As the sun danced its path across the sky, her husband detailed his history, including his life as a Templar Knight, his treacherous trip across the Channel, and his subsequent imprisonment in the tower. In a show of fealty, all remaining Templars were forced to marry, on pain of death, and that was wherefore Morgan resented his union.
In truth, his anger had naught to do with Hawisia.
“So your parents sent you away when you were but a boy of eight?” In that moment, he drew her to his lap, and she admired his features and the long lashes she could contemplate for a sennight.
“Aye.” As he trailed a series of kisses along the crest of her ear, he untied her laces. “But I learned much from my father, as I dreamed of being a farmer, just like him.” He loosened the front of her kirtle, bared her breasts, and suckled from a nipple, and she resisted not. “I longed for a wife to work at my side, and I coveted a large family.” When he lifted his head, he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss that left her breathless. “Yet, as a Templar, I was sworn to a life of chastity, and I honored the tenets, until the Order was disbanded.”
Then he eased her to her back, shoved her skirts to her waist, settled between her thighs, untied his breeches, thrust, and entered her. As was her way, she gave him what he wanted, but the position tested the limits of her control. Focusing on a tuft of white in the blue sky, she tried to keep her emotions at bay, but how he challenged her.
It would be so easy to love him; if there were a chance he might love her. But that was not possible, given his preference for Euphemia, so Hawisia guarded her emotions, but, oh, what she felt.
Delicious sensations harkened, yet she rebuked the call. Gritting her teeth, she spurned the heat pouring through her veins, because capitulation meant destruction. Still, she hugged Morgan to her, aching to console the man entangled in so much pain, because she knew well his affliction, as it was as much as her own.
He carried his parents’ rejection as baggage, just as she bore his.
In that they were a pair.
The telltale groan of completion signaled the end of their coupling, and she came alert. Relieved that she withstood his provocation, she gained her feet and righted her attire.
In silence, they returned to Chichester Castle, but her mind was anything but quiet. So her man wished to farm the land? Given his generosity and the assistance he provided in the peasant village, she decided to do something for him.
“Grammarcy, for coming with me, today.” As Morgan handed her to the ground, she took the opportunity to claim a quick kiss. “I enjoyed it more than you know.”
“Actually, I am in your debt.” He covered her mouth with his, only he lingered and caught her bottom lip in his. “While I remain frustrated with the farming situation, I appreciate the fact that you listened to my complaints.”
“Did I help?” Again, she knew not what to make of him, as he seemed a whole other person.
“To borrow your phrase.” He trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek, and she shivered. “More than you know.”
“I am glad.” She half-curtseyed. “And I will see you at supper.”
Riding a wave of benevolence, Hawisia strode straight to the kitchen. While she could not sway Arucard, there was one person who could, and she employ that individual on Morgan’s behalf.
MORGAN
CHAPTER SIX
Garbed in his mail coif and hauberk, Morgan veered to the left, deflecting Arucard’s charge. In an instant, Morgan spun on a heel and delivered a defensive blow.
“You are in rare form this morrow.” Arucard bared his teeth and lunged. “Has it anything to do with Hawisia?”
“Wherefore do you ask?” Of course, everything in Morgan’s world revolved around Hawisia and her stubborn refusal to respond to his advances. Any other women would have fallen at his feet, given his overtures, but not his wife. “And you are slow to respond. Mayhap you spent too much vigor in Isolde’s arms.”
“What say we finish weapon’s practice later, as I have a matter to discuss with you.” Arucard signaled Pellier, who came forward and took both swords. “Let us adjourn to a more private place and have words.”
Curious, Morgan followed Arucard to the garrison, whither they ascended the stone steps that led to the top of the curtain wall and strolled to the north tower. From the crenellated rooftop, they studied the land surrounding Chichester Castle.
“Isolde tells me you wish to improve the farming techniques.” Arucard leaned against the battlement and folded his arms. “She says you know how we might increase our yield.”
“How did she find out—Hawisia.” Morgan assessed the fields, shook his head, and smiled. Oh, he would express his gratitude, that eventide, and he might lock her in their chamber for a fortnight. “I should have known, as those two are dangerous, when they conspire against us.”
“Brother, you have no idea.” Arucard chuckled. “But I am interested in your suggestions, because the great famine devastated much of England, and His Majesty would be grateful if we can bring in a good harvest.” He compressed his lips. “I purchased what I could from traders, to keep us from starvation, but I cannot buy enough to feed everyone, and you saw for yourself the need in the peasant village. What would you do, if I put you in charge of the land?”
“The answer is simple.” His mind raced, and he ordered his thoughts into two categories: business and the seduction of his wife. “First I would convert the holdings from the two-field system to the three-field system, which would allow us to plant a third more crops. Second, the arrangement would decrease the amount of plowing; although I would have the peasants plow the fallows twice, to further enrich the soil. Third, I would employ a heavy plow, which can be constructed with veritable ease, based on my father’s design, which I recall, in detail. Given the heavy rains of last year, a heavy plow would enable us to more efficiently turn the earth.”
“I am unfamiliar with a heavy plow.” Arucard averted his stare and rubbed his chin. “Can you sketch it?”
“Of course.” And he was more than willing to do so—after he dedicated a day, mayhap two, to making love to Hawisia. “I will do whatever you require, brother, as there is much hunger in the peasant village.”
“Your concern does you credit.” Arucard arched a brow. “Dare I ask if it has anything to do with Hawisia?”
“I would be lying if I denied it.” Resting palms to the stone outcrop, Morgan recalled their coupling, only that morrow, and her inability to taste completion, which bothered him. Somehow, he had to reach her. “But all is not well between us, and I know not how to set it right.”
“What troubles you?” Arucard leaned against the wall. “I thought you made gestures in order to secure the King’s good opinion? Does she not respond?”
“Well, that was my initial motive.” Indeed, Morgan wanted naught more than earn a title and his own estate, when he began wooing his bride. “But something happened along the way, and I am not sure how to describe it.”
“Give it a try.” In blithe repose, Arucard assessed his fingernails. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”
“Well, I did as you and Isolde recommended.” In that instant, a series of treasured scenes played before Morgan, and he sighed. “I spend time with her. I talk to her, and I share my hopes for our future.”
“And?” Something in Arucard’s tone gave Morgan cause for concern.
“She is glorious, Arucard.” Morgan recalled the subtle bounce of her creamy breasts, as he thrust, and her shy expression, when he took her on the hill. “She is possessed of innate spirit, she is smart, and she is kind. She considers everyone before herself, and I am fortunate she is my wife, because she is the most beauteous creature I have ever known.”
“Great chasm of incredulity, you are in love.” Arucard wiped his temples. “And although I see it in you, I still do not believe it.”
“What?” Morgan shuddered at the prospect. “You are crazed. While I will admit I am fond of Hawisia, I am not in love. I
ndeed, I am not even sure I am capable of such emotion.”
“Trust me, not only are you capable, you are her captive, and it is written all over your face.” Shaking his head, Arucard laughed. “Whatever you think, it has happened, and your wife owns your heart.”
“How can you be sure?” He checked his appearance for any sign.
“Brother, your confusion and your denial speak volumes, and I gather you are not happy about it.” Arucard set a palm to Morgan’s shoulders. “Wherefore do you not celebrate your victory, as winning your bride’s affection is a triumph not to be ignored or underestimated?”
“That is just the point.” Morgan huffed in frustration. “If you are correct, my love is unrequited, because Hawisia does not return my affection. In fact, to my shame, she has yet to experience release, and I have no idea how to reach her.”
“Are you serious?” When Morgan nodded the affirmative, Arucard grimaced. “Well, this is a sad sack of vexation.” For a moment, he stared at Morgan, and then Arucard snapped his fingers. “Brother, I believe you are mistaken, as your wife spoke to mine, on your behalf. Hawisia did it for you, because she cares for you. Now, I think the problem is you have been trying to woo your bride, when what you require is a full-scale seduction, and I know just how to approach the problem.”
~
After spending the better part of the afternoon tidying the undercroft, at Isolde’s request, Hawisia climbed the stairs to the chamber she shared with Morgan. When she walked into the solar, she was startled to discover her husband, garbed in naught but his robe.
“Good eventide, my beauteous bride.” With hands outstretched, he welcomed her, and she walked into his embrace. “How was your day?”
“Busy.” It was then she noted the ancere, filled with water and with rose petals floating atop the surface. “What is this?”
“A surprise.” Morgan rotated her and loosened her laces. “And we will take our sup, hither, as I wish to be alone with you.”
“Oh?” Once again, he acted completely out of character, and she knew not how to approach him. Thus, she raised her defenses, as she stripped her bare. “Am I to bathe before you?”
“Actually, I intend to wash you, as I am told it is a treat not to be missed.” As he held her arm, she stepped into the tub. “And a husband should dote on his wife, should he not?”
“I would not know.” Settling into the warm water, she reclined.
“Well, I know of such things, and I intend to spoil you, my dear Hawisia.” He kissed her forehead.
After pulling the pins from her hair, he brushed her long locks, and she almost fell asleep. As she savored the calming experience, she closed her eyes and sighed.
But she jolted alert, when he cupped her breast and kneaded gently. Leaning on the edge of the ancere, he explored the various peaks and valleys of her body, until he slipped his fingers between her legs and touched her most intimate flesh, and she tensed.
“Morgan.”
“Shh, sweetheart.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I know you spoke to Isolde, and I know you did it for me. Now, I would do something for you. Prithee, just relax, and I promise I will not hurt you.”
Against her every instinct, she did as he bade, as he played a repetitive rhythm at the apex of her thighs, and the resulting cascade of emotion carried her to a higher place. To a secret realm of incomparable pleasure, whither she experienced heretofore-unknown acceptance and she believed herself beauteous, if only for a moment.
Delicious pressure swirled and soared, beckoning her to let go her invisible yet nonetheless impenetrable armaments and sample something decadent. Something foreign. Something more.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she screamed, and it came to her as if from afar. Floating on a gentle tide of fulfillment, the extravagance enveloped her inasmuch as the water in which she languished.
And she wanted more.
Morgan chuckled and soaped a rag, as she returned to the solar, and she looked on him as though she were seeing him for the first time. Had she thought him handsome? Twining her arms about his neck, she drew him to her and kissed him.
Because she craved more.
Yet he went about his duty, washing her with a tenderness of which she thought him incapable. Once he rinsed her, he lifted her to stand on a rug, whereupon he dried her.
There were so many things she wanted—needed to say to him. So many fears she wished to express, yet she remained silent, because she did not want to ruin the moment, as it might never happen again.
As she expected, Morgan doffed his robe. Naked and aroused, he led her to their bed, whither he sat in the middle of the mattress, with his knees bent and his ankles beneath him. The position, raw in its presentation, hid naught from her stare, and she could not ignore the proof of his desire.
“Come hither, sweetheart.” He flicked his wrist. “Sit astride me.”
Aware of naught but the beat of her heart and the ring of panic in her ears, Hawisia wanted to flee. Yet, some part of her ached to know him, thus, she crawled to meet him.
Situated as though he were her mount, given their respective heights, brought them nose-to-nose, and she could seize no quarter. “Now what?”
“Scoot forward.” Gripping her hips, he brought her into perfect alignment, and as he slipped inside her, he set his forehead to hers. “Look at me, Hawisia. Keep your eyes open.”
In a voice deep with passion, he tutored her in the ways of love, told him what she did for him, and how she made him feel. There was learning, exploring, and experimenting, driven by some mystical force she could not identify; yet she answered its sultry summons. Every touch sent her to flying into the dizzying heights of lust, whither her nerves tightened, her skin tingled, and senses roused, and she ached for more.
For her, the intimate invasion was too much.
“Morgan.”
“Shh, sweetheart.” Again, he kissed her, and he held her stare, as he initiated the familiar rhythm. As he cupped her bottom, he encouraged her to wrap her arms about his shoulders, and the intensity of their coupling spiraled out of control.
Like an unbroken mare, she rode him hard and fast, charging toward that irresistible prize. And the closer she got to the pinnacle of their joined bodies, the more Hawisia yielded.
The invisible chains that protected her heart fractured, and the impenetrable curtain wall collapsed. As she grasped the reward, she heralded her victory with another healthy scream, with her husband in her wake.
But in another departure from his usual habits, instead of slapping her arse and withdrawing from her, he held her. He lauded her efforts, heaped praise on her abilities, and kissed her.
Morgan did not know it, and Hawisia would never tell him, but he won her in that moment.
MORGAN
CHAPTER SEVEN
As May gave way to June, Morgan divided his time between his two passions in life: Hawisia and farming. While he made considerable progress with the latter, the former remained his greatest challenge, because his wife maintained her characteristic reserved demeanor, despite the ground he gained in their bed.
As he collected a bouquet of daisies, which his lady finally admitted were her favorite, he envisioned her as she looked that morrow, with her light brown locks splayed across his pillow. Regaining his destrier, he flicked the reins and surveyed the workers, as they deployed the heavy plow in the fallow fields, per his supervision.
At his direction, the peasants focused their efforts on shearing sheep and making hay, which would continue through July, and in August they would harvest the fruit of their labors. After one last review, he heeled the flanks of his stallion and set a course for the castle.
After traversing the outer gatehouse and the barbican, he drew to a halt in the courtyard, whither a traveling coach sat. A stable hand took Morgan’s horse, and he doffed his gloves and dusted his tunic.
As he strolled into the great hall, Euphemia Van Goens spotted him, shrieked, ran in his direction
, and flung herself at him.
“Sir Morgan, it is wonderful to see you.” In a brazen display of familiarity, she kissed him on the mouth, to which he took offense, because his lips belonged to Hawisia. “Oh, you brought flowers. Dare I ask if they are for me?”
“Lady Euphemia, this is a surprise, and I apologize, because the bouquet is for my bride.” He none too elegantly wiped his face and scanned the vicinity for his wife. “Lord and Lady Clare, we knew not of your visit, but I am overjoyed by your appearance. What brings you to Chichester?”
“We journey from Exeter to Canterbury, bearing royal correspondence from His Majesty and to meet Euphemia’s prospective in-laws. Thus we hoped to spend a night, hither, and see Hawisia.” Lord Clare glanced at his daughter, as she conversed with her mother, and Morgan noticed lines of strain about Hawisia’s eyes. Something troubled her. “She thrives in your care, Sir Morgan, and I am forever grateful.”
“Papa, stop hoarding Sir Morgan to yourself.” Euphemia tugged on Morgan’s sleeve. “What do you think of my gown? Is it not the finest?” She bounced. “Lady Isolde says they will hold a feast, this eventide, in our honor. Is that not exciting?”
“It is, indeed, Lady Euphemia.” Annoyed, Morgan retreated a step and sought Hawisia’s gaze. When he met her stare, what he detected in her blue depths caught his attention to the detriment of all else. “Pray, excuse me.”
Morgan nodded to Arucard and sidled through the gathering to approach Hawisia. When she noted his presence, he tipped his head, and she excused herself. Taking her hand in his, he walked into the screened hall.
“I brought you some daisies, my dear.” He presented his offering to her beauty, yet he garnered no smile, which further signaled all was not well with his lady. “What is wrong?”
“There is naught wrong, my lord.” She studied the floor. “If you wish to visit with my family, I understand. And I have chores, which doubled, given their arrival and the impromptu feast, thus I should be about my work.”
Morgan (Brethren Origins Book 4) Page 6
