Table of Contents
HOW TO MARRY YOUR WIFE
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
HOW TO MARRY YOUR WIFE
STELLA MARIE ALDEN
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
HOW TO MARRY YOUR WIFE
Copyright©2015
STELLA MARIE ALDEN
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
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Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-986-4
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The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
I send my heart out in sincerest thanks
to all my lovely fans and friends
who bought my first book.
The success was overwhelming.
To Cindy, my Soul Mate Publishing editor?
Thanks for believing in me.
Rich? Thank you, honey,
for being my first-line-editor and life-long hero.
Lastly, to my daughters.
Your successes continue
to support my belief that all things are possible.
Prologue
England, near London Towne
Year of our Lord 1276
Behind them, massive columns stood tall as their only chaperones in the ancient Roman bathhouse. Peepers croaked, night birds lamented, and water gurgled as it cascaded down from each of the three tiers. Sir Thomas led her deeper into the shadows made by blue moonlight. Tiny waves of light reflected off the pools and onto his beautiful Norman features.
The dark centers of his eyes widened as he brushed his lips over hers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t want me?” Merry’s lower lip quivered. Thick black hair caressed the tender places between her fingers when she reached her hands to the back of his head. Warmth spread from where their lower halves met and she kissed him with all her being.
Her Templar knight groaned. “I’ve promised your liege that I’ll not lay with you until we’re wed. If we continue down this road, my honor will be questioned.”
Letting go of his silky wet locks, she reached into her purse and waved six colorful ribbons of yarn in front of his nose. “But I brought these.”
He leaned over to where he’d placed his sword, belt, and boots and came up with similar lengths of wool. “As did I.”
Her cheeks ached with the wide grin she sent his way. “Anon. Let’s do it.”
Rough palms cupped her face as the man she adored bore a hole into her soul with his gaze. “Lass, ’tis serious. We’ll be hand-fasted. Are you sure you want this?”
She covered his hands with her own and fell into the depths of those magnificent eyes. The drum in her chest beat faster and her lips parted. “I’m six and ten seasons. I know my own mind.”
A soft moan escaped his perfect lips and his kiss went deeper than any of the others they’d shared all summer. One of his hands slid to the back of her head and the other glided down her back and clamped her bottom globe. He pulled her tight to his hard want and her mind filled with lustful thoughts.
Warm breath met her ear. “We’ll have a proper wedding when I return from London Towne in a fortnight. Ready?”
She nodded and held forth her hand with the yarns.
Never releasing her from his fierce gaze, he clasped his sword arm to hers, tied them together with the yarn, and bound them forever. “I take thee as my wife.”
With eyes watering, her hand shook as she brushed a dark lock from his blue-gray eye. “I take thee as my husband for all eternity.”
He flicked his cloak open and lay her down. Then there was only him; his scent, his tongue, and his hands pulling her so close that she mayhap died and went to heaven. He went to his knees with a small growl in his chest and removed his colors. Slivers of moonbeams danced across his glorious body. Strength bumps above his navel led down to small curls of black hair. The ‘V’ pointed to a staff so large, surely it would never fit.
Holy mother of God.
Her mouth lost its liquid and she swallowed hard.
“Don’t worry, love, all will be well.” He leaned over and devoured her in gentle kisses. Their tongues danced and her heart soared. One knee lifted, he straddled her, and found the hem of her tunic. He muttered an apology as it tore when it caught coming over her head. Then his mouth dropped open, his hard pintle danced upon her navel, and he sucked in his breath. “Bloody love of Christ. You’re perfect.”
She arched up so that the aching wet spot between her legs could rub against his length. His soft kisses started at her mouth, lowered to her breast, and he suckled.
“Please …” The lips between her legs swelled. She moaned at the sweetness of his hands kneading her breasts and his tongue licking the tips of her ever-hardening nipples.
He spread her legs wide with the outside of his knees and rasped, “We play with fire.”
A calloused fingertip rubbed the pebble between her legs, she closed her eyes, and prayed for release. Never had she experienced such need, such wanting. It was as if the gates of heaven were open and she but a foot away.
His wet tongue laved the perfect spot and she gasped. Heated breath from his hiss met her folds and she shivered. A gentle nibble and … Oh, dear God in heaven … She burst apart, bright lights flashed behind her lids, and her body shook in perfect release.
He slid up her naked body and kissed her fiercely upon the lips, tasting of her. “Clamp your thighs around my rod.”
She did as told and he rubbed it against her sensitive nub repeatedly, but did not enter her. He thrust once more, she clamped him tight, and he shouted into her mouth. His release sent her over
the cliff again and she went to holy bliss as sticky fluid lubricated her inner thighs.
“You’re mine.” He fell onto his side, panting.
She sighed and turned toward him. When their breathing calmed, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“But I do and you should be off to your pallet. Soon, we’ll lay together every night and I shall breach you as a proper husband does his wife.” He reached across her body for her skin of wine lying on the mosaic tiles and drank deep.
A tiny squeak escaped her lips. “Wait, no. Thomas, don’t!”
He looked at her askance and his eyes darkened with a fierce scowl. “What was in that draught?”
She shivered. “Just a foolish love potion from old Agatha. I wasn’t really going to use it.”
He moaned and his eyes rolled to the top of his head. “’Tis no love potion, ’tis juice of the poppies. Quickly, get dressed and leave. You’ve no idea its affect upon me.”
“I won’t. This is all my fault.” Oh, what have I done?
“Merry. Do as I say. Go.” His body convulsed.
Sobbing, she held him, not daring to leave and not daring to tell a soul. He hardened again and this time there was no stopping, no restraint, just his pure love inside her. He was fierce and hard and beautiful all at the same time. When his breathing became calm, and his moaning stopped, she dressed and ran back to her chambers, no longer a virgin. Already the cock crowed and pale orange of the rising sun lit the grassy knolls in the distance.
Chapter 1
Year of our Lord 1283
A naked goddess, she arose from the top pool in the Roman bathhouse. A Venus in a fountain, her melon breasts dripped with water and rosy nipples pointed where they met the cooler air. She took a linen from the mosaic floor and dried herself inch by inch with eyes closed.
From the bottom tier, hid safely behind one of the building’s thick marble columns, Sir Thomas D’Agostine tried to move his legs and divert his eyes, but failed. He hoped it was of him his lady dreamed as she touched herself. Did she remember their hand-fasting?
Lady Meredith, with lips the shade of poppies in spring, pouted, and let the towel drop from between her legs. Her gray eyes, that he’d once known so well, lowered toward the pile of clothing that lay beside her feet.
Look up.
One thick lock of bronze hair escaped the mass tied to her head. The length twisted past a full breast, beyond her navel, and just above a thatch of curly hair. There, he’d almost known her. Would she take him back? She’d haunted every one of his dreams, followed him like a wraith from London, to France, to Italy, the Holy Lands, and by God, back again. She would marry him. He’d insist. He cleared his throat and stepped out into the open on the lowest tier of bricks.
Eyes wide, her mouth dropped open, and she screeched. One arm covered both breasts and the other hand went low. “Thomas? Is that you? Haunt me not. Be gone. Damn you.”
He put melody to one of the hundreds of poems he’d composed as his lower appendage swelled for her. “Merry, Merry. So very ever fair-ye.”
“Good heavenly Father above. Now it sings?” She picked up a scrubbing brush lying beside a pile of her clothing. Fire from the hearth reflected red into her stunned eyes. Water sloshed over the edge of the highest pools onto the surface of the one below it. The lower edge of the middle bath did the same in perfect counterpoint. He took a deep breath, jumped up three stairs, and opened his arms wide. “Nay a ghost, love. I’ve come back for you.”
A small nugget of soap whizzed by and would’ve grazed a cheek had he not stepped aside. She dropped to her knees with what he thought was a prayer, jostled in her belongings, and rose with the vicious edge of a dagger. She hissed and jabbed in his direction. “Nay. Be gone ghost. You can’t be Thomas. They said you were dead.”
“They? Who are they, dearest? There’s only I, your love. I’ve returned.” Three steps more brought him within an arm’s length. He reached forward with palms up.
With her un-daggered hand, she finger-poked him and her gray eyes went wider still. She paled when she hit solid mail under his tunic and for a moment their eyes locked like years ago and he was all but undone.
Creases of hurt were quickly disguised by her furrowed brows. “Why didn’t you ever send word? Did you eat all your pigeons? Your messengers all up and died? It matters not. You can’t be here. Not now. You’ll ruin everything. Go away and remain dead.”
He inched forward and the sweet smell of lavender lay siege upon his senses. His already thick lance swelled more under his tunic and fought forward to find a tight sheath.
“Dead? No, not dead, love. Wed. A better option. Besides, how can I remain dead when I have never yet visited that holy place?” He put a hand to her cheek.
She swatted it away. “Holy place? Nay, sir. You’ll be dancing with the king of darkness by tonight, if I have any say.”
The love of his life lunged at him with her knife, he twisted, and she splashed into the baths. She came up for air with long angry snake-like locks surrounding her head.
“Drop the blade.” He squatted and pushed her crown under the water. An angry maiden with a sharp object was not of his liking.
When it met the bottom of the pool, he pulled her up by the hair, gasping and coughing. Whatever happened to the giggling lass he’d loved so? Who was this cantankerous creature? Where was his joyful maid who claimed the sun rose and set at his bidding? Merry, lovely Merry, who’d laughed at every one of his jests?
The creature he held at arm’s length pounded her small fists into his forearm. For years he’d dreamed of how he’d twist these silken locks between his fingers and bring her lovely lips close. Every night he would claim her until she moaned and begged. Only then, would he thrust and pump and lay back spent. Gird up your loins, Sir Jester-Knight of lost loves, life is full of disappointments.
A high-pitched growl made him turn. A boy of about five seasons, wielding a sword half his size, charged up the stairs with blade steady; a good lad. The warrior with dark locks and scowling eyes shouted, “Let go of my mama, you horse’s arse.”
Mother? So that was it? Six years of longing twisted his gut into a knot. She no doubt had married another before he’d even set sail for France. Thomas howled within, stood back, and let go of her hair. “Now you work with your legs open? You … You … Magdalene?”
“What? How dare you? I’m no harlot.” She climbed out of the pool and clawed her nails down the center of his face. The bloody wounds could not match the one tearing at his heart. He strode out and swore when a brick of soap struck the back of his head.
“He’s your son, you dolt. I’ve lain only with you.” Her words were plain as the unique shape of the boy’s nose. Thomas turned, put a hand to the rising bump on his cracked noggin, and for the first time in his life, could find naught to say.
Chapter 2
Thomas’ good friend and commander, Sir Marcus Blackwell, Lord of the Green Meadows, sat in front of his hearth. He sharpened the edge of his sword, looking much like a bust of a Roman warrior, while his gypsy wife untangled a mass of knotted yarn in her lap. The double-arched doorway was open, letting in the late evening light. The spring air was cool and a small fire of peat warmed the area.
Wool tapestries depicting his friend’s exploits hung on the stone walls. Thomas smirked despite the seriousness of the situation. The scene of how Marcus had saved the life of King Edward was much exaggerated. That was no doubt the Lady Ann’s doing, for Thomas recalled no bright tunics and lofty knights; only miles of blood, death, and innards upon an endless battlefield.
Other light shining upon the upper walls originated from a remarkable block of milky glass, more rare than silk. Below his feet, the mosaic white floor seemed even brighter than he remembered from his last stay at the ancient keep. Apparently, Marcus had continued the practice of not throwing bones upon the floor.
Two lads, younger than the one in the bathhouse, scampered on their arses down th
e stone stairs. Chairs overturned, a hound barked, and a harried nurse dashed after the three. His two friends didn’t even twitch an eyebrow at the wild ruckus. Mayhap he’d died and this was to be his purgatory? He prayed that someone had enough coin to buy him into heaven, and soon.
Surely, all this was too much to believe. He sat in the carved chair next to the happy couple with disturbing thoughts. How in the devil could he have a five year old son? He’d not penetrated Merry. Not once. All hell be damned. It’d taken all his self-control at the time, but he’d spent himself between her legs. However, the next morning he had woke upon his pallet without remembering how he’d gotten there. At the time, he’d thought it mere exhaustion, but now …
As always, the thought of that night sent body fluids rushing into his pintle. Perhaps his seed had wet her too close and slipped into the wet lips between her legs? Perhaps he’d had too much to drink? No. There had to be more to this tale and he’d get the truth out of her. Damned if he could remember though.
Regardless of how it came to be, he couldn’t deny the boy. There was nary such a long Norman nose and dark features in all of England. If that wasn’t enough, the boy had the well-known D’Agostine trait; one eye tinted blue and the other brown. He groaned inwardly, remembering the insult he’d thrown at his only love in his shocked state.
The scrape of honing steel stopped and Marcus glared. “You’re to marry her without delay. You’ve caused her enough pain.”
The gravity of his sin weighed upon him heavily, but he wasn’t the only one who held blame. He scowled back. “Why didn’t you send word? I would’ve returned with haste.”
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