It did not matter, he told himself. He was used to being alone. It was his way . . . as a child raised among the battle-hardened warriors and now as his own ruler—save William as his overlord, of course.
Yet he was not alone, not even now, in the emptiness of the silent hall. She was always with him. She haunts me, Geoffrey muttered with disgust.
He could not understand it, this hold she locked him within. As a small boy he had learned to harden himself against the need for food or water; as a squire he had braved the frigid winter nights, all for short periods but long enough to learn the discipline of body. But how to discipline himself against Elizabeth? he found himself asking. What form of exercise could he call upon to accomplish that?
He braced his hand against his brow and closed his eyes. He was weary of the fighting with his wife, though they had barely exchanged a word since their argument in the forest. Except at night, when their bodies came together, only then did they speak. He remembered that first night after their argument with both arrogant pride and a little shame. He had not forced her, knew that he could never force her, yet he was not gentle with her either.
The sight of her had inflamed him when he had finally sought his bed. He had indulged in perhaps one too many cups of ale, but his head was still clear. She had thought him drunk, and he did not tell her otherwise.
She was standing in the center of the room, but once she read the intent in his eyes, she began to slowly back up, until she could not take another step. “You stalk me like a panther,” she had whispered, “and I do not like it.”
“So now I am compared to a panther, when only this morning I was your lion,” Geoffrey had drawled as he began to strip his clothes from his body. “You have a fixation for animals, wife,” he said. His gaze never left her mouth, for, God’s truth, he was fascinated by the pouting lips, remembered the magic of their touch.
Elizabeth wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She was nervous, clutching her robe together like a shield against his raking gaze.
“I do not want you to touch me,” she said, trying to sound forceful and knowing she failed miserably. Every pore in her body was beginning to tingle with anticipation of his touch, but there was no way that he could know, was there? “I do not—”
“I do not care what you want,” Geoffrey muttered. He stood just inches from her, completely nude, his hands resting on his hips. “Take your clothes off, wife, or I will tear them from your body. I want you.”
Elizabeth thought about refusing him, but from the intent look in his eyes, she knew it would be futile. She was his wife, she reminded herself as she began to remove the robe. It was her duty. Duty, yes, she thought, but there will be little pleasure in the deed, she promised him.
She let the robe fall to the floor and matched his stance, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back defiantly. “You are an arrogant, unreasonable brute, but you are my husband and I will not deny you. Be warned, Geoffrey, you will get little pleasure from the marriage act this night, for I absolutely refuse to respond to your touch. Is that understood?” she asked. Her breasts were heaving from her nervous speech and his grim expression.
He surprised her by throwing his head back and laughing until tears filled his eyes. He was surely drunk, she thought with disgust. How could she teach him a lesson if he was too drunk to care? “I believe you are right, wife. There will be little pleasure, indeed. When I touch you, ‘little’ is the last word I would use to define both of our reactions.” He did not give her time to react to his words, but hauled her up against him, felt her gasp at the intimate contact, and laughed again. “So you will not respond to me this eve?” he asked with a challenge in his voice.
“I will not,” Elizabeth whispered in a shaky voice as her husband trailed wet kisses down the side of her neck. She found she had to clutch his arms, thick with sinewy strength, to stay on her feet. His tongue, stroking against the sensitive area at the base of her neck, was already forcing moans from her throat. She was able to continue to stand quite rigid in his embrace, until his hands slid down her back and began to massage her bottom. When she began to melt like butter against him, he pulled her roughly up against his hard desire, kneading her softness against his body.
“You will beg me to take you,” he whispered, jerking her head up for his kiss. His mouth silenced her protests, his tongue invading and seeking hers.
Elizabeth instinctively began to suck and pull on his tongue, and was pleased when she heard him groan.
He lifted her high in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he forced her on her stomach, coming down on top of her. She thought she would suffocate before he lifted himself and began to kiss her, all the way down her back. By the time he reached the base of her spine, Elizabeth was clutching the covers with both of her hands and moaning her need. Geoffrey slipped one hand between her legs and began to stroke the fire building inside Elizabeth.
“Tell me you want me,” he demanded. His fingers were relentless and Elizabeth would have told him anything to stop the sweet torment he caused.
“Yes, Geoffrey,” she gasped when his fingers invaded her warmth, “I want you.” She groaned. She tried to roll over, to take him into her arms and body, but Geoffrey stayed her actions. He knelt between her legs and lifted her hips.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice harsh.
“I want you,” Elizabeth cried. “Please, Geoffrey,” she begged, beyond caring that she was indeed begging him.
Geoffrey growled his satisfaction and entered her swiftly, filling her completely. Elizabeth began to sob with pleasure, her eyes closed in building rapture. She was reaching the peak when Geoffrey stopped, turned her, and pulled her up into his arms. He kissed her deeply, hungrily before falling to the bed with her in his arms. He stretched out on his back and pulled her on top of him. Elizabeth clung to his mouth, moaning against him when he once again entered her. She leaned back, moving slowly at first and then increasing her speed until the explosion of mind and senses caused her to sob his name. He answered her call, arching against her with a force that penetrated her soul. He held her securely against him with his hands on her hips while the tremors of release enveloped both of them. Their gazes found and locked with each other’s, and there was no victory in Geoffrey’s expression, no submission in Elizabeth’s; no, there was only shared wonder by both.
Elizabeth slowly closed her eyes and collapsed against his chest, rose and fell with his labored breathing, and tried to gather her wits. It was a difficult task she set for herself. Everything continued to be heightened. Her senses were still finely tuned, yet flooded with stimuli. The musky scent of their lovemaking permeated her body, making it difficult to do more than sigh with acceptance. Even the candle, casting a golden glow on their glistening bodies, seemed an erotic happening.
Please, Geoffrey, do not gloat or laugh at me, she silently begged. She realized she was stroking the hairs on his chest and stopped. “Each time is like the first,” she whispered against his skin, and then wished she had kept her thoughts to herself. His breathing had slowed and there was the possibility that he would soon fall asleep. Perhaps he would not remind her of his challenge and his obvious victory.
“No, love, each time is always better,” he said in a husky voice. His hand began to leisurely stroke and caress her thigh. “Look at me, Elizabeth,” he commanded, “I would know if I hurt you.”
Elizabeth propped her head up on her hands and gazed into his eyes. She fought the urge to lean forward and kiss him once again. “You did not hurt me,” she said in a soft voice.
His hands smoothed her hair away from her face before cupping the sides of her cheeks with such excruciating tenderness that tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. He leaned forward and placed a warm, gentle kiss on her parted lips. “What we have . . . this thing between us, it would be blasphemy to use it as a weapon to hurt the other. Never will you try to hold back what is mine,” he said. His voice held no anger, only a sweet caress as he
continued, “And never will I hold back what belongs to you.”
“But, Geoffrey,” Elizabeth whispered in return, “how can—”
“The battle between us stops at the bedroom door, wife.”
“And resumes in the light of each new day?” she asked, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice.
“If you wish it,” Geoffrey acknowledged.
Elizabeth did not have an answer for him. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his chest. His words confused her. Perhaps, she thought with a yawn, perhaps in the light of day she would be able to sort it all out.
Geoffrey had been so sure that the following morning, after he had demanded that neither hold back from the other in the privacy of their bedroom, that his docile wife would give him the apology he had demanded. Docile! Ha, Geoffrey snorted aloud, that was certainly not the word to describe his new wife. Why she had had the temerity to ignore his request for an apology. He shook his head as he remembered how she had boldly walked over to the window and pointed to the sun. Oh, how she angered him! And at first that anger kept him unaffected. He locked Elizabeth in their room and commanded that she was to receive neither food nor water . . . nor visitors. And everyone seemed inclined to let him have his way, he thought, smiling to himself, most probably reasoning that the spat between husband and wife would be settled by nightfall.
But it was not, of course, and the interference began the next day, subtle at first, and then more obvious to the most ignorant of men. Geoffrey would go to the bedroom and find the door unlocked. Food would mysteriously appear in their room on trays no one remembered carrying. But his wife did not take a bite or a sip. By the third day, it was Geoffrey himself trying to entice her. And by the end of the fourth day, he commanded it. “I will not have you dead at my feet,” he remembered telling her. And when she had raised one eyebrow in question, he had muttered something about becoming fond of her grandfather and her little brother and not wishing to distress either of them.
It was then that he devised another plan to pull her back in line, and had actually thought it would work. And with other women, it might have, he told himself. But not Elizabeth. She was like no other! The bolts of fine material went unnoticed and the seamstress had to ask him to command her into being fitted for new gowns. He, of course, had done it, more furious with himself than with her. Know your opponent! How often had that statement been drummed into his head. The problem here, Geoffrey admitted, was that he did not know Elizabeth’s mind as well as he might; and in truth, he did not want her to be his opponent.
“With your permission, Geoffrey, I would have a few words with you.” The interruption brought Geoffrey back to the present. He looked up and saw that Elizabeth’s grandfather, Elslow, stood before him.
“You walk with the silence of a hunter,” Geoffrey complimented. “I did not hear you.”
“Your mind was elsewhere?” Elslow asked, smiling with knowledge.
“Aye, it was,” Geoffrey admitted.
“On my granddaughter, no doubt.” Elslow stated it as a fact, and waved his hand in dismissal when Geoffrey started to protest. “Enough of this, Geoffrey. You behave like a child in this matter.”
Geoffrey was so flabbergasted by his new friend’s statement that he could only shake his head. “You risk much with your errant words, Elslow,” he said in irritation.
Elslow was unaffected by the implied threat. “Nonsense, Geoffrey. I risk nothing. It is you who risks it all.” He pulled up a stool—without permission, Geoffrey noticed—and sat down facing the lord. He took a long time adjusting his long legs in front of him and only when he was comfortably settled did he look again at the Baron. “She gets her stubbornness from her father’s side of the family, you know,” he said, grinning.
Geoffrey found himself laughing. “She is that,” he acknowledged. “I cannot give her what she wants, Elslow, not yet. And because of it she has no faith in me.”
“She thinks you do not care,” Elslow said. It was the first time in the two weeks that Geoffrey had spoken about his wife, and Elslow was very pleased. He sensed his grandson-in-law wanted to make peace.
“How can she think I do not care! Why, I actually called her ‘love’ one evening. Granted, it was in the heat of passion, but still, it was an . . . endearment. She is the only woman I have—”
Elslow was trying hard not to laugh. “Talk with her and use more honeyed words. Explain your position,” he urged.
“I will not.” The quiet refusal was devoid of anger. “It is not my place to explain,” he argued. “She must learn patience. That is the way of it.”
“And did you get your stubbornness from your mother or your father?” Elslow asked, grinning.
Geoffrey looked surprised by the question. “Neither,” he said. “I do not remember my parents.”
“That explains your confusion over her feelings,” Elslow said very matter-of-factly. “But I tell you this, Geoffrey: I have learned over the years that we dislike in others what we find in ourselves.”
Geoffrey stood up and almost tripped over Elslow’s feet. “Walk with me and explain your riddle.”
Elslow nodded his agreement and followed Geoffrey outside. He did not speak until they were out in the courtyard and headed toward the south end of the area.
“You are both stubborn and that is fact,” Elslow said. He imitated Geoffrey’s pace, also clasping his hands behind his back as they both charged up the slight incline. “Geoffrey, you are older and stronger in both spirit and body, and therefore you should make amends. Teach her what you expect with a gentle hand and a sweet tongue, else you will lose her.”
“And did I ever have her?” Geoffrey found himself asking.
“Oh, yes, son,” Elslow said. He smiled to himself and thought, They do not yet know that they love each other and that is their problem. Each guards against the other. “From the moment she said the vows, she became yours.”
Geoffrey shook his head and hurried the pace. “You are mistaken,” he muttered. When Elslow did not answer, Geoffrey glanced over at him and continued, “Always she talks about the great love between her mother and her father. I have never seen such a love, not even between William and Matilda, God rest her soul.” He gave Elslow another long look and then said, “At times I thought Elizabeth made her stories up. No two people would let themselves become so attached to each other . . . so vulnerable. It is foolish.”
“They did not have a choice,” Elslow stated. “But it did not happen overnight as my granddaughter would have you believe. Your king married my daughter to Thomas to gain Montwright, and I can give testimony to the fact that the two newlyweds fought like lions and tigers in the beginning. Twice my daughter ran away from him,” he said, laughing. “She even took his two daughters with her!”
“Tell me this tale,” Geoffrey asked. He found him-self grinning as he thought about what Elslow was telling him, wondering if Elizabeth knew these details of her parents’ lives.
“Thomas had two pitiful-looking little girls,” he began. “They looked like orphans, though dressed in finery, with a sadness in their eyes that tore at the hardest of hearts. They were little more than babes when their mother died and then they were taken from all they knew and placed in the cold home at Montwright. It only took my daughter a month to right the situation. The first time she ran away from her husband, she came to me, in London, and the transformation that had taken place with the little girls was amazing. She loved them and the children blossomed under her care.”
“But what did Thomas do?” Geoffrey asked.
“Why, he came after her, of course,” Elslow replied. “Used his daughters as his excuse for not beating her. He loved her from the start but was too stubborn to admit it.”
Geoffrey stopped in midstride and turned to Elslow. “I do not understand why you did not hate him. He took what was yours and cast you out.”
“My mind was set against him, I’ll admit that,” Elslow replied. “But then I saw my daught
er with his two little girls. She had become their champion. I saw too how Thomas looked at her and read the caring in his eyes. I told him I would kill him if he harmed her, and instead of becoming angry with my threat, he agreed that I should do just that. He gave me his word to honor and protect her, and he held it to his dying day.”
Geoffrey tried to picture Thomas in his mind but the image was vague. “He was a humble man, as I recall, and on the quiet side.”
“He was content.”
“Like I used to be,” Geoffrey snapped. “Until your granddaughter came into my life. I will have this chaos end, Elslow, and things returned to normal.”
Elslow knew he had said enough. He nodded and took his leave. He would give Geoffrey time to absorb what they had discussed, and then he would again prod him. The role of peacemaker was new to Elslow and he found himself quite thirsty from his effort. He quickened his pace in his quest for a cool goblet of ale. Maybe he could challenge Roger into another game of chess, he considered, smiling with anticipation.
Geoffrey stood where he was, his mind considering what Elslow had said. He straightened his shoulders and took a different direction, his hands once again clasped behind his back, as he circled the side of the fortress.
Little Thomas called out a greeting, and Geoffrey paused in his walk. He watched the little boy run toward him, holding a small spear in his arms. Elslow had fashioned the toy spear just the evening before.
“And what are you about?” he asked in what he considered his pleasant voice.
“I am going to learn the quintain,” the child yelled.
“And who is going to teach you this exercise?” Geoffrey asked, smiling.
“Gerald,” Thomas said, pointing to the squire, who was now coming around the side of the fort with his horse trailing behind. “See what he made?”
Geoffrey looked to where Thomas pointed. There, pounded into the ground, stood a five-foot post. Across the top was another piece of board, placed crosswise. Hanging from one end was a straw figure of a knight, and from the other end hung a bag of sand. The object of the exercise was to thrust the lance at the pretend knight, but with sureness and quickness, else the bag of sand would swing around in time to knock the rider from his saddle. The quintain was an exercise that the older squires preferred, and too dangerous for one as small as the child standing in front of him. “Today,” he said, “you will just watch. And perhaps tomorrow you can sit in front of Gerald while he practices this most difficult exercise,” Geoffrey stated.
Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] Page 19
