by Shari Anton
He shook his head. “’Twould be bad practice to forgive the death tax. Mistress Biggs must give Father Paul her best blanket and forfeit the cow owed her lord.”
“But she has so little already, and without Oscar’s pay I do not know how they shall feed themselves.”
He tugged on her hand and they began walking again. “You must not take every peasant’s troubles to heart, Gwendolyn.”
“Would you have them starve?”
“Nay, which is why I proposed to Mistress Biggs that her son might do as a page.”
“Edward? A peasant child?”
“’Tis not unheard of. The boy is nimble and bright and would learn his duties right quick, I should think. Have you an objection?”
A page didn’t earn the same wage as a soldier, the son yet unable to command a pay equal to the father’s. Still, what coin he took home to his mother would be welcome, and Gwendolyn didn’t doubt she could occasionally slip an extra loaf of bread or length of fabric into Edward’s hands.
Alberic’s solution proved more than satisfactory.
“No objection at all, my lord.”
At the age of four and ten, along with the rest of her family, Gwendolyn had attended the wedding of her cousin Danielle. She’d observed the marriage rites and rituals and decided upon several things that day.
First, her groom would not mutter his vows so softly that even the bride was unsure of what he said. Alberic had already passed that test—in a clear, strong voice, making her rights and grants known to all.
Second, noblewomen could be as bawdy and vulgar as a scullery wench. Old enough to join in the ritual of putting the bride to bed, Gwendolyn had been shocked by her aunt’s and cousins’ advice to the bride, even though she hadn’t understood all of what they’d referred to until years later.
Most important, Gwendolyn had vowed she would not await her groom naked in bed. Some drunken dolt had teasingly tugged at Danielle’s coverlet and managed to pull it off the bed, exposing the bride’s nakedness for all to see. Gwendolyn had nearly died of embarrassment while others tittered or laughed so hard they cried.
Emma had attended that unsettling bedding ceremony, too, so she understood why Gwendolyn sat on a stool to have her hair brushed with her cloak at hand, ready to cover her chemise when she heard the smallest sound at the lord’s bedchamber door.
Her father’s bedchamber.
Alberic had not changed much in the room. She’d expected trunks of his possessions and possibly servants to arrive from Chester, but they never had. Nor had Alberic acquired furnishings or ornamentation for the room when shopping in Shrewsbury, only gifts for her.
She again admired her beautiful wedding band, the sturdy gold and sparkling amethysts, the gift she would wear all her days as proof of her wedded state. To Alberic.
“So what happens now?” Nicole asked.
Gwendolyn kept her mouth closed, hoping Emma would answer because Gwen wasn’t at all sure.
Emma put down the brush and sat in the other chair, holding her arms out to Nicole, who promptly accepted the invitation to cuddle on her sister’s lap.
“The men will come up and make bawdy remarks, which you must neither listen to nor try to comprehend. Then Father Paul will bless the bed and we will all leave, except Alberic and Gwendolyn, of course.” Emma pulled Nicole in for a hardy and loving hug. “And then I believe you and I shall retire. We each have a long day of travel tomorrow.”
Gwendolyn’s throat closed up at the reminder of their leaving.
“May I sleep in Gwendolyn’s place tonight?”
“If you promise not to seize more than your share of space.”
Nicole readily agreed, and Gwendolyn’s resolve not to cry fractured, but didn’t wholly split apart. She quickly brushed away the single tear before either sister could notice.
Loud voices in the passageway saved her further agony, tossing her from painful thoughts back to those of confused anticipation. As she stood up to greet the men, she remembered to wrap her cloak around her just in time.
The door burst open and several men entered, all of them grinning and, Gwendolyn suspected, all the worse for the amount of ale and wine they’d consumed during the feast and festivities of the afternoon.
Sedwick and Garrett performed exaggerated bows, comically mocking Madog ap Idwal’s overblown obeisance. Thomas and Roger aped the older men. Alberic stood behind them, taking in their antics with good-natured humor. Father Paul didn’t look amused at all.
Then Thomas offered her a goblet of wine. “Fortification, my lady.” He winked. “His lordship looks forward to a long, lusty night. Most of us are of the opinion that a de Leon can not only endure but outlast him.”
She raised a surprised eyebrow at the implication. “You wagered against your lord?”
Roger’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “Nay, my lady. We merely wagered in your favor.”
Careful to keep her cloak mostly closed, she eased a hand out the front to take the goblet. A contest, then? One she was expected to win without knowing the rules or what determined success or failure. And if she learned enough during the course of the night to fully engage her sparring partner, on the morrow could she summon the audacity to announce victory or loss so the men could settle their wagers?
The squires’ confidence bolstered her resolve to give good account of herself, win or lose. She took a heathy swig of the robust red wine, then tilted the goblet toward Thomas. The teasing and yet proud twinkle in his eyes brought on a wry smile.
“I shall endeavor to ensure your faith in my meager talents not misplaced.”
Accompanying the men’s laughter, the squires now honored her with a truly respectful bow before stepping aside. Her bravery floundered at the sight of Alberic’s wicked smile, as if he knew of an unfailing method to ensure her defeat. He probably did, and the prospect forced the goblet to her lips once more.
“Shall we?” Father Paul asked, his tolerance for the men’s mischief clearly strained.
“Do proceed, Father,” Alberic said. “Bless the bed well, but quickly. I want you all out of here within a trice.”
Gwendolyn swallowed hard, barely hearing the priest’s invocations for God’s grace and mercy for the couple about to share the mattress and blankets . . . and their lives. And within Alberic’s trice, the room cleared of all but her and the man who was now her husband.
He slid the bolt to ensure their privacy, and the ensuing silence held both frightening and promising possibilities. She took another gulp of wine when Alberic came toward her, the wicked gleam yet shining in his eyes, his unmistakable intent clear for any dolt to perceive. She clutched at the cloak more tightly.
He took the goblet and set it on the table. “Going somewhere, my lady?”
His voice was rough, not as teasing as before. Did he truly fear she might try to escape him again, leave him alone in the marriage bed? She’d given him her vow, and intended to honor it.
“Nay, my lord. I go nowhere tonight.”
He tugged at the cloak’s ties. “Then you have no need for this now.”
None at all. Not for modesty’s sake, for already her body yearned for his touch. Not for warmth, for effusive heat bloomed on her cheeks and raced down to her curled toes. Slowly, gently he unwrapped her, and without forethought or hesitation she released the fabric she’d clutched in her fist.
Alberic’s mouth went dry. He’d seen Gwendolyn in this state of undress before, had enjoyed the sight of her generous breasts and rounded hips beneath the sheer veiling of her chemise. While he’d routed temptation that night, now he could look and touch his fill.
Her long hair hung forward over creamy shoulders to flow between her breasts, which rose when she took a steadying breath. He licked his lips in anticipation of taking the hardening tips into his mouth and suckling as long as he pleased.
He tossed the cloak toward the table, not caring about his accuracy. Despite her bold answer to Thomas’s teasing, and no
matter how much she’d been told about coupling by female kin or gleaned from scullery maids, her inexperience must be taken into account.
Vowing to gradually accustom her to his touch, he ran a finger along her collarbone. To his delight she shivered, though he doubted her chilled.
“Did you enjoy the celebration?” he asked, working his way across her shoulder.
“Aye. We need to improve your dancing.”
And here he’d been proud that he’d smashed no one’s toes. “I admit to little practice. Perhaps you can teach me.”
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Now?”
“Later. Much later.”
“Good.”
So much relief expressed in one word.
Tentatively, as though testing boundaries, she placed her hand on his chest. Warmth seeped through the silk tunic he wished he’d discarded sooner.
She smiled. “Your heart beats hard. Perhaps you should lie down.”
Wonderful suggestion. “Perhaps we both should.”
“In a moment. I believe I will finish my wine first.” She backed away, snatched up the goblet, and sat down in the chair. “Thomas’s offering should not go to waste.”
What was this? He’d sensed no fear or even hesitancy on her part. Indeed, a moment ago he would have sworn Gwendolyn’s desire for the coupling rose at a pace with his now aching arousal. But then, she’d not been awaiting him already abed, as was usual for a bride. Perhaps she needed more coaxing, more assurance.
Patience. His randy prick objected to the caution, but this was Gwendolyn’s first experience with coupling, and getting it done right must rule over getting it done according to his body’s wishes.
All well and good, except the lady didn’t appear as if she needed coaxing. The sparkle in her doe-brown eyes suggested she’d backed away from him for another reason entirely. She made no attempt to hide any part of her lovely form from his view. She lounged in the chair, the goblet dangling from her fingers, her gaze open and focused on . . . oh, heavenly day.
Several nights ago she’d covered her eyes to avoid viewing his nakedness. Tonight she wanted a good look.
Quite willing to oblige her curiosity, Alberic unbuckled his belt. “I gather you have lost your sense of modesty.”
“Not entirely,” she admitted, though her tone of voice didn’t reveal the extent.
His tunic joined the belt somewhere on the floor. “Ever seen a man’s private parts?”
“Certes,” she asserted, then acknowledged, “Well, not a man’s, but a boy’s. I imagine a man’s is . . . larger.”
Alberic stifled a smile and sat on the other chair to toe off his boots. “You were not tempted to peek through your fingers the other night?”
“Nay!”
He knew she was lying. “No curiosity at all? How very virtuous of you, my lady.”
“Now you mock me.”
He stood up to shove down his final piece of clothing, and her already wide brown eyes grew huge as she beheld his boffing-ready prick. “I only call you on your . . . untruth. You suffered temptation. Even then you wanted to know, but since you did not plan to wed with me, you averted your eyes. Now we are husband and wife, and you have as much right to my sword as I to your sheath. What say, Gwendolyn? Shall we make ours a match in truth?”
Gwendolyn looked up, slowly, allowing herself the pleasure of fully appreciating Alberic’s finely sculpted body, from the hard rod between his thickly muscled thighs, up over his taut stomach, and wide, magnificent chest.
Sweet mercy. This incredibly built male was all hers. His impressive sword to her now wet and burning sheath. All she had to do was lift her skirts, and he would ease her deepest aches.
She put the goblet on the floor and grabbed hold of the chemise’s hem, raising it to uncover her ankles, and calves, then knees and—
“Halt. Stop there.” His demand came in a deeper than normal voice, his gaze transfixed on her mostly bared thighs. “I have thought of your unveiling often, and always I did the honor of uncovering you. Selfish bastard that I am, I would have it be my hand that reveals you to my sight.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but knelt before her and ran his long-fingered, warm hands along the whole length of her inner thighs. Surely he could hear her heart thud against her ribs as he pushed the fabric upward and bared her lower body fully.
She nearly came up off the chair when he brushed the hair there with his thumbs. She grasped his shoulders to steady herself, wishing he’d do it again.
“You glisten already,” he said with awe, then as if he’d heard her silent wish, repeated the caress.
She hissed his name. How he managed to pick her up, strip off her chemise, and carry her to the bed she would never be able to say, for from that moment forward the sensations waxed and waned, often too stunningly for coherent thought.
Just when she was sure his kisses were the most magnificent part of coupling, he shifted his attention downward to nuzzle the breasts he’d stroked and fondled until swollen, the tips hard and erect. Then his mouth suckled at her breasts while his hands moved lower yet, to pet her inner thighs.
With one finger he seized total command. Firmly yet gently he slid through the wetness from the sensitive nub at the apex to the weeping, wanting pathway to her womb. With each caress she breathed more raggedly, and when his finger glided into her she forgot to breathe at all.
Alberic gave up trying to slow down. Gwendolyn responded so rapidly and heatedly to the lightest touch that she put his every other experience with a woman to shame. He’d wanted to make love to her for hours. Enjoy the feel of her silken skin. Allow his hands to memorize the shape of each full, womanly curve.
But he’d barely begun his seduction when he realized she’d gone from willing and ready to the sharp edge of release within a flash.
He withdrew his hand, wet with her woman’s dew. She groaned in frustration. Only a cad would leave her near the peak without taking her over the edge. Nor could he ignore the plea in her eyes for release.
She wanted him inside her, desperately, and the realization that he would be her first lover proved both humbling and exciting.
He moved over her, watching her eyes for any hint of fear. All he saw was passion and need. When he entered her, a heated velvet glove closed around him, and squeezed.
The sensation was pure bliss.
He pierced the virginal barrier he’d never doubted he would find. She rose up and hissed. Within moments she eased back down, her muscles still taut but not tense. She squeezed again, the intimate embrace encouraging him to resume. Hoping her pain fully subsided, he tested with a slow stroke, then another.
Gwendolyn’s hips rose again, but this time seeking a deeper, faster thrust.
Alberic obliged, and the control he’d been so sure he could maintain slipped with each lunge into her depths. He began to sweat, and to worry that he might not last the distance. Never before had he suffered concern over his prowess, but never before had the lady’s satisfaction been so vital.
Each thrust and withdrawal brought him closer to the end of his endurance. Each of Gwendolyn’s throaty moans, the quickening of her breaths, assured him that she, too, neared completion. Just as he lost his grip on reason, she cried out and released him from his fears.
The pulse of her bliss sent him reeling. Her shudders inflamed his passion to beyond mastery. With a last, deep thrust he gave himself up to his body’s screaming need.
Gwendolyn had, without a doubt, ruined him for all others. But then, he didn’t need others anymore; Gwendolyn was his wife. His alone.
He kissed her face, her neck, and nibbled on her ear as their breathing returned to normal. Then he gloried in the oh-so-fulfilled smile she gave him when she finally opened her eyes.
“Sweet mercy, Alberic. I had no notion . . .”
“Ah, but we are not finished yet.”
“There is more?”
“Much more. I shall be away for two days, perhaps t
hree, while Roger and I retrieve our horses. I want you to think of me while I am gone.”
“You think my memory so poor?”
“Nay, I wish to ensure your memory of our coupling so satisfactory that you will welcome me back into our bed when I return.”
And so he did, this time more slowly but with the same exquisite results.
Afterward, Alberic slept soundly, nearly missing the dawn. He hated leaving, would much prefer to linger in the warm bed and arouse his beautiful, enticing wife to make love once more.
Her day wouldn’t be an easy one. Her sisters were leaving this morning. In the afternoon she would attend the burials of the two soldiers lost to ap Idwal’s attack. He wished he could be there for her, but the duty demanded of his lordship didn’t allow him the luxury.
Roger awaited him. The need to retaliate against ap Idwal beckoned him out of the bedchamber and onto a horse. As the sun breached the horizon, Alberic and his squire rode toward Wales.
Chapter Eleven
GWENDOLYN WOKE TO SILENCE, an oddity that snapped her eyes open to see what was amiss with her sisters.
Within a heartbeat she realized she was alone in a bed she’d never slept in before, in a bedchamber she’d never dreamed to occupy.
Memories of the night bore down on her conscience, her aching muscles serving as penance for reveling in Alberic’s carnal possession. Surely what they’d done was sinful, for nothing holy or sacred could possibly prove so delightful. No wonder the scullery wenches sought out whatever hard rods they could find.
Gwendolyn giggled at the wanton, wholly wicked thought. While she tried to admonish her waywardness, she grinned as she reached out to touch the bolster indented from Alberic’s head.
He’d untangled their limbs somewhere near dawn and quietly slipped out of bed. He’d dressed in the dark and left without a word to meet Roger. Gwendolyn wasn’t sure if she should be angry at him for not trying to wake her to bid her adieu, or pleased that, believing she slept, he’d considerately left her undisturbed.
Why she hadn’t opened her eyes to reveal that she’d woken she didn’t know, and refused to contemplate.
