The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Get up, wife. On your knees. It’s time for me to show you what I like.” He practically had to arrange her limbs himself as he folded her forward onto her hands and knees and settled behind her. He knelt there for a few heartbeats, steadying himself and running his hands over her lush backside. “Do you trust me, Lenora?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate.

  That sobered him. “If I’m too rough, tell me.” She nodded and he took his cock in hand and guided it between her legs, pressing it to the pretty, pink petals there but not seeking entrance, not yet. “That’s it, get me nice and wet, Lenora, so I can slide right in to the hilt.” She moaned softly and moved against him. “Not yet,” he said, swatting her backside admonishingly. “I haven’t given you my mouth, so we need to make sure you’re good and wet.”

  She rocked against him and he bit back a grunt. “I’m ready!” she protested as he angled his cock for another teasing slide.

  “Stop rushing me, wife,” he said, squeezing her hip, but she was hunching her shoulders and grinding against him in earnest now.

  “Please!” she gasped and Garman swore. She always got so wet for him it made him light-headed. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

  Her head dropped between her shoulders. “Yes!”

  He only had so much self-control. Positioning the thick tip of his cock at the cleft between her legs, he pushed forward, his brow beading with sweat as he felt himself engulfed in the hot, tight grip of her cunt. He needed to go slow and steady, he warned himself as he felt the jolt of pleasure at the base of his spine as she took him deeper still. Fuck. He wanted to be so deep inside her that he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

  Where the fuck was this coming from? He needed to keep himself in check. Even as the words ran through what remained of his mind, his fingers closed tightly on her hips and jolted her back onto his greedy, impaling cock, as his hips surged forward hard. Lenora cried out. Garman froze.

  “Lenora—?” Then he felt it, the fluttering around his cock turned into a vise-like clench and pull against his hard flesh. He groaned with relief and pleasure at the sensation. “Sweetheart, are you—?” Her low wail answered him. Thank fuck for that. He stopped fighting it and gave in to his baser nature as he thrust with abandon against the fullness of her soft, ripe ass.

  Lenora’s arms gave out before he had his fill, but he barely paused in his onslaught as she turned one cheek to the mattress and strove to catch her breath. He was like a man possessed. This might be his favorite position for bed-sport, but he had no memory of feeling like his heart might burst in his chest before, or that he might black out from the sheer, overwhelming pleasure. Finally, the sensation of fullness in his ballocks could be ignored no more and he spilled inside her longer and harder than he could ever remember, until he sank on top of her with a groan. She barely murmured a protest, as he crushed her to him and pressed his face into her neck. He wanted to breathe her in, felt as though he could not get enough of her.

  After a few moments of ragged breathing, he managed to rouse himself enough to release and roll off her. Even then, he could not resist a quick kiss to her shoulder. Kissing shoulders was not something he had ever felt compelled to do before, he thought, staring at the delicate shoulder blade and the perfection of the turn of her neck. Why was that? Even as his eyes drifted shut, he promised he would allow himself the pleasure of kissing her entire body next time from head to foot. He steadfastly ignored the tremor of alarm that registered somewhere in his thoughts. He could do what he damned well liked to his own wife and she would have to suffer it.

  “What are you thinking about?” she suddenly asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

  For some reason he answered truthfully. “Why it is that I can’t seem to get enough of you,” he murmured, too tired and replete for evasion. He saw the small smile that curved her lips. “That pleases you?”

  She nodded, looking deliciously flushed and sated.

  “Just as well,” he grunted. “Though more prudent wives might be alarmed.”

  “By your monstrous appetites, you mean?” she asked drowsily.

  That surprised a grin out of him though he was still too exhausted to laugh. Instead he found himself reaching for her hand. She pressed her palm to his and watched as he intertwined their fingers.

  “What are you thinking of?” he asked, surprising even himself.

  “Bedchamber doors,” she answered with a yawn.

  “What?”

  “I’m glad I picked yours, Garman Orde,” she said, her eyes drifting shut.

  For some reason, his heart which had been slowing to its regular thud, quickened again for an instant. Then he too, allowed his eyes to close.

  34

  It had been a week since Garman had left for the Grange. And every night thus far, under cover of darkness, he returned to her side. He climbed out of her bed again before dawn and set off for to run the Hainfroys through their instruction. Lenora had started to sleep in late to recover. She strove to make up for her morning laziness by attacking her new household duties in the afternoon.

  Today, she had come to market with Ada in the horse and cart. Smothering a yawn, she stopped at one stall and turned over a few wares before drifting to the next. Ada was with her and bustling about with industrious zeal. The maid had clearly done the market run a hundred times and could do it in her sleep. The only commission Lenora had was from Grandfather Sutton who had a fancy for an eel pie that had struck him that very morning.

  This gave her some leisure to turn over in her mind the problem she was currently working on. Just what it was that Garman found so desirable about Matchings Halt? For if she discovered this, she felt sure she could find an alternative to it that he would like as well. She ticked off on her fingers what she had managed to glean thus far about that estate.

  One – it was neat and well maintained with seasoned orchards and well stocked ponds and fields of choice livestock. Two – the property was compact enough that it only needed a knowledgeable mistress and a conscientious steward to keep it well-run. Three – the house itself was a fine handsome property with a solar, great hall and kitchen gardens as well became a nobleman’s demesne. Four – the grounds were well laid out, fertile and flourishing. The soil was good, the land regularly rotated for crops to leave areas fallow for recovery.

  So far, so good. These practices were all those of good stewardship and Garman’s grandfather had already explained several of these techniques to her. The problem was, securing an estate where such care had been employed and embedded over a period of many years, with a household of trustworthy and faithful retainers who cared about the land as much as their overlord. And that would not be so easy a task. In truth, it was starting to feel nigh on impossible.

  Lady Beatrix had kindly extended an invitation for Lenora to visit her at any time she so wished, but something held Lenora back from taking this step. For what if, in the end she could not prevent Garman from negotiating with Beatrix’s relative to usurp her from her home? Then it would seem as though Lenora had been complicit in the takeover and had been spying out the land. She could not bear for Lady Beatrix or indeed Garman’s grandfather to think such a thing of her.

  Lenora wrinkled her nose, realizing she had ill-advisedly chosen to dally next to the fishmonger’s stall. Turning from left to right to scan the different traders, she nearly bumped into a tall figure in a shabby purple cloak for the second time that morning. “Your pardon,” Lenora apologized politely. The stranger looked at her rather hard and inclined her head in acknowledgement before retreating. Lenora gazed after her, wondering who the tall, rather good-looking girl was, now watching her covertly from a table of woven wares made from rushes, reeds, and canes.

  She was a young gentlewoman if Lenora was not mistaken and was accompanied by a servant hanging back at a discreet distance. She looked much the same age as Lenora and was dressed in a dark purple brocade gown which must once have been very fine, but now look
ed rather threadbare and appeared to be patched rather than embellished with stretches of a plainer more hard-wearing fabric.

  Clearly the woman was watching her, perhaps for an opportunity to approach her and Lenora found she was curious enough to give her an opening. “Ada,” she said, beckoning to her own companion. “Would you kindly remain here at the fishmonger’s stall while I move on? Master Sutton hankers for eel pie for supper. Only I can’t bear the smell of it, so I shall await you further along.”

  The servant nodded obligingly, though she cast a curious look over Lenora as though inspecting her for something. Maybe she thought there might be a particular reason for her over-sensitive nose. Lenora blushed. There surely had not been time for her to catch with child already or in any case, Garman did not seem to think so.

  They probably should have another discussion about children, Lenora thought, considering the disparity between his intent and his actions. She moved along a couple of stalls deep in thought. In truth, it was probably not the ideal time to start a family when they had no settled home and their marriage was still unaccepted in certain quarters. Then again, with a child in her belly, her father would be less inclined to kick up a fuss about his permission not having been sought.

  After a couple of minutes of wandering, she realized the purple-cloaked stranger had decided to take the bull by its horns and was headed in her direction wearing a tight smile. “I must apologize for approaching you in this fashion,” she said, running Lenora to earth beside a potter’s stall. She sounded rather out of breath, her face turning a dull red. She had a good-looking if somewhat haughty face with dark gold hair worn in two braids that had been woven around her head in a style that had been the height of fashion some ten years ago. “We have not been introduced and I am very conscious of the fact you must think me forward indeed. “

  “Pray do not worry about that,” Lenora told her in what she hoped was an encouraging manner. “I know so few people in this neighborhood, that any new acquaintance is a pleasure to me.”

  The other’s face flamed quite scarlet at this, and Lenora wondered at it. “Your name?” she prompted gently when the other appeared tongue-tied. Even this simple request seemed to cause the stranger some difficulty.

  She almost reared back. “How awkward this is,” she forced out at last, clasping her hands together tightly. Lenora could see the cuffs were fraying although they had been much repaired. “You see—we are by way of being related—by your recent marriage.” Clearly, each word was forced out and caused the stranger acute discomfort.

  “Oh,” said Lenora with exaggerated easiness. “So, you are a relation of my husband Sir Garman Orde?” She was intrigued, as other than Gerard Sutton, she had not heard of any living relatives.

  “Not one that he acknowledges, I’m afraid,” the other responded quickly.

  “I see,” said Lenora calmly, though in truth she felt quite in the dark. “Perhaps you might tell me your name?”

  The other gave a start as if only just realizing she had not already given it. “I am Lady Magda Orde,” she said and sank into a graceful curtsey. “And your husband’s first cousin.”

  Lenora responded in kind. “And I am Lenora Orde,” she said, though her married name still felt rusty on her tongue. She recognized the similar coloring between the cousins, the dark blonde hair, the pale blue eyes and the shared height.

  “I know,” replied Magda frankly. “You were pointed out to me on a previous occasion. You see—I have a message to pass along to you.” She looked around a little furtively at this and reached into a shabby looking pouch attached to the belt around her hips.

  “A message for me?” asked Lenora in some surprise. “From whom?”

  “My grandfather, the Earl of Twyford,” replied Magda on an outward breath. She had retrieved a folded-up paper, which she held out now to Lenora.

  “Your grandfather?” Lenora repeated as she took the missive almost without conscious thought. The strangest feeling of foreboding was stealing over her. Had not Garman once said something about a grandfather he did not acknowledge? “Am I to take it the Earl is also Garman’s grandfather?” she asked slowly.

  “He is,” Magda agreed. She darted a curious look at Lenora. “You did not know this?” she asked, clearly taken aback.

  “No, I did not,” Lenora said heavily, her fingers tightening around the letter. So much for the lowly knight she had meant to marry and follow into obscurity! The grandson of an earl! She felt a tingling feeling of ill-foreboding along her spine as another thought occurred to her. “Pray do not tell me Garman is your grandfather’s only grandson.”

  Magda’s eyes widened as shook her head slowly. “Nay, I cannot,” she said in a low voice. “For he is in truth our grandfather’s rightful heir.”

  Lenora took a deep breath. So, Garman was a future earl of the realm! “He did not tell me any of this!”

  Magda stepped back, alarmed at Lenora’s vehemence. “I apologize,” she said rather stiffly. “If the news is unwelcome.”

  Lenora pulled herself together with an effort. “‘Tis only something of a shock,” she prevaricated. “I apologize if I was ungracious.”

  The other woman hesitated but inclined her head. “I’m sure that was only natural.” She cast around a harried look as approaching footsteps heralded Ada’s return to her mistress and with a hurried curtsey, Magda retreated back to her former position next to the basket weaver’s stall.

  “Got ‘em, milady,” Ada said triumphantly. “Enough for two pies, I’ll be bound.”

  *

  It was not until Lenora was sat in the cart on the road home that she retrieved the missive from her pocket and broke the wax seal. A sidelong glance at Ada showed her that she was fully occupied with the horse’s reins.

  Madam, the letter started in a spidery hand.

  I suspect you are as curious to meet with me, as I with you and if you wish to exercise a beneficial influence over your husband’s life, you will doubtless meet with me for evening supper on Thursday 14th at Twyford Castle.

  For reasons you will appreciate, I cannot extend this invitation to you in person. I regret that I will have been most villainously misrepresented to you by one whose loyalty and station in life should have stayed his lips forever. I make no doubt it is he who hath blackened my name to my grandson.

  I do you the courtesy of imagining you have enough wit to separate fact from outright slander.

  And remain

  Jarin Orde, Earl of Twyford

  Lenora read it through twice with raised brows before re-folding it and slipping it into her purse. Who did he mean? Surely he did not refer to Gerard Sutton who had never breathed so much as a word about another grandfather living, let alone blackened his name. Today was Tuesday twelfth which meant the proposed meeting was in two days’ time. Where even was Twyford Castle, she wondered? She had heard no mention of the place. Stealing a sideways glance at Ada she debated quizzing her about it, before deciding against it. She would wait for Garman tonight and task him with an explanation.

  At supper, Garman’s grandfather was in a genial mood, possibly due to the eel pie. Questions trembled on her lips several times about the Twyfords, but she restrained herself. Garman’s father must have been Jarin Orde’s heir. Yet he had married the daughter of a steward and built this farm. It didn’t really make sense, however she thought of it.

  Retiring early, she brushed her hair and left it loose about her shoulders, expecting her midnight visitor. She read her letter again, then slipped it under her pillow, remembering how stricken Gerard had looked and how his hand had trembled at the news his grandson had eloped, Lenora wondered if that was what his own daughter had done? Entered into an unsanctioned marriage with a young nobleman?

  She lay back on her pillows as Fendrel nestled into her side. Reaching out, she stroked his soft gray fur and the little cat purred. Grizelda was already lying at her feet in an elegant stretch. These past few nights the cats had settled into a rhythm o
f starting their night on the bed, then jumping down when Garman appeared to retreat to the fire. When he took his leave in the early hours and the ashes turned cool, they would spring back up onto the bed to keep her company. They seemed to be taking to their new lives as fishes to water. Certainly, they were growing fat and spoiled by the kitchen staff. Hawise was a definite favorite with both.

  Thinking of Hawise brought Berta to mind and Lenora’s brow furrowed. She still had not determined what best to do where she was concerned. Certainly, Berta seemed to be growing sourer and more morose by the day. She even seemed to take some sullen delight in poisoning the atmosphere in the kitchens, which fell silent when her moods grew particularly ferocious, slamming down implements and screwing her face up savagely when anyone spoke to her.

  Once or twice, she thought Garman’s grandfather had tried tentatively to raise the issue, but he was far too tactful to complain her servant was causing discord among his own. Lenora sighed and rolled onto her side, glancing at the window. Garman was late tonight. Mayhap, she would close her eyes a moment, just so she was refreshed when he arrived. The next thing she knew, sunlight was in her eyes and her ears assailed with birdsong.

  He had not come.

  Neither did he come the next night at the prospect of waking alone on Thursday morning no clearer of her own decision, Lenora felt almost beside herself. What should she do? On Wednesday during supper, she opened her mouth twice to raise the subject with Grandfather Sutton but could not quite bring herself to do it. After all, did not the Twyford’s letter malign him atrociously? He would no doubt be mortified if he were aware of the contents of the letter and she would not hurt his feelings for the world.

  After supper, she retired to her bedchamber, washed, undressed, braided her hair, and reached out a hand to pull back the covers. Something stayed her hand. Turning from the bed with an exclamation, she donned a robe over her shift, stuffed her feet into some slippers and snatched up the letter before making her way downstairs.