seeing them afresh always was an elixir. He laid his body over hers, planting both hands on either side of her shoulders, and directed the bulge of his cock at her wetness.
Smooth warm skin caressed her belly as he dipped leisurely in and out, teasing her, drawing her closer to a climax. Each time she felt on the cusp, he held back, knowing it was her pleasure to be teased to the point of angry frustration. Her obedience to his command was critical. He alone, now that he was her absolute lord and master, could decide the moment, ensuring it was always joined to his.
He kissed her breasts, lashed the nipples with
his tongue and nipped the softest parts of her with his fine teeth. None of this hurt. It drove her mad to think she wanted it to, and he had the means to satisfy that peculiar yearning. The Zalim wasn’t cruel or savage; she had to recognise it was as much in control as Gervais. When he chose, he would do what was needed to remind her of the fact.
“Do you surrender this body to me?” he asked, in a tone of voice that was not Gervais’s.
“Yes,” she replied.
He was in her, his shaft stroking with sweeping movements, his hands gripping her wrists, pinning her down, while the girth of his hips kept her thighs spread to the widest points of the bed. Moonbeams illuminated his mane and the sheen of his face. She wasn’t afraid to look into his striking eyes. Darkness had filled them, leaving the whites brilliant.
“Again, I ask you, yield to this Zalim, and he will never leave your side.” The voice was deep, rumbling, and clear. The room itself seemed to quake and the candles flickered.
“I humbly yield.” She closed her eyes, and tilted her hips toward him, giving him the depth he required to plunder her fully.
What little she remembered later was of his frantic might, almost insane in its need, and she rolled with him, sometimes riding him, bucking up and down with his hands about her waist, but mostly she was under him, and panting breathlessly.
There was, she might recall in the morning, the odd laughter, when they paused, snatched a drink or wiped each other’s brows. He bathed her, she thought at least twice, and was keen to ensure she was thoroughly taken in all ways. The conquering of her tightest hole was done considerately by the beast—somewhere Gervais was there, ensuring she was safe.
It was the discipline that shocked her the most. How had she not understood what it meant to be controlled and directed, how she craved for it. The slightest infraction on her part, whether a roll of her eyes or a cluck of her tongue, usually because he wanted her to rest or take a morsel of food, was met with a summary clout of his hand on her backside.
