Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  "I know we’ve had our differences," he said, feeling as if he were falling, slowly but dizzyingly, into some dark abyss filled with mystery and promise, and taking her with him. "But when I talk to you, I feel as if I’m talking to...a friend, someone whose soul is attuned to mine. I know you’ve felt the same loneliness I’ve felt, the same sense of isolation."

  With a kind of drunken recklessness, he reached for her hand and took it. She still wouldn’t look at him. Through the serpentine tendrils of hair cloaking her chest, he saw the rapid rise and fall of her silk-clad breasts.

  He squeezed her hand. "I’m sorry for the lies," he said, meaning it—especially the one last, tenacious lie of omission about Phillipa. "I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to push you away."

  "I haven’t been truthful with you, either." She curled her fingers around his. "I need to tell you something, something I should have told you in the beginning."

  "Mistress..."

  "Nay, let me tell you—please. I feel a little silly now, for having kept this from you, and...and a little ashamed."

  "You don’t—"

  "I’ve been letting you think I’m a married woman, but I’m not. I’m a widow. My husband...he died last year in Genoa."

  "I know."

  She stared at him. "You don’t know."

  "I do," he admitted. "I’ve known for...some time now."

  "How long?" she asked in a thin voice.

  "Since the day of the fair."

  "The Friday fair?"

  He nodded.

  "You’ve known since the Friday fair?" A shrill note of anger joined the incredulity in her voice. "That was a month ago!"

  "Mistress," Graeham soothed, feeling as if he’d played a particularly idiotic move in chess, one from which there was no turning back, "I understood why you—"

  "Have could you have gone on letting me pretend, after you knew?" she asked in a quavering voice.

  "Mistress, please..."

  "You knew." Her eyes shone too brightly; patches of red stained her cheeks. "You knew all along. All this time..."

  He tightened his grip on her hand. "Please listen to me."

  "I feel like such a fool. I can’t stay here and...I can’t." She jerked her hand out of his and stood. "Good night, serjant."

  "Nay!" Graeham gripped her around the waist with both hands. "Stay. Please just—"

  "Let me go!" she said fiercely, prying at his hands. "I’m humiliated enough. Don’t make me stay here and— "

  "Joanna—"

  "Let go of me." She slammed her fists into his arms.

  He released her. Bracing his hands on the table, he rose awkwardly to his feet. "Joanna, stay. I just want to—"

  "Leave me alone." As she turned, he grabbed her arm. She wrenched away from him, her robe sliding off one shoulder, and wheeled around.

  "Joanna!" His splint and the lack of space between the bench and the table put him off balance, but as she turned her back to him, he seized her shoulders. One was uncovered; he felt a moment’s disorientation to be touching her bare flesh, warm and firm and damp with sweat.

  Twisting around, she struck out at him. One fist caught him on a forearm, the other on the side of the shoulder. They weren’t hard punches, but they were enough to upset his footing.

  He toppled sideways, overturning the bench and landing painfully on its underside. Cursing at the sudden jolt to his leg, he rolled off the bench, both hands wrapped around his splint.

  "Graeham!" She knelt over him, her hair brushing him in slick, heavy waves as she softly touched his splinted leg. Despite the situation, it gratified him on an elemental level to hear her call him by his Christian name. "Oh, God, I’m sorry. Are you all right?"

  Gritting his teeth, he nodded, stretched his leg out, managed to sit up.

  "Thank God," she said. "I...I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve never hit anyone...I’m just...I can’t...I have to go." She started to rise.

  "Nay." He caught her around the waist and threw her down in the rushes.

  With a gasp of outrage, she tried to sit up. He pushed her back down by her shoulders.

  She tried to roll out from under him, but he shoved her flat on her back, lowering himself onto her to hold her still.

  "Let me go!" She thrashed and squirmed, pushing against his chest. "Get off me!"

  "Nay." He banded his hands around her wrists and pinned them amid the great corona of golden hair blanketing the rushes, but still she writhed against him, trying desperately to pitch him off.

  Her wrapper had loosened further in their tussle, exposing her upper chest and arm on one side. He could see the creamy rise of a breast, its nipple barely concealed by the disarrayed garment. With every heave of her chest, every arch of her back, the swath of silk threatened to slip away from the taut nub and reveal what he’d only looked upon in his inflamed imaginings.

  Desire, hot and heavy, unfurled in his loins, pushed against her. In her struggles, she didn’t seem to notice.

  "Joanna, stop this," he said, his hair falling in his face as he tried to capture her fierce gaze with his. "Stop—"

  "Why?" she cried. "Why didn’t you tell me you knew I was widowed?"

  Softly, searching her eyes, he said, "I was waiting for you to tell me."

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  I WAS WAITING for you to tell me. Oh, God.

  Joanna gazed into Graeham’s luminous blue eyes, her heart drumming in her chest. His hands were like bands of iron around her wrists, his body heavy and solid as he pressed her into the prickly rushes.

  He had one leg, the splinted one, nestled between hers. In the juncture of her thigh and hip she felt, through her silken wrapper and his linen undergarments, a rock-hard column of heat.

  She closed her eyes to escape his penetrating gaze and this heart-pounding tempest of sensation, but that only heightened her awareness of him...his damp male scent, the rhythmic whisk of his shirt against her chest with every breath he drew—breath that tickled her face, her lips, growing hotter, closer.

  She opened her eyes, lost herself in an intensity of blue. He was close, so close. There was no turning back.

  He touched his lips to hers and she fell, tumbling slowly, into heat and inevitability.

  It was an ungentle kiss, dark and rough and full of need, and oh God oh God she gave herself to it, surrendered her mouth to him, his lips hot and demanding, his tongue and teeth devouring her.

  He released her wrists and closed his hands around hers, tightly, possessively. She squeezed them back. Possess me.

  He parted her thighs with his good leg. Still kissing her, he pressed against her, hard. And again.

  Yes. Joanna moved against him, against the slide of his rigid flesh on her yielding softness. She throbbed where he thrust against her; her body wept for him, damp through the silk, straining, pushing, trembling.

  Please. Oh, God.

  He broke the kiss, gasping, released one of her hands and untied his drawers with frenzied haste, his fingers fumbling, grazing her through the wet silk, a fluttery caress.

  She breathed his name like a plea, helpless in her need, felt his hands warm and rough as he yanked her wrapper open, just enough, felt the satin length of him hot and taut against her inner thigh, the head slick and ready.

  And then he took her mouth again, gripping both of her hands hard, harder, every muscle in his body straining as he readied himself and drove in.

  Her flesh burned as he stretched her open. So tight. It had been so long. She tensed, a startled little whimper rising in her throat.

  Half-buried within her, he rose on his elbows, his eyes full of concern. "Joanna? Are you—"

  "I’m fine." She squeezed his hands, moved against him, her need for him, for the fullness of him inside her, so overwhelming that she didn’t care about the discomfort. She relished it, because it meant he was claiming her, taking her body as he had taken her soul.

  He drew back and thrust again slowly, and again, a sinuous
tightening of his hips that quivered through his torso, his shoulders, his hands. Each determined stroke pushed deeper, easing her open, invading her inch by inch.

  The initial pain of penetration dissolved into a different kind of ache, a hot tingle, a breathless gathering up that made her moan and clutch his hands.

  He reared up, his thrusts growing swifter, more erratic. His damp hair swung above her, sweat dripping from it; his breathing grew harsh, frantic. The rushes crackled beneath them.

  Needing him deep, deep, as deep as he could go, she wrapped her legs around him, arched against him.

  "Oh, God, don’t," he said, his gaze unfocused, his body shuddering. "Joanna, don’t."

  "Why? What—"

  "It feels too...I can’t...oh, God..." He tucked his wet face in the crook of her neck, groaning raggedly. Joanna felt the tremors course through him, felt the fury of his release deep within her, and savored a sense of completeness that made her want to weep.

  "I’m sorry, Joanna," he whispered against her neck as he lay heavy on top of her, still holding her hands.

  "Why?"

  "Because I meant to..." He sighed. Levering himself up, he slid his hands out of hers and framed her damp face with them. "I didn’t want to finish inside you." He studied her eyes, waiting for her to understand.

  I promised myself long ago that I’d never sire a bastard.

  "Ah." She frowned as it fully dawned on her. "Oh. ‘Twas my fault, wasn’t it?" She uncurled her legs from around his waist. "Because I—"

  "I loved it," he said, smoothing a hand down her hip and leg with a reassuring smile. "Too much. And that’s the other thing I’m sorry about. I finished too soon."

  Joanna blinked in confusion. "Too soon?" How could a man finish too soon? He finished when he finished, and then it was over.

  Graeham peeled a wet strand of hair off her cheek, kissed the spot where it had been. "I didn’t wait for you."

  "Me? You mean, to..." Nonplussed, Joanna contemplated the novel idea of having a lover who gave a thought to her pleasure. Prewitt had had her every way a man could have a woman, but never once had he touched her for her pleasure, only for his. Afterward, when he was asleep, she would sometimes slide her hand between her legs and give her body the relief it craved, but she always felt vaguely ashamed afterward, and lonelier than ever.

  Still buried inside her, Graeham raised himself on one arm and slid aside the loosened edge of her wrapper, exposing her left breast in its entirety. His eyes glittered as he closed his hand over the sweat-slicked flesh, caressing it in a way that made her purr like a cat having its throat stroked. He tugged on her nipple, sparking a little spasm of pleasure where they were joined.

  Graeham felt it, and responded with a spontaneous flexing of his hips, stroking her deliciously from within, although his erection was waning. He continued this gentle thrusting as he untied the sash of her wrapper.

  Throwing the silken robe open, he gazed on her with that look of drowsy desire she’d become so familiar with. "How beautiful you are, Joanna."

  "Let me see you, too," she pleaded, tugging at his shirt. "Take this off."

  He managed to peel the sodden garment off, wiped his face with it and tossed it into the rushes. His chest and shoulders, gleaming with sweat, enthralled her. Joanna caressed him as she’d wanted to for weeks, savoring the planes and ridges of his hard-packed muscles beneath her hands.

  He glided his hand downward, over her stomach, to the patch of hair now tangled with his, all the while moving within her in a steady rhythm that she couldn’t help matching. At first his touch was light and airy, maddeningly so.

  She closed her hands over his shoulders, writhed unselfconsciously.

  Only when she begged him to did he intensify the caress, lightly probing and stroking, but always backing off just as satisfaction beckoned, until she was thrashing beneath him, moaning like a woman possessed.

  She threw her head back, trembling. "Oh, Graeham...oh, please..."

  With a groan, he sank deeply into her, pulled out, and plunged in again, still touching her as before. Even as she teetered breathlessly on the edge of climax, some part of her was dimly aware that he’d regained his erection. He was making love to her again without even uncoupling from the first time.

  She cried out rawly when she fell over the edge, lost in pleasure that exploded over and over and over, stoked by the driving rhythm of his thrusts. As her climax ebbed, he fell on her and kissed her deeply. His body slid against hers in an ever-quickening rhythm, sweat trickling between them, his restless hands in her hair, on her breasts, her hips.

  Joanna clung to him through a second shattering climax as her fingers raked his hair, his back. There was a violent energy to their lovemaking that made her feel wicked and beautiful and utterly abandoned.

  As her pleasure subsided, he seized her hips, his face darkly flushed, a low, almost pained sound rising from his throat. Swiftly he slid out of her, leaving her shockingly empty. He thrust against her once, twice, then stilled, taut and quivering, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. Heat pumped wetly between them, then he sank, panting on top of her.

  A few moments later, after she’d caught her breath, Joanna said, a little shyly, "I...I didn’t know men could do that—make love twice in a row that way."

  Raising his face from the crook of her neck, Graeham chuckled. "Neither did I," he said, and kissed her soundly.

  ***

  "I’VE NEVER BEEN in such a big bed," Graeham said later that night, after they were settled upstairs in the solar.

  It was a surprisingly beautiful chamber, airy and whitewashed and inviting. Her bed was enormous, with a feather mattress and white curtains they’d drawn around them. Candlelight glowed through the curtains, burnishing her lush body, curled up with his in a comfortable, naked embrace. He basked in the soft weight of her against him, the coolness of the linen sheets beneath them, and most of all the sense of intimate companionship that was so novel to him, and so wonderful.

  "You were mad to insist on coming up here," she murmured against his chest. "I thought you were never going to make it up that ladder."

  He trailed a hand through her extraordinary hair, heavy silk falling through his fingers. "I wanted to sleep with you."

  "You must have wanted it a great deal. You grimaced with every step."

  There were still a few rushes caught in her hair. He pulled one out and dropped it onto the rush-covered floor. "I’ve never slept with anyone before."

  She raised her head to look at him. "Never?"

  He shook his head. "In the dorter at Holy Trinity, and now in Lord Gui’s barracks, everyone has his own cot—no bigger than the one downstairs in your storeroom. I’ve never shared a bed."

  "Not even..." She looked away from him and resettled her head on his shoulder. "Not even when you were with a woman?"

  "Oh, I’ve tupped in beds, of course," he said. And many other places—behind Lord Gui’s wash house with the laundresses, in pantries and butteries with the serving wenches, in dark Paris doorways with whores—but he knew better than to think Joanna wanted to hear any of that. "But when the tupping was over, I always left."

  "Your lovers never wanted you to stay?"

  "They weren’t ‘lovers,’ Joanna, they were just...accommodating women."

  "Prostitutes?"

  "Sometimes," he said, uncomfortably aware that she might be thinking of Leoda. "More often than not, just women who gave themselves freely. They never meant anything to me. Sex with them...it was more a bodily function than anything else, a way of gaining relief. It wasn’t like it was with us, downstairs. That was..."

  "Magic," she said softly.

  He curled his arms around her and kissed her hair. "Aye. And you’re a witch who’s caught me in her spell. A beautiful, wanton witch."

  "Wanton!" She buried her face against his chest. "Nay."

  He chuckled at her foolishness. "Wanton in the best way. You felt so...unbridled in my arms, so
responsive and unrestrained. And I felt the same way —you made my feel that way. ‘Twas the first time I’ve ever lost that sense of being separate and apart. You made me feel as if I were one with you—that we were a single being, together. Does that make any sense?"

  "Aye. I felt the same."

  "I’m afraid I wasn’t very gentle," he said, remembering how she’d reacted when he first entered her. She was as tight as a virgin, or how he imagined a virgin to be, never having lain with one. He’d never been with a woman whose body fit so snugly around his. It felt incredible—so hot and tight and slick—but it unnerved him, too. "Did I hurt you? I hope I didn’t hurt you."

  "Nay—not at all."

  He knew she was just saying that to spare his feelings. "It must have been a long time since you were with a man."

  "Five years," she said. "I caught Prewitt in this bed with the poulterer’s wife and banished him to the storeroom."

  He chuckled. "I’d wondered what he’d done to deserve such a fate. I suppose I should have known. There was no one, then, even when your husband was abroad for months at a time and you were all alone?"

  "Nay. I was a married woman."

  "In name only."

  "It still would have been adultery. And, by and large, men steered clear of me, because I was a wedded woman."

  "They didn’t keep their distance once you were widowed, I’ll wager."

  "Nay, but I kept my distance from them. Most men just want an uncomplicated tumble with an experienced woman. They want to use me, same as I’ve been used all my life—and just for sex. Some of them are married, betrothed...All they want from me is my body, and only for as long as it takes to ease their lust. I despise the notion of being used that way. They very idea makes me sick."

  Some are married, betrothed... Graeham felt a little red-hot stab of contrition deep in his stomach. He was all but betrothed to Phillipa. Yet...wasn’t Joanna betrothed as well? Surely it would be official by now.

  He cleared his throat. "I know about Robert of Ramswick."

  She twisted her head to look at him. "What about Robert of Ramswick?"