Lona took a towel from the rack by the fire where it had been warming and briskly rubbed her mistress down until her soft skin was dry and glowed with good health. “I’ll get ye a clean silk shift,” she told her mistress.
“She will nae need it,” the king said. He was standing in the secret door, which had opened silently. “Ye may go, lassie,” he told Lona. “Yer dismissed for the night.”
Without a word Lona curtsied to the king and departed the bedchamber, closing the door behind her as she went.
“I do not like being taken unawares, particularly before I have finished my toilette,” Arabella said coldly, “and in future, my lord, I will dismiss my own servants.”
“Proud,” the king said. “Proud and beautiful. Such pride must surely be inborn that the heiress of a tumbled-down stone keep would have it in such measure.” His blue eyes swept slowly over her, examining her carefully with a connoisseur’s practiced eye. “Damn me, madame, but you are even lovelier than I could have possibly anticipated. Methinks our bargain is a poor one that I must let you go after only three nights of bliss.”
Naked! She was standing naked before a man other than her husband, Arabella thought, and yet she was not in the least embarrassed by her situation. It was most puzzling indeed. “A bargain, my lord, is a bargain,” she said calmly, “and if I remember correctly, there was no guarantee of bliss. You agreed to intercede with King Henry on my behalf, and I agreed to allow you three nights in my bed, but there was certainly no discussion of bliss.”
The king chuckled. “Do ye nae think, madame, that we are capable of gieing each other bliss?” he said, casually removing his silk shirt and his hose, which were the only garments that he had been wearing. He stood before her naked, and seeing that Arabella’s gaze was somewhat fixed somewhere past his right shoulder, he chuckled again. “I am said to be a fine figure of a man, sweetheart. Would ye nae look at me? I am certainly enjoying looking at ye.”
“I did not think you had come to look, my lord,” Arabella answered archly, annoyed at having shown such cowardice before him. She turned her cool gaze upon the king, her green eyes sweeping boldly over him as if she were quite used to perusing naked men. He was, as he said, a fine figure of a man, big and tall, with long limbs that were well fleshed and a long torso that was lightly covered with auburn hair matching that upon his bush and upon his head. She willed herself not to blush as her glance moved over the most intimate part of him. He was certainly most well-endowed, but then as her husband was always reminding her, the Stewart men were.
She had great strength, James Stewart thought, watching her face carefully as she looked her fill at him. He would have almost thought her a woman of vast experience had not the most delicate blush of pink stained her cheeks. He doubted that she herself was even aware of the blush, for it was so faint. Walking over to Arabella, he pulled the tortoiseshell pins from her hair slowly, one by one, watching with delight as her pale gold tresses tumbled to the floor, cloaking her like a silken mantle.
James Stewart reached out and took a handful of her hair between his fingers, feeling the wonderful texture as he rubbed those fingers together. He raised a handful of hair to his lips, kissing it, tasting it, inhaling its wonderful and elusive fragrance. “Magnificent,” he said with deep and sincere feeling. “Never hae I seen such magnificent hair! Its beauty is such that I want to bathe in it!”
“Bathe in my hair?” she mocked him. “My lord, what nonsense you speak.”
“Nay,” he said. “Take yer beautiful hair, sweetheart, and rub it all over my body. I must feel yer hair upon me!”
Tavis had loved her hair, Arabella thought sadly. He, too, had liked to take her hair and rub it over his skin, but he had never said that he wanted to bathe in it. It was, however, what he was doing, she considered, catching up her hair in her hands and stroking his skin with it. “Like this, my lord?” she murmured softly.
“Aye,” he said, almost purring, his eyes closed for a moment as he enjoyed the double sensation of her hair and her hands upon him. Then after a while his blue eyes opened and he looked down into her face. “Kiss me, Arabella,” he commanded her, his hands tightening about her waist as he lifted her up level with him.
She had never kissed another man but Tavis, she thought, as a wave of panic suddenly swept over her. Not like this. Not intimately, but triumphing over her tumultuous emotions, she put her lips upon his. After a moment, however, the king pulled away from her, laughing softly.
“Why sweetheart,” he said gently, “yer shy of me. ‘Tis most charming. Perhaps I ask too much of ye. ‘Tis I who should be instructing ye, for other than my uncle, ye really are an innocent, aren’t ye?” Swinging her into his arms, he carried her over to the bed and set her down upon it.
“I have known no other man but Tavis Stewart,” she answered the king honestly. “I am no wanton, my lord.”
Again James Stewart felt a prick of guilt, but he pushed it away. He was a king, and kings had certain rights over their subjects that other men did not. Arabella’s decision to divorce her husband had been her decision. He had certainly not asked it of her, nor had it been necessary to their liaison that she do so. “Nay, Arabella,” the king agreed, joining her upon the bed, “yer nae a wanton.” He lowered his head so that their faces almost touched. “Open yer mouth to me, sweetheart,” he bid her, and when she obeyed him, he put his lips upon hers even as his tongue reconnoitered forward to surprise hers. She stiffened at its touch and sought to draw away from him, but he would not let her. “Nay, sweetheart,” he said, raising his head from her that he might speak. “Gie me yer wee pink tongue that mine may love it. Watch them as they entwine and play wi’ each other.”
His words had a strange, almost hypnotic effect upon her. Her eyes followed the erotic ballet that their two tongues were performing. She could not for the life of her look away. His tongue was strong. It seemed to master hers, and she shivered even as she felt a thrill of excitement race through her. It had not occurred to Arabella before this moment that she might actually respond to the king’s lovemaking. She had honestly believed that good women respond only to the love of their husbands. Perhaps she was not really a good woman, or perhaps this was simply some sort of temptation that she must resist. Yet if the king was displeased with her, he might take back his aid. She could not be certain that he had actually sent a letter to King Henry. To her decided embarrassment, a small moan escaped her.
“Aye, sweetheart,” the king encouraged her, “dinna be fearful of me or of the passion I will raise in ye.” He began to cover her face with hot kisses, nibbling upon her dark gold eyelashes as he did. Her head fell back, and he kissed her throat. Then his tongue began to lick slowly over the slender column, savoring the silky texture of the faintly perfumed flesh.
Arabella shivered once again, suddenly clearly aware that when the king had made his pact with her he had not, as she believed, meant their three nights to be so quickly over. James Stewart did not want merely to futter her and be gone. He did not intend to use her like a common whore. He wanted all of her, and the thought was terrifying. No man, Arabella instinctively realized, had the right to demand that much of any woman.
He let his lips rest momentarily within the faintly pulsing hollow of her throat. There was something about the life force throbbing beneath his mouth that was incredibly sensual. Though she allowed him free access to her person, he could sense both confusion and resistance within her. He could understand both. The confusion stemmed from her basic innocence. He could sense her rising desire, but he knew that that same desire brought about an instinctive struggle within her against it. James Stewart had not had a great deal of experience with innocent women, but as greatly as he wanted her, he knew he could not enjoy himself fully until he could help her overcome her own resistance to passion. Then, too, there was that intriguing thought: Had she ever known real passion? Surely she had to have known it, for his uncle’s reputation was typically Stewart.
Why did he not simply take
her and be done with it? Arabella wondered nervously. She had never been tested like this before, and she did not know for how much longer she could maintain a cool detachment. He was so gentle. She had not expected gentleness. His lips began to move on her again, his tongue slipping from between them occasionally to caress her. It was that tongue more than anything else that made her so nervous. He seemed to be tasting her flesh and relishing it.
The king had refrained from touching her with his hands up to this point, but now he could no longer resist. Rolling onto his back, he pushed himself into a sitting position and then pulled Arabella back against him, positioning her between his outspread legs. He cupped both of her breasts within his palms, teasing at the outthrust nipples with his thumbs. “Ye hae a pair of the prettiest titties I hae ever seen, sweetheart,” he complimented her. “They are like ripe fruits, plump and sweet.” He bent and kissed her shoulder, brushing her long hair aside as he did.
His hands were strong, and yet he took great care with her tender flesh. For the briefest moment Arabella allowed her eyes to close, imagining that it was her husband who was caressing her, and yet the king’s touch was a distinctly different one. Her husband. She had to stop thinking of Tavis Stewart as her husband. He was not her husband. She had no husband, and there was no reason for her to feel guilt about her situation. James Stewart was a handsome young man and a skilled lover. He was taking every care to ensure her pleasure, and if the truth be known, her predicament was not such a terrible one.
He felt her suddenly relax a little, and he said, “What are ye thinking, sweetheart?”
“I think,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “that you are not a bad man. You are canny, my lord, and I believe you will be a good king, for you are not afraid to take what you want.”
The king laughed. “Ye are an interesting woman, Arabella,” he told her. “Here I am striving to rouse yer passions, and ye are considering my qualifications as king.”
She turned her body slightly so she might look at him. “I think it is important to know the person with whom you are dealing, my lord. You think of me as a mere female to be conquered on the altar of love, but I think of myself as a warrior. My goal is the return of my home. I fight for that gain even as a man would fight. Only my weapons are different. My goals, however, are the same.”
“Then ye yield yerself only in order to reach yer goal,” he said, his tone just slightly aggrieved. “Do ye nae find me attractive then, madame?”
The time had come, Arabella realized, to put away her childish ideals. Even devoid of experience, she knew that a man’s ego was far more fragile than a woman’s. “Oh, Jamie Stewart,” she told him softly, “I have been raised to be a good woman, and I suddenly find it is possible that I might enjoy being a bad one. My conscience pricks me sorely, and aye, you are more than attractive, my lord. You are wickedly handsome. Perhaps that is why I am just a little afraid.” Were those honeyed words coming out of her mouth?
“Afraid, sweetheart? Why afraid?” the king asked her, now all solicitous concern. “Ye need nae be afraid of me. I only want to love ye.”
“‘Tis that very love of which I am afraid, my lord,” Arabella told him. “I cannot love you, Jamie Stewart, for if I did, I should not want to go, and I must go.”
James Stewart’s sensuous mouth brushed her lips lightly, and his eyes were warm. “Ye know I would hae ye stay, sweetheart,” he said, “but I will also understand yer going…if ye must.” His hands began to fondle her breasts again. “But let us dinna think of yer going, Arabella, when we are just beginning.” His voice was thick with his rising passion.
Arabella closed her eyes once again in an effort to will away her guilt. There could be no more talk between them, and the king was far too sensitive to women to be fooled by a sham of amorousness on her part. He would accept reticence and shyness, but that reticence must soon melt away, and her shyness must turn to desire lest she displease the monarch. He turned her, cradling her against an arm, and lowering his bright auburn head, he began to lick at one of her nipples, his skilled tongue slowly encircling the hard little nub of flesh. Her breasts had always been sensitive, and Arabella gasped softly as a small prickle of pleasure raced through her.
The king sensed her vulnerability immediately. Sliding down onto his back, he drew her atop him and pulled her up so that he might have free access to both of her breasts. He kissed and licked at the plump flesh, finally suckling upon each nipple in its turn.
The prickles were fast turning into fiery darts of pleasure, and Arabella heard herself moaning softly as her breasts grew hard and swollen with their desire. Her fingers began to tangle themselves into his hair, kneading at his head aimlessly in an effort to gain surcease even as he laid her on her back and, leaning over her, began to nuzzle her torso. He kissed at the silken flesh of her belly, his head moving inexorably lower and lower even as her heart pounded wildly with the blinding realization that he was not going to stop.
He was hard. Dear God, but he was hard. He felt that if he reached down and touched himself, that his great Stewart cock would snap and break off. He wanted to drive himself into her without any further delay, but he would not…not yet. Not quite yet. His hand smoothed over her Venus mont, and she shuddered. Quickly spreading her with his fingers, he lowered his head and touched her with his tongue.
Arabella stiffened and cried out softly, for the touch, so warm and so intimate, was totally unexpected.
The king raised his head a moment and said, “Did my uncle never use ye in this fashion, sweetheart?”
“N-nay!” she half sobbed.
“Dinna be afraid, Arabella. ‘Twill gie ye pleasure far greater than ye can imagine.” Lowering his head again, he began to tongue her, first with slow, broad strokes, and then as she grew hot with her passion, with quick, flickering motions that seemed to drive her wild with unfeigned delight.
It was too much, Arabella thought. There had never before been such incredible sweetness. Why had Tavis denied her this delight? She felt as if a star were bursting within her brain, just behind her eyelids. “Ohhhh,” she moaned, and her now fevered body began to thrash. “Ohhhh, yessss! Ohh, yes, my lord!” It was all too delicious. Simply too delicious, and then she shivered hard with her pleasure.
James Stewart was astounded and delighted as well. How could his uncle not have given Arabella this delight? Was Tavis one of those damn fools who believed a man futtered a wife differently than he futtered other women? Surely not! He pulled himself level with her once more. “Did I gie ye pleasure, sweetheart?” he asked her, fully knowing what her response would be, and when she nodded dreamy-eyed at him, he said, “Then the time hae come for ye to gie me equal pleasure. Open yerself to me, Arabella.”
She slipped her arms about his neck, and drawing his head down to hers, she kissed him sweetly, her little tongue hurrying into his mouth to play with his. She felt him seeking, and shifted herself to better accommodate him, but he fit only the tip of his organ within her moist sheath. Puzzled, she drew back and looked at him questioningly.
“Let us play a wee game, sweetheart,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Let us see which one of us needs the other first.” His lips met hers again.
Men, Arabella thought, amused, were such children. Yet this child was a clever devil who fully enjoyed and devoured female flesh with gusto. He would also expect her to break first, she realized, and contemplated if she would. No. ‘Twas what he expected. Let him get what he did not expect, Arabella decided, even as she returned his kisses with passion.
He wanted her! Dear heaven how he wanted her, he thought, as he moved teasingly on her, but she would not surrender. The kisses between them became more frantic, and finally James Stewart could no longer bear the tension. Slowly and deliberately he pushed himself into her sheath, groaning with pure relief as he did so. Her soft laughter inflamed him, and he began to move skillfully upon her until it was she who was crying for release. When he had at last acceded to her ple
a, she shuddered again and again, her golden head finally falling to one side, her breathing so faint that he wondered if perhaps he had killed her.
She had the answer to her question, Arabella realized, as her body lay replete with satisfaction against the equally contented body of the king. A man, other than a husband, could indeed give a woman carnal pleasure, but it was different too. She did not dislike Jamie, but there was no special warmth between them now as there had been between herself and Tavis in the afterward. She and the king had nothing more between them than the shared experience of a coupling, and however pleasurable it had been to her body, the love was lacking, and her heart ached with loneliness. It was a sobering, indeed a terrifying revelation, and she was now committed to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life, but surely Greyfaire was worth it. Wasn’t it?
PART THREE
My Lady of Grayfaire
Chapter Fifteen
Arabella Grey came back to Greyfaire almost four years after she had left it. It was April, and her white mare nickered softly as her equine memory was triggered by some familiar sight or scent. They stood on the crest of a hill overlooking the keep, and Arabella suddenly thought that it all looked so forlorn and shabby. Though the day was chilly and the air damp with impending rain, no smoke came from the cottages in the village below. She shivered with a sense of imminent doom.
“You are certain, Rowan, that Sir Jasper is not in residence?” she demanded of FitzWalter’s son for what was probably the sixth time that day.
“Nay, m’lady, he ain’t there. He hasn’t been at Greyfaire in months. If he had come, me dad would have sent word.”
“Let us go down then,” Arabella said, and turning, called to Lona, astride a brown gelding with little Margaret. “Come on, Lona. We’re almost home now.”
They began their descent down the hill even as the first spatterings of rain began to hit them.
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