Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  The heat of his mouth stirred things inside her she had never felt, delicious sensations, swirling in her belly—dashing over her flesh. When he began lifting her chemise above her head, she barely murmured a protest. The assault on her senses was so great, the pleasure so unexpected, she could not even think.

  When he scooped her up in his arms, she assumed he would carry her to the bed, but instead he strode with her to the pallet in front of the fire. Mayhap he did not wish to entertain enemies in his sacred nest. ‘Twas all for King and country. Wasn’t that what he said?

  “Why do you tremble?” he said, laying her gently atop the furs. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  She nodded her head, too afraid to speak—to admit her own desire. ‘Twas not right to feel so drawn to him—the enemy who had captured her. But she did. And she was not alone. Many women had come before her.

  Strangely that was not a very comforting thought. But what did it matter? Giving herself to him was a means to and end—one enemy would keep her safe from another.

  He trailed the back of his hand along the curve of her belly, sending little prickles leaping over her skin.

  She held her breath.

  A quick glance at his face told her he was enjoying this, a little too much for her liking. But soon she was too distracted to care as his gentle roving hands, touched every curve, and every hollow, making her skin tingle—her muscles grow taunt, until she wanted to cry out—be done with it man!

  But his intense gaze held her silent.

  Something in those blue orbs told her that was what he wanted—for her to beg.

  But she was determined not give in.

  When his hand grazed the golden curls between her legs, she bit her lip, praying it would be over soon—before she shamed herself. As he began to stroke the slick inner folds beneath, she closed her eyes, but could not block out the delicious sensations rushing within her—the sweet ecstasy she had never felt and doubted she would ever feel again.

  Then, just as she thought she might lose the fight, he straddled her hips and thrust his manhood within her. A sharp searing pain stabbed through her. She opened her mouth to scream, but then remembered her pledge and clamped it shut. A faint groan slipped from her throat, past her gritted teeth.

  Was this the pleasure Hilda spoke of? If so, she was not right in the head. Either Hilda was mad or Fortin was cheating her. Right now, she felt as though she was being torn apart.

  He pressed his mouth to hers as he continued to move deep within her. Fortunately the distraction of his lips took her mind from the dull ache between her legs. The heat of his body, the taste of his tongue, sent all manner of strange and exquisite sensations rushing over her once again.

  The pain began to ease, replaced by a sweet tug of pressure that built and built and built, like a bubble in a jug.

  Then, just when she thought it might burst and she would lose her soul as well as her body, he gave one final thrust and collapsed.

  ‘Twas over, as quick as it had begun—his warm breath against her neck, sending tremors down her limbs, her heart pounding fast, and the magic in the bubble leaking slowly out, washing over her like liquid heat, leaving her to wonder what would have happened had it reached its full capacity and eventually burst.

  He rolled off her and let out a long satisfied groan. A smile curled over his lips. “I should have taken you the moment I laid eyes on you in the woods,” he panted. “‘Twould have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”

  Annoyance sparked in her breast at his contented tone. He spoke as though the whole event had been of no consequence—as though bedding her had been no more than an itch needing to be scratched. “I fail to see what trouble it has saved me,” she said dryly.

  He turned to face her, running his fingers down her side, like a child stroking the silk of a milk-pod before shaking the seeds loose in the wind. Then he came to his feet. “’Twas painful in the beginning, I know, but you enjoyed it after. And each time after ‘twill get better and better.”

  “Enjoyed it?” she sat up to snatch a pelt to her naked body, forcing the lie to her lips. “You’re much mistaken if you think that.”

  “Ha! I don’t remember you objecting even after your maidenhead was breached. Had you not gained any pleasure, you would have begged for me to stop.”

  Her jaw hung slack.

  He was right.

  She should have stopped him—said something, pushed him off after the deed was done. But instead she had allowed herself to get caught up in his delicious game—not wanting it to end.

  It pricked her pride that she had betrayed herself in such a way. “I fear your promise of pleasure was false,” she lied, hoping to dampen his satisfaction and wipe the smug look from his face. “’Tis clear, Hilda screamed in earnest—not with joy, as you’re so eager to have me believe.”

  A scowl furrowed his brow, as he moved to toss another log on the fire. “I assure you, I did not imagine it.”

  “Our minds can play tricks on us when we wish to believe something bad enough.”

  He turned back around to pin her with his gaze. “She screamed like a berserker heading to war. I did not make it up.”

  Thinking of Hilda making love to him made Isabeau’s belly churn. “Mayhap ‘twas your own screams you heard,” she said, wriggling down under the pelts and turning away from him.

  His voice turned sharp. “For a maid who has just received a favor, your mockery smacks of ungratefulness, my lady.”

  A hard slap on the backside made her suck in a sharp breath and sit upright. “‘Twas a gift to you, my lord, more than a favor to me I think.” She plunked down again on her side, with her back to him, pulling the furs up to her neck.

  A long agonizing moment passed before the sound of his footfalls told her he had stalked to the bed.

  Good.

  She hoped he tossed and turned, lying awake for hours, wondering if the spark of his lovemaking had fizzled out. Better that, than he should know how he affected her—how the mere sight of him set her a quiver.

  Hilda was right.

  He was a wizard of the flesh.

  ***

  Alec reclined in his chair, tankard of ale in one hand, legs stretched before the great hearth in the hall.

  The bright sound of Isabeau’s laughter floated above the voices of his men drinking and dicing at the trestle tables, bringing an unbidden smile to his lips.

  His gaze slid to Dominic and Isabeau sitting at a small table to the right of the hearth playing chess. Taking her should have quenched his desire; instead, he wanted her all over again, even more than he had before. He could not stop thinking of her.

  But in her mind, apparently he’d worn out his purpose. Having played the stud, relieving her of her maidenhead, she had no need for his services again. Or so it seemed.

  It rankled sorely to be used thus. Though why, he did not know. To enjoy a maid’s favors and be promptly excused of all obligations was a man’s dream. He wished no attachment.

  If only he could put her out of his mind—set her aside as every other wench who had ever shared his bed. But like a traitor, his body would not let him forget. He grew restless at the very sight of her. The hall became brighter—his senses keener, whenever she was near. All trouble seemed to fade against the light in her dove colored eyes.

  She, on the other hand, seemed quite content to ignore him, as though their bodies had never touched. If not for his insistence that she continue to entertain Dominic, she would no doubt closet herself in his bedchamber every eventide in order to avoid him.

  A scuff against the flags, signaling Abigail’s familiar gait, brought Alec out of his musings.

  She flounced down in the chair beside him, sending Dominic and Isabeau a scathing glance over her shoulder.

  The scent of roses stuck in Alec’s nostrils like thick honey, smothering the glow of the evening, cutting off the fresh air in his throat.

  “Your prisoner seems
content.” Abigail’s voice rang as shrill as a wildcat.

  It set his teeth on edge, turning his voice just as sharp. “That doesn’t surprise me. She’s winning.”

  Abigail’s lips curled with distain. “Though ’tis easy to see why, with you and Dominic eager to satisfy her every whim.”

  Alec lifted a brow at her shrewish tone. “She gets no special treatment, only food and a warm bed, both of which she works for.”

  “’Tis surprising she has the fortitude to work, hopping from one bed to the other.”

  “I have yet to find complaint with her,” he returned offhandedly, leaving Abigail to form her own conclusions. “You need not trouble yourself. My hall and my prisoner are none of your concern.”

  She straightened her spine, bristling in her seat. “’Tis indecent I’m forced to share the same roof with the pair of you.”

  He resisted the urge to laugh at her self-righteous tone. “With any luck you won’t have to. My father grows restless. He intends to depart after the hunt on the morrow.” No doubt that was the root of Abigail’s ill-temper. Time grew short, and thus far, she had failed to lure Dominic into her bed.

  “There was a time you had an aversion to sharing your brother’s bedmates.” She cast him a sly look under the thick curl of her lashes. “Proof that life alters all righteous men.”

  His grip tightened on the tankard of ale in his hand. “What would you know of righteousness?”

  Her cheeks flared crimson as she wriggled to a more upright position in her chair. “Dominic was just as much to blame as I.”

  “Strange. That’s not the way I remember it.” The urge to reach out and grab her by the throat was strong, but for his father’s sake he resisted.

  She tossed her head, causing the dark curls on her shoulders to swing like fat hooks. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone to your bed first.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.” A smug smile spread over her face as she rose to her feet. “You wanted me until you realized he’d already had me.”

  Alec’s gut twisted in disgust as he watched her sidle toward the stairs. Memories oozed back like congealed milk—her naked body outlined in the torchlight, thick dark hair falling down her back, while her tongue traced the edge of her full lips.

  Damn his traitorous body for responding to the sight of her standing naked by his bed. But neither he nor Dominic had known their father had taken her to wife. After swilling ale all night at the guardhouse, they were both dead drunk.

  He was snoring the rafters down when a tap on his shoulder woke him. Abigail crawled into his bed in a blink. Alec would never forget the smell of Dominic’s sweat on her skin, or the sticky feel of her thighs as she writhed up against him.

  Abigail’s anger when he pushed her from the bed that night could not compare to the rage he felt the next morn when his father introduced her as his wife.

  Dominic turned as white as an eel’s belly, strode from the hall to the courtyard, and swiftly tossed the contents of his guts.

  “Checkmate.” Isabeau’s triumphant voice turned Alec back around—away from the darkness and guilt, squeezing at his heart.

  “You’re a witch.” Dominic stared agog at the pieces on the chessboard. “Who taught you to play so well?”

  “’Twas a gift, my lord, given to me by my father.” Isabeau’s soft chuckle floated on the smoky air like a fairy’s song, turning heads at the trestle tables, racing up Alec’s spine to tickle the hairs at the back of his neck.

  “Come,” he said, rising from his chair. “Tis time to retire.”

  “What?” Dominic’s mouth widened in mock-outrage. “You can’t take her away before I’ve had a chance to beat her.”

  Alec cocked his brother a wry smile. “I thought I taught you to be a better loser than that.”

  “Ha!” Dominic came to his feet, to raise his arms high in a bear-like stretch. “Your boast will lose its thrust when she beats you next.” He grinned. “If only I could stay to see it done.”

  Isabeau stood and held out her hand to him. “I’ve not had the honor of beating a more worthy opponent.”

  Dominic bent his head to kiss her hand, then flashed a wicked smile. “Have a care, my lady. My skills will be sharper when we next meet.”

  Alec strode forward to take Isabeau’s arm. “If you can keep your mind clear from drink,” he said over his shoulder, heading her toward the stairs.

  “That was very hard,” Isabeau whispered fiercely when they were far enough away that Dominic could not hear. “He’s had ought to drink but cider these past three days.”

  Alec raised a brow at her attempt to chastise him, but kept his tone light. “’Tis between me and my brother.”

  She halted, forcing him to stop beside her. “You make me his keeper, then brush me away as though ‘tis none of my concern.”

  “I bid you keep him company, not play the doting matron.”

  She cast him a wounded look, then turned away.

  His chest tightened at her disappointment. “Very well,” he conceded with ill-grace, his ire pricked that one glance from her could make him feel so small. “I’ll speak to him in the morn. Are you satisfied?”

  She turned, laying her hand on his chest to halt his progress. “Speak to him now, my lord, I beg you, so that he isn’t troubled from lack of sleep.”

  The intimate gesture coupled with the earnest look in her eyes stabbed him to the core. She couldn’t have done worse had she dragged him to the chapel and forced him to his knees.

  He gave a low growl, then turned to stalk back toward the hearth, gritting his teeth as he went.

  Women!

  They were the plague of man’s existence.

  He had wished for a bedmate, not a priest.

  Yet, some time later, when he eventually went aloft to seek his bed, he discovered she had been right. He felt strangely at peace. Dominic’s easy temper had cleansed him of Abigail’s poison. There was a stillness about Dominic of late—a measure of calm that he hadn’t possessed when he arrived.

  Mayhap Isabeau was right.

  Dominic was truly on the mend.

  Gazing down at her, asleep on her pallet, her face aglow by the fire, lips as red as bilberries, he wondered how much she had had to do with this miraculous change in his brother. She had a way of infecting people with her brightness. Even Myrtle, had lost that sour, pinched look since the lady came, her manner lightened if not brisk.

  In the short time she’d been there, Isabeau had certainly proved herself an asset to the household.

  If he hadn’t already given Barak his word, he might consider keeping her as his mistress.

  But it was too late.

  The bargain was struck.

  Though it pained him.

  He had no choice but to give her up.

  ***

  The bundle of laundry Isabeau dragged down the stairs behind her appeared as harmless as a giant mushroom without a stem. ‘Twas a pity it wasn’t as light as one. She’d be fortunate to make it out the front door of the hall without rupturing something, let alone all the way to the cart.

  But, an overloaded bundle of sheets was the least of her troubles with Abigail still in residence at Highburn, thinking up extra chores for Isabeau, supposedly to keep her away from Dominic, whom Fortin insisted she continue keeping company with.

  ‘Twas a mystery how she had become so embroiled in their family squabbles. If not for Dominic she’d tell Fortin to go to the devil and take care of his own family troubles.

  But she couldn’t abandon Dominic, not when he was drinking less and the bloom of good health was returning to his cheeks more and more each day.

  Even if she had a mind to, there was no sense in complaining, and no one of authority to hear her if she did.

  Fortin and his family had gone on a hunt with their neighbors, reminding Isabeau once again that she was no more than a prisoner and what had passed between them meant nothing to him. They would both go on to marry
different people. The loss of her maidenhead did not change a thing.

  The hall hummed at a more tranquil pace in their absence. Now that the trestles were cleared—all traces of the breakfast feast removed, Isabeau’s mind focused on more urgent matters as she lugged her burden toward the door—like what Fortin planned to do with her when Barak learned of her loss of virtue and refused to pay the ransom. Would he provide safe escort to her parent’s home, or would he set her loose, expecting her to fend for herself?

  She preferred to journey to Lowglen to discuss her plight with Nicola before facing her parents, as her sister would surely understand her predicament. Even if she could not find Isabeau a proper match, ‘twould give Isabeau time to lick her wounds—grow accustomed to the idea before she was shut up in a convent for the rest of her days.

  But Lowglen was a considerable distance away from her parent’s home. ‘Twas unlikely Fortin would spare a party of men to escort her that far. His purse was as tight as a pilgrim’s fist on a cross, his coffers reserved for building his ships and restoring Highburn to the splendor of earlier days.

  Myrtle waited in the doorway of the hall, huffing and puffing after bumping her own bundle down the stairs. “Lady Abigail isn’t mistress here. You need not obey her orders,” she said, heading out the door in a lather.

  “’Tis no burden. I welcome the change and fresh air.” Isabeau followed to lift her bundle into the cart, pushing it over the edge to land atop the other two already within.

  “She had no business sending you to the river the first time—sly baggage. His Lordship went up one side of her down the other when he learned what she’d done.”

  “Fearing he’d lose his ransom no doubt.”

  “’Twas your life he feared for. Had Eda and Ludella not already left for the village he’d have taken a stick to them for abandoning you at the river’s edge.” Myrtle cocked her head at the two girls from the village chatting unconcerned at the head of the cart, readying to pull the load of laundry to the river.