by Anne O'Brien
‘How did you know?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘It was my mother’s emblazon. Matilda Vaughan of Tretower.’
‘I know.’
‘You had it made for me.’ Astonished pleasure swamped her.
‘I commissioned it from a met al worker in Hereford. And I think it most appropriate for you. For so a fierce lady.’
‘Am I so?’ Her glance flew to his face, certain that he must be laughing at her expense, but he was not.
He chose not to reply, but stretched to pour her wine. ‘Sit with me.’ Elizabeth held the cloak to her, un willing to be parted from its sensuous folds for a moment, and placed it on the bed as she sat. He poured wine for himself before regarding her seriously. ‘I suggest, my wife, that we make our own vows. To loyalty and honesty. To allow no one to come between us. No matter who. No matter what.’
Elizabeth nodded, absorbing his words. ‘I will do that.’
‘Then let us drink to our future together.’
They raised their cups and drank the spiced hippocras, until, with a dramatic shudder, Richard set the wine aside. ‘Too heavy on the spices for my taste. Now I must indeed take you to bed or risk comment on my virility.’
He stood in one easy movement and pulled back the linen from the bed. Then froze, the linen still grasped in his fist.
‘What is it?’ Elizabeth took a deep breath. She thought she knew.
‘Come and look.’ The coarse cream linen was covered with a deluge of dried leaves, discoloured flower petals and twiggy pieces of flower stalk. ‘What are they?’
Elizabeth raised her hands to her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or curse her serving woman. Jane was leaving nothing to chance. ‘I won’t tell.’ The words were muffled.
Richard’s eyes gleamed. ‘Is it my virility or your fertility to be enhanced here?’
Elizabeth sighed. He was not angry after all. ‘Both, I imagine.’ She poked at the pot pourri, recognising Jane’s favoured means of aiding conception in mistle toe and hazel leaves, lavender to arouse sexual desire. Even, she thought, some ground acorn, and a preponderance of dried yarrow flowers and rose petals to ensure a long and happy union. ‘It’s Jane Bringsty’s doing. I should tell you that she means well.’
‘Does she? I see no sign of well meaning in the woman. As for this… But no harm done.’ He swept the debris from the bed to the floor with firm gestures. ‘More like to produce a rash from the sharp edges than a heightening of physical powers. Perhaps I shouldn’t ask what was in the hippocras.’ All Elizabeth could do was watch him with some degree of awe until Richard straightened and turned to face his wife. ‘Come then, lady. Let us try the sheets.’ He drew her towards him, his hands softly around her wrists. ‘Permit me to unveil you.’
And did so.
And looked. Elizabeth would have closed her eyes, but forced herself to acknowledge his reaction to her. Despair held her motionless. Richard made no comment, his face impassive. He unfastened the neck of her chemise and pushed it to fall to the floor, leaving her to stand defenceless before him, whilst Elizabeth again denied the urge to close her eyes against any pity she might see, or distaste. She would invite neither, but face him. She swallowed and waited, nor would she look away from him as his eyes moved slowly, tracking down her body and back to her face. He hissed in a breath through his teeth, as if helpless to prevent it.
‘Turn around, Elizabeth.’
She did, now closing her eyes against a threat of tears when he could not see. Heard him inhale firmly through his nose.
‘Look at me.’ He waited until she had gone full circle and faced him again before speaking. His voice was low, firm. She could detect neither pity nor revulsion there, for which she was grateful beyond her imaginings. ‘Ah—Elizabeth. I did not realise.’
‘What did you not realise?’ She ran her tongue over her dry lips.
‘That is was so… That it was so bad.’
Elizabeth once more found the need to blink away tears, but would not allow them to fall. ‘I thought you saw me. That you knew the worst. That first night…’
‘Only a glimpse in the shadows. I thought there were marks of a whip. But I had no idea of this… Llanwardine?’ He looked at the short silk of her hair. Lifted a hand as if he would have touched it—but let it fall.
‘Yes.’
‘And this?’ His gaze lowered to the silvery scars marking her ribs.
She shivered at the calm inspection, his eyes flat, face determinedly impassive, and thought for a moment, before deciding on the truth in the face of his calm acceptance. ‘In some part.’ And she thought by the mere tightening of his lips that he under stood the lack of explanation.
‘I would hope that it was not to persuade you to marry me.’
‘No. Owain Thomas was the one I could not stomach. But—more recently—I was not a conformable novice.’
‘Neither did you eat, I think.’
She knew that he saw the press of her collar bone against her skin, her slight breasts, narrow hips. Tried to make light of it. ‘Your cook has a campaign to fatten me.’ And was unable to prevent a shiver, still standing un clothed with the cool air spiking her skin, Richard frowning at her.
His response was immediate. ‘Forgive me. That was thoughtless.’
It was the simplest matter for him to lift her new cloak and wrap it around her, soft and warm in the sable folds. It enabled Elizabeth to mask her relief. She would accept his compassion tonight. She might not want pity from this man, but it was far better than disgust. She could do nothing but admire his sensitivity and consideration. To her relief she found her composure restored, the trembling in her limbs eased.
Until Richard raised his hand, impelled by some basic impulse, to smooth it over her cap of hair. Without thought, she flinched, eyes wide.
And he immediately drew back his hand as if singed in a flame. ‘Don’t flinch from me. I would not hurt you. How could you think that?’ His tone was harsh and his eyes flashed with naked emotions that were beyond her interpreting. For a moment Elizabeth thought she saw anger there. Or perhaps it was even despair, although why it should be she did not know. It forced her into an apology.
‘I did not mean to. It is just that… It surprised me. I dreamed of you doing that. I liked it. In my dream my hair was as it used to be, long and thick—not like this. I am ashamed of this,’ she explained.
Richard visibly relaxed with a long exhalation as if in relief. What had he thought she meant? Elizabeth did not know, but some thing had disturbed him. Something she had said or done. But whatever it was, the moment seemed to have passed. The hard lines bracketing his mouth had smoothed out.
‘There’s no need for shame. The blame is not yours. It’s lovely, Elizabeth, the softest of sable pelts.’ Richard leaned forwards to press his lips to her temple. ‘Soon your hair will be long again and very beautiful. And when it is,’ he continued, ‘I will touch you again as in your dreams.’
Elizabeth smiled, an in credible flicker of anticipation for the future in her heart. He had forgiven her sharp tongue. There again was the depth of sheer kindness, of under standing she could never have hoped for.
‘Will you put out the candle?’ she asked. And he did.
The darkness would prove a soft benediction for them both.
For Elizabeth it cloaked her in blessed anonymity when he touched her again with shocking intimacy. Anything to hide her scant knowledge, her lack of confidence in her ability to please, her sharp anxieties. Too self-conscious, too aware of her lack of at tractions, it soothed her immediate tremors. In the dark it did not matter. If there was a disgust or a mere distant tolerance on his face she would not see it. She must only endure.
But then, endurance was not the word that forced its way into Elizabeth’s mind. Rather, startled pleasure. She found her fears melting as she warmed under the firm stroke of his hands and the delicate play of his lips across her face. His smooth strength against her side, firm muscled, slidi
ng flesh against flesh, astonished her, as did the cautious delight that she could find in it. If he could touch her, so could she touch him, and found in herself a strong desire to do so. And so she let her fingers press over the lean hard planes of his chest and shoulders, an intimate journey of their own. So very attractive. So very masculine. How could she not enjoy the sensation of banked power and purpose, even as her thoughts scram bled at the confusion of sensations that shivered through her at where it would all lead.
For Richard the lack of light made it easier to encourage and seduce. The shadows were soft and hid any lack of skill or knowledge on her part that might disturb an in experienced bride. Yet there was no clumsiness in her responses, as she came to him readily enough, rather a lightness, an elegance. Nor was she ignorant. When her first trepidation had loosed its hold she turned confidently, her lips warm on his. Her skin was soft, smooth beneath his fingertips, her movements graceful and feminine as she lifted her arms to lock them around his neck, to curl her fingers into his hair. When, surprising him, she stretched against him, pressing firmly at breast and hip and thigh, a deep sigh in her throat warm against him, it stirred his desire until he was hard for her.
But he held back. Talked to her to ease her fears, knowing al ready that she was a woman who needed the conviction of her mind above the seductions of the flesh. So he talked as he stroked and discovered.
Soft, foolish thoughts, Elizabeth acknowledged in passing, but so very appealing. Whispered words against her lips, against her hair, against the pulse that quickened its beat beneath the satin skin of her throat. Ridiculously flattering, as she knew, but they gave her a gloss of pleasure. Such consideration here for her naïvety. But also, she realised, an imperative demand as his mouth heated, his kisses became deeper, his tongue sliding between her lips to possess. Her skin shivered, but she did not dislike it. She could feel the urgency in the quick tense of his muscles, the need in his heavy erection against her thigh. Now a thrill ran through her, unexpected, a knot of heat in her belly, that it could be so, that he should want her so readily. Her secret fears that he would need to overcome distaste to take her coldly out of necessity dissipated in a bright flame as his mouth captured her breast.
Despite everything, Elizabeth de Lacy was entranced.
Slowly, deliberately slowly as his tongue caressed and excited, Richard let his fingers drift down over her breast, her flat belly, lower still. Felt her skin ripple in tiny shivers. With a gasp she stiffened, then once more stretched against him, breath warm against his neck, and as it must her thigh brushed against his erection. He shuddered on a hissed intake of breath, his control suddenly balanced on a knife edge. It would be so easy to push the matter on. But he drew back a little with his weight on his forearms and breathed heavily.
Elizabeth immediately became rigid in his arms, a stone statue of a victim of the Medusa’s stare. ‘What is it? Did I do some thing wrong? I did not know…’ The words were dragged from her, harsh in the still room.
Here was panic. So the fears were not too far away. He silenced her with his mouth, still gentle despite the over-whelming need to bury himself in her and take what was his.
‘No. Nothing wrong. You are all pleasure, lady,’ Richard gasped.
For a long moment she remained tense in his arms, as if considering his reply. ‘You have a way with words, Richard Malinder.’ Then relaxed against him, her lips opening beneath his, all soft and silken heat. Did she know how alluring she was? Probably not. The desire to push her past edgy thought to drive her to pure sensation became imperative.
‘It will hurt?’ she asked. But not a question.
‘Yes.’ Honesty, tempered by a brush of lips, a slide of hands. ‘But not beyond bearing if I have the skill to make it so.’
‘As I am sure you do.’ Her dark eyes caught a momentary glint of the distant light from the dying fire. He knew she was watching him, alert to his every move, still wary, still thinking. ‘Then I will trust you.’
Such simple confidence in his talents was his undoing. His fingers sought and discovered that she was not unready as her thighs opened for him. He moved over her, into her, a slick wetness. Pushed against her until he was held deep.
There was discomfort and pain, but momentary and, as he had promised, not beyond bearing. Elizabeth stilled, held her breath, aware of nothing but the weight of his possession and the outline of his shoulders back-lit by the glow of fire. He filled her mind, her body, her whole vision. When, in her cold room at Bishop’s Pyon where her uncle had taken her to task, also in the fastness of Llanwardine when marriage to Richard Malinder had never been mooted, she had vowed that she would allow no man such power over her. She had been wrong. She had given herself over to this man’s demands in a haze of shattering need, with a complete lack of restraint. Even when he drove on to his own fulfilment, leaving her teased by delicious sensations that flooded her but yet remained tantalisingly out of reach. Slick with heat, her limbs pleasurably lax, Elizabeth turned her face against Richard’s throat in shock at this new self-awareness.
‘It is done, lady.’ Some time later, sense restored, heart beats evening, Richard lifted himself from her.
And Elizabeth turned away. Was that all he could say? Would he leave her now? Would he not wish her to curl against this warmth and rest within his arms as was her inclination? Suddenly Elizabeth was horribly shy, yet forced herself to ask because she needed to know.
‘Was I…’ she swallowed ‘…what you hoped for?’ she finished in anagonised rush. Was I an unspeakable disaster compared with the in comparable Gwladys? She stared into the darkness, waiting.
‘Elizabeth Malinder.’ There was no condemnation here, only lazy humour in the use of her new name. ‘Have you so little courage? I did not think you a coward.’
Was he laughing at her? ‘I am no coward! I did not dislike it!’ Elizabeth clutched the linen covers to her neck in sudden defence.
‘Thank God! An honest woman!’ Richard stretched out to push aside her hasty covering, and draw one long smooth caress from shoulder to wrist, finally capturing her hand and raising her palm to his mouth as he had once before. ‘It will improve, lady. Now come here.’
He pulled her close again, holding firm when she would have struggled for her freedom. It was no contest. Elizabeth found herself pinned against that toned body she had so admired. And Richard felt all the tension drain from her, felt her smile against his chest.
‘What is it?’
She hid her face. ‘It’s true. I did not dislike it.’
‘Faint praise!’ He laughed gently, her hair soft as matt velvet against his cheek. ‘I’ll try to do better. Later, lady.’ Perhaps not too much later. His loins stirred as she sighed in utmost sat is faction, and surprised him by turning her head to press her lips in the lightest of kisses all the way along his jaw.
Warmth, a foolish little surge of triumph, sang through every inch of Elizabeth’s body, with an exhilarating sense of achievement that had nothing to do with her own finesse of which she acknowledged she had none—and all to do with his. More satisfying even than scrying. Jane Bringsty had never warned her of that. And she drifted into unconsciousness.
Richard found himself far from sleep. His attention was thoroughly caught and his mind would not let his new knowledge go. Life had not been easy for her, as Lewis had intimated, and his hatred of John de Lacy deepened. Dispassionately, he considered his impressions of her. Yes, she was slender—thin, he supposed—but not unattractive. Her skin was firm yet soft. Not at first glance a figure to suggest that child bearing would be a simple matter for her, but she would bloom with the life he could give her. His thoughts snapped back to the present as she sighed in sleep, her hand splayed against his chest.
So this was Elizabeth de Lacy. A complicated weave of inhibiting fears, fearsome honesty and driving emotions. He would wager his best stallion that her responses had not been influenced by duty or the careful teaching of her serving woman in the role of her mother.
There was a fire here, or perhaps more apposite, a deep well of untapped passions. He could discover them. But then an uneasy premonition touched him as he rubbed his cheek against her hair, not a difficult fore telling to interpret, in the circumstances. It would not be an easy task to woo and win the lady—if that is what he truly wanted. He had looked for no more than an understanding, an affection at best in this union, and yet… The thought caught him unawares but did not displease.
It might be an exhilarating experience, perhaps for both of them.
‘My lord! My lord Malinder!’
At some time in the dark hours between midnight and the late winter dawn there was an urgent but discreet knocking on the bedchamber door, and a ferocious whisper, enough to rouse the occupants, but not the whole house hold. Richard came awake, aware at first of nothing but the warmth of Elizabeth turned into him, cradled in his arms.
‘My lord! You must come!’ As the hammering and the summons grew more demanding, he sat up with a groan, lit a candle and swung his legs out of bed.
‘What is it?’ Elizabeth, awake but sleepy.
‘I don’t know. Some emergency that cannot wait.’ He yawned, shivered from the cold and scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘Probably one of the guests fallen into the well after a skinful of ale.’ Resigned, he began to pull on hose and tunic. ‘Go back to sleep, Elizabeth. I’ll not be long.’ He stayed to press a kiss to her hair and tuck the coverlet round her shoulders, grabbed his sword and a cloak against the night’s cold. The door closed and all was silent.
Elizabeth rolled over into the heat of his body’s imprint and went back to sleep.
In the courtyard, in a shadowed corner between the keep and the chapel, Richard crouched beside a body, face down where the shadow was darkest. Master Kilpin, Simon Beggard, Richard’s Commander of the garrison of Ledenshall, and one of the guards stood uneasily beside him. Simon held up a shuttered lantern, conversation was in muted tones. Better not to alert everyone yet.
