by Sarah Hegger
The soap was rich and soft and smelled delightful, something floral, but not familiar to her. How would they feel if she offered them some of her perfumed oils? She washed her hair thrice before the water chilled too much to be comfortable.
Getting out of the bath, she nearly stepped on a yellow dog lying before the hearth, keen brown gaze on her. As she stood, so did the dog.
Alya sat down in her bath again.
The dog watched her.
The gap between the door and the dog seemed far too small, and she had seen how fast they could move.
The dog opened its mouth wide, flashing a terrifying set of white, long teeth. Did it mean to bite her with those? Then it lay back down again with a grumble.
Alya nearly laughed. The dog had yawned, that was all.
“You should leave here,” she said to it.
The dog thumped the floor with its tail. Ears jerked straight up as if it listened, it raised its head and looked at her.
“Out.” Alya used her most strident tone and pointed to the door.
The dog thumped its tail again.
It did not seem to want to attack her. Moving slowly, she rose from the bath again.
The dog watched.
“You eat your own excrement,” she said. “It makes you a filthy animal.”
Unabashed the dog cocked its head.
The door opened and Kathryn walked in. “I thought you might be done.”
Kathryn called her beautiful, but Alya had never seen skin so white and delicate as Kathryn’s. Certainly not with dark hair and eyes like Kathryn’s. Her figure was a little slimmer than most women, but it made her appear strong and healthy. Alya coveted Kathryn’s clothes. No stupid dresses trailing in the dirt for her, but instead Kathryn wore much the same thing as Henry, only smaller.
“I see you have company.” Kathryn pointed to the dog. She clicked her fingers and the dog trotted to her. Its tongue hung pink and wet out of the corner of its mouth.
Alya shuddered as the dog licked Kathryn’s hands. Did Kathryn not know where else that tongue had been?
“I think she is one of Dagger’s daughters,” Kathryn said. “Dagger has been busy since he arrived at Anglesea.”
Alya wrapped herself in the drying cloth. From her clothing chest, she dug out the jasmine oil for her hair.
Watching everything she did, Kathryn perched on the edge of the bed.
Alya did not mind. Had their parts been reversed she would have been curious too and she rather liked the company.
As Alya combed the oil through her hair, Kathryn sniffed. “What is that?”
“Jasmine oil.” Alya handed her the vial and Kathryn took a deeper sniff.
“It smells wonderful.” Kathryn’s pretty face lit up.
“It makes my hair shine.” There was something very reassuring about talking about womanly pursuits with another woman.
“Really?” Kathryn peered into the vial.
“I have more if you would like to try it.”
Kathryn smiled at her. “I would like that.” She nodded. “And I want you to know that if there is anything you need to ask, I would be glad to answer your questions.”
The first tendrils of friendship pressed back the isolation and warmed her.
The door opened and Henry entered the chamber. His presence shrunk the space as he stopped and stared.
Feeling suddenly naked before the stark hunger in his eyes, Alya pushed her shoulders back, and held her ground.
“Lady Kathryn.” Hot gaze never leaving Alya, he bowed. Like a touch on her skin, his gaze roamed her drying sheet-encased form. His voice deepened as he greeted her. “My lady.”
And she was. His lady. Henry’s lady. Except Alya really did not want to be a lady anymore. She had no fear of marriage intimacy. Bahir had years ago dispelled any fears she might have. Working as a guard in a harem gave Bahir a unique view of women and fleshly pleasures and he shared much of it with her. Although she suspected he kept an even larger portion from her.
“Right.” Kathryn’s glance bounced between them and she giggled. “I think I will go and find Roger.”
Winking at Alya, she scuttled for the door and shut it behind her.
A log popped in the fire and Alya jumped.
Henry stalked her.
Alya stood, a flush spreading over her skin. Under his silent intensity her limbs trembled.
In slow measured steps, Henry circled her.
This must be how the lamb felt trapped in the stare of the lion.
He stopped behind her. Close enough for his heat to prickle along her spine. “Alya.”
“Henry.” Her breathy murmur sounded nothing like her.
“So beautiful.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, and tugged her head back. Neck arched she was exposed and vulnerable to him. “And here. In my home. In my chamber.”
His tone staked a claim on her, so delicious it made her shiver.
“I watched.” He stepped closer, his tunic soft against her bare shoulders. “As you stood on the wall at sunset.”
“I know.” Under his stare, she had wanted to preen.
He chuckled, his breath warm on her neck. “So you said.” His lips caressed her neck. “We men and our intrigues and secrets, believing we are so clever to keep them hidden.”
“I liked it.” Alya’s breath sounded loud. The featherlight caress of his lips intrigued, tantalized but fell far short of what she desired. “I liked that you watched me.”
“Did you also know how my hands ached to touch you?” He stroked his palm from her wrist to her shoulder. “To discover if your skin was as soft and warm as it looked.”
“Aye.”
His hand cupped her shoulder and slid forward, his fingertips brushing the top edge of her sheet. “I never dreamed that I would have you here. In my home. My wife.”
“Now that you have me here, what will you do with me?” This time she wanted it all. All the pleasure he had hinted at when he brought her to completion with his hand on the boat.
“So brazen.” He nipped at her neck. With a snap, he pulled the covering from her.
Alya thrust her shoulders back. Naked before him she felt no shame. Let him look on her.
Henry moved around her, his gaze like a touch against her skin, hot and real. “Jesu, you take my breath away.”
“Is this what you pictured, when you looked up at me on the roof?” His desire emboldened her.
He shook his head. “Nothing I pictured could come close to this.”
A slight chill in the room pebbled her skin. Still, Henry stood there as if he had taken root on the floor.
“You can touch.” Impatience tinged her voice. “I am standing right before you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I am finding it hard to believe you will not disappear like smoke.”
“Henry.” Her patience snapped, and Alya wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am here and I am real, and I demand you do something about it.”
On a hitched breath, he gripped her hips and pulled her flush against him. “You demand?”
“Aye, I demand?” Against her belly, his rod pressed, hard and insistent. “I demand my wifely rights.”
He gripped her nape. “Aye, my lady.”
At first, he kissed her softly, learning the shape of her mouth. The contact rippled through Alya, so sweet.
His tongue touched her lip and she opened to him. What Bahir had told her of kissing like this had not prepared her for the intimacy. The way the taste of Henry filled her senses, the slightly rough slide of his tongue over hers. He tasted of wine, and cinnamon mixed with the sweet tartness of oranges. She tangled her hands in his tunic, pulling him closer.
Hand thrillingly rough against her skin Henry’s stroked the indentation of her waist. The hand at her nape tightened. He deepened the kiss, throwing her into a swirl of sensations that left her boneless and wanting.
His hand found
her breast.
Alya moaned against the delicious onslaught. Her nipple pebbled beneath his seeking fingers. Her breasts felt full, heavy and swollen. Between her thighs heat built and spread through her belly. She pressed into the weight of his rod.
She needed to touch his skin. Her fingers fumbled on his belt. It hit the floor with a clatter. Beneath his tunic his skin was hot and smooth over the hardness of muscle. Alya dug her fingers into his flesh.
Henry broke the kiss. Flushed, his eyes fever bright, he fisted the back of his tunic and dragged it over his head.
Alya took her turn and stared. Henry was beautifully made, a male animal in his prime. A scar cut across his belly and another closer to his collarbone. The body of a fighting man.
Henry tugged her back into his embrace.
The press of skin on skin took her breath away. Rougher hair on his chest abraded the sensitive tip of her breasts. Her softer form cleaved to his, her breasts pressed into the hardness of his chest.
“Let us take this where it belongs.” Henry hauled her into his arms.
He placed her on the bed and came down beside her. Propping his head on his elbow, he lay on his side, studying her.
Desperate for the kiss she could no longer wait for, Alya pulled his head down to hers.
Henry slid his thigh between hers.
She parted for him.
His rod pressed into her woman’s place. His chausses lay in the way of the contact she craved. Alya tugged at his waistband.
Henry raised himself above her.
Alya wrapped her legs about his hips and tried to bring him back into contact.
“Nay, my lady.” The smile he gave her was pure devilment. “I have waited far too long for this to rush now.”
His dark head lowered to her breast and took her nipple in his mouth.
Alya’s back shot off the bed as the heat and wet of his mouth hit her in one dizzying wave.
He lavished attention on first one breast and then the other. Between her thighs, she ached, restless beneath his unrelenting sensual exploration.
His lips slid over her ribs. Hot kisses traced over her belly. He lifted her bottom and slid his shoulders between her thighs.
Dear Lord, she knew what came next. She had seen this in engravings, heard whispers of it.
His mouth on her drew a cry from her. Nothing had come close to this. His tongue moved on her secret flesh, sure and strong. He found the pleasure place and sucked. Alya dug her nails into his hair, holding him to her, not wanting this to ever end.
Savoring her as if he dined on a great feast, he took his time.
Completion throbbed through her, sharpened, and exploded on a cry.
Henry rose above her. He slid off the bed and shucked the remainder of his clothing. Forearms bracketing her head, he pressed her deeper into the bed. “Honey.” He framed her face with his big hands. “Every part of you tastes like honey.”
His flesh pressed into hers.
Alya opened her thighs wider. She breathed deep as she instinctively tensed at his invading rod. Tilting her hips, she relaxed the muscles that would prevent his entry.
On a low groan, Henry slid deeper into her.
Her slick flesh stretched to accommodate him until he was fully seated within her.
He stilled, pressing his forehead to hers. “Heaven,” he whispered. “I could stay here forever.”
Slight discomfort eased as she accepted him into her body.
Henry moved with her. Easing out and back in. Cords stood out in his neck, his breath rasped. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You are not hurting me.” Alya slid her hands down his back. Thick ridges crisscrossed his sweat-slicked skin as he thrust. Later, she would ask, but not now.
His buttocks clenched with each movement of his hip.
Alya dug her fingers into their firm flesh and pressed him on. Already her body yearned for more.
Thrusting harder, deeper, he responded to her silent demands.
Sensation built from their point of connection. It built inside her, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.
Henry’s pace quickened, his breath hot on her face. “You are mine.”
“Yours.” Alya shattered around him.
On a groan, Henry followed her over the edge. He collapsed atop her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Alya folded arms and legs tightly around him. She wanted to keep him in the cradle of her body and hold on to the magic they had just shared.
Sweat cooled on her skin and she shivered.
Henry rolled off her.
At the loss of him Alya murmured a protest.
Henry drew her into his arms, and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, her temples, her forehead. His hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head to his shoulder. His arms folded strong and sure around her. “My girl on the wall.”
Chapter 18
Not able to sleep, Henry lay beside Alya and watched her sleep. His full mind churned constantly. In a few days, there would be more to absorb when his mother and father came to Anglesea with Faye and Gregory. Roger had sent a message to Tarnwych as well, so William and his wife would make the journey south.
William married, in itself, took some thinking on. Aye, he’d known William had been amenable to the idea of an advantageous marriage. He had left on pilgrimage a few days before Father started his discussions with various brides’ fathers.
The threat of him being next on the list had played no small part in his decision to take himself out of his father’s matrimonial view.
Alya stirred and huffed in her sleep. She slept with her one hand tucked beneath her head and the other lying on the covers, as if she had been arranged that way.
His family would accept her because she was his wife, but the rest of the Anglesea folk might see things differently. Their reaction to Bahir he should have predicted. He had seen enough of it in Genoa. Most Anglesea folk, for all their inherent goodness, never journeyed further than the next village. Their world was closely confined by the sea, the castle, the fields and the forest. Father provided well for his demesne, so they had no reason to move on.
More worrisome than Bahir looking different was that he was one of those heathens the church had sent its flock to fight.
Careful not to wake Alya, he slid out of bed and pulled his braies on.
Moonlight wavered on the surface of the sea. Trapped in Cairo he had not allowed himself to miss this view. Hardly any stars shone through the heavy blanket of cloud. So different from Cairo, where the stars covered the night sky like chainmail. Unlike Cairo, however, Anglesea had good, sturdy mead and he could do with some of it.
He opened the door to the passageway. A large dog stood up from where it had been lying outside the door. With a cursory swish of its tail, it entered his chamber. After a few sniffs the dog strolled to Alya’s side of the bed and lay down.
Maybe he should remove the animal? Nay. Growing accustomed to dogs about all the time constituted one of the smaller adjustments Alya had to make.
With only the occasional taper and a splash of moonlight lighting the way, the corridor remained mostly dark. His feet took a familiar path down the stone stairs. Things were so familiar and strange all at once. How he fit back into this life remained to be seen.
Hearth fires filled the hall with cheerier warmth. At one of which sat Roger.
Roger looked up as he entered, stared a moment and shook his head. “You are standing right there, and yet my mind still can’t quite grasp it as the truth.”
Desire for solitude had kept him upstairs with Alya earlier. That and the generous gift of her beautiful body. Other than Roger, the hall lay quiet, and he took the seat opposite his brother.
A sleepy squire stumbled to them. “Can I get you anything, Sir Henry?”
“Sir Henry will have some mead,” Roger said. “And be quick about it, Rob.”
Roger was not a cruel o
r harsh man, yet the squire loping out of the hall to the kitchen looked done in.
“For shame, Roger,” Henry said. “The lad is young and needs his sleep.”
“Aye.” Roger scowled after Rob. “Rob over there needs a lesson in manners. His thick skull makes the learning of them all the harder.” He grinned and sipped from his goblet. “But the lad has a beautiful way with a longbow. I have never seen such aim. He can pick the pimple off your ass at four hundred yards.”
“Impossible.” Having something of a way with a bow, Henry should know. At least, he used to. It had been many years since he picked one up.
Up went Roger’s brow. “Care to wager?”
Just like that they slipped into an old pattern. One that warmed through Henry’s chest and made him feel more at home than anything else.
Rob’s boots dragged on the floor as he brought Henry a flagon of mead and a cup. “Anything else, Sir Henry?”
“Nay. I thank you.” He felt sorry for the lad. “Roger tells me you are an excellent archer.”
Rob blushed, the freckles across his nose standing out sharply. “I shoot a little.”
“I, too, shoot a little.” Henry poured his mead. He took a moment to appreciate the glorious dark honey color. “Perhaps we can shoot together?”
Rob quivered and dropped his head. “I would be honored, my lord. Sir Roger and Sir Arthur have told me much of your skill.”
“Get to bed, lad.” Roger waved him away.
Rob dragged tired legs out of the hall.
Henry turned back to Roger. “Just how good am I?”
“We may have exaggerated a trifle.” Roger squirmed and then gave him a jaunty grin. “Let us say you have a lot to live up to.”
This felt right, peaceful. The crackling of the fire, the honeyed bite of mead, he and Roger sitting and not needing to say much. “So.” He broke the silence not because it was uncomfortable, but more because they had always spoken this way. “Your luck held when you married Kathryn.”
“Aye.” Roger managed to look smug and besotted all at once. “Even if she really did not want to marry me at the time.”
Mead halfway to his mouth Henry froze and tried to decide if he had heard right. “There was a woman in England who did not want to marry Roger of Anglesea?”
